“Mother,” she said as she entered the kitchen where that lady was, “does thee not think that our friend is able now to stand being reasoned with? He said but now that he was still weak.”
Mrs. Owen laughed quietly as she saw that nothing had been left of the meal.
“’Tis but natural that he should feel so, Peggy,” she said. “When one hath been without food and a proper place to sleep the senses become sharpened to the enjoyment of such things, and he but seeks to prolong his delight in them. Be not too hard on the lad, my child.”
“But would it harm him, mother, to reason with him?” persisted Peggy. “If he can eat so, can he not be brought to see the error of his ways? I would not injure him for the world.”
“Set thy mind at rest upon that point, Peggy. Naught that thou canst say to him can work him injury. Hath our friend told thee why he deserted?”
“He feared another winter,” answered Peggy. “And perhaps he hath cause to; for he hath been through the march to Quebec under General Arnold, and last winter he spent at Valley Forge. And so he ran away to keep from passing another such season in the army.”
“Poor lad!” sighed the lady. “’Tis no wonder that he deserted. Yet those who endure such hardships for so long rarely desert. ’Tis but a passing weakness. Let us hope that he will return when he is well enough. He is of too good a mettle to be lost.”
“I mean him to go back,” announced Peggy resolutely.
“Peggy, what is worrying thy brain?” exclaimed her mother. “Child, let me look at thee.”
“Leave him to me, mother,” cried the girl, her eyes shining like stars. “He shall yet be something other than a summer soldier.”