Human nature is very weak, and any grief that comes from our own carelessness, or lack of thought is harder to bear than that woe which is caused by untoward circumstances. But at last tired nature asserted itself, and Peggy fell asleep.
Long hours after she awoke. It was quite dark in the room, and she was stiff with cold. For a moment she fancied herself in her own little room under the eaves at the camp, but soon a realization of where she was came to her. She rose and groped her way to the window. The moon shone upon the river and the Jersey shore. She looked toward the latter yearningly.
“Mother,” she whispered with quivering lips, “mother, what would thee have me to do?” And suddenly it seemed to her that she could hear the sweet voice of her mother saying:
“My daughter, thou must bear with meekness the afflictions that are sent upon thee. Hast thou not been taught to do good to them that despitefully use thee?” Peggy uttered a cry of protest.
“I cannot forgive them! They have behaved treacherously toward me. And my country! ’Tis not to be endured that I should be placed in such position toward it. ’Tis not to be endured, I say.”
“Thou hast been close to sacred things all thy life, my child,” sounded that gentle voice. “Of what avail hath it been if thy actions are no different from those of the world? And thou art not without blame in the matter.”
Long Peggy stood at the window. It seemed to her that her mother was very near to her. And so communing with that loved mother the bitterness died out of her heart, and she wept. No longer virulently, but softly, the gentle tears of resignation.
“I will try to bear it,” she murmured, as she crept between the covers of the bed. “I will be brave, and as good as thee would have me be, mother. And I will be so truthful in act and word that it may shame them out of deceit. And maybe, maybe if I am good a way will be opened for me to get back to thee.”
And so she fell into a restful sleep.