“I think that I will leave this love-feast,” exclaimed Colonel Tarleton, laughing cynically. “’Fore George, but I am glad the girl is going. A little more of this sort of influence would be bad for my reputation as leader of the cruel raiders. Be sure that you are up betimes, Mistress Peggy. I will have no dallying in the morning.”
“I will be ready, and so will Harriet,” cried Peggy, darting to his side and seizing the hand of the arm that she had wounded. Bending quickly she kissed it, exclaiming, “I will never forget how good thee has been, sir.”
“There,” exclaimed he. “I have no more time to spare.” And he strode away.
It was a snowy day in early December, fourteen days later, that Peggy, mounted on Star and Harriet on Fleetwood, left the ferry, and galloped into Philadelphia.
“’Tis my own dear city at last,” cried Peggy excitedly. “And that is the Delaware in very truth. Thee hasn’t seen a river like it, has thee, Harriet? We will soon be home now. ’Tis not much further.”
And so in exuberance of spirit she talked until at length the home in Chestnut Street was reached. She sprang to the ground just as Tom, the groom, came to the front of the house. The darkey gave one glance and then ran forward, crying:
“Foh massy sake, ef hit ain’t Miss Peggy! An’ Star! Yas, suh, an’ Star! Mis’ Owen will be powerful glad ter see yer. She am in de dinin’-room.”
“Yes, it’s Peggy. Peggy—come to stay,” cried she, giving the bridle into his hand. “Come, Harriet!”
But Harriet hesitated. For the first time something like confusion and shame appeared upon her face.
“Your mother?” she whispered. “How will she receive me?” She clasped Peggy’s hand convulsively. “What will she say to me?”