“What shall I do?” she cried, the tears streaming from her eyes. “I was getting better, and now you will go and leave me again. Oh, Peggy, I want to go too!”
Colonel Owen looked up eagerly.
“Why not?” he asked. “’Twould be the very thing! Peggy, could you not take Harriet with you? In Philadelphia she would regain her strength. A change from this malarious climate is what she needs. Won’t you take her, Peggy?”
“Oh, Peggy, do take me,” pleaded Harriet. “I shall die here!”
But Peggy made no answer. She looked from father to daughter, from daughter to father thoughtfully. Over her rushed the many things that had befallen her since they had entered her life. The father had caused the death of her dog; had treated her mother and herself scornfully; had lodged a spy in their very home; and had finally robbed them of everything the house contained in the way of food.
And Harriet! Had she not deceived them all? Her father, mother and herself? Would she not do so again if she were to be with them once more? Would she not spy and plot against the cause if she were given opportunity? Could she forgive and forget the deceit, the long absence from her mother, the hardships and trials, and take her to her own dear home? Could she do it?
Her heart throbbed painfully as she turned a searching glance toward her cousin. She was so thin, so wasted, so different from her former brilliant self, that the last tinge of bitterness left Peggy, and a sudden glow of tenderness rushed over her.
“Of course thee shall come with me,” she cried, catching Harriet’s hands and drawing her to her. “And thee shall see how soon mother and I will make thee well. And oh, Harriet, thee will be in my very own home!”
“Oh, I shall be so glad,” cried Harriet, a faint flush coming to her face. “Father, do you hear? Peggy says that I am to go!”
“You are a good little thing after all, Peggy,” observed Colonel Owen, not without emotion. “A good little thing!”