“By what right do you question me?” she demanded haughtily.
“I am David Owen,” he answered briefly. “If thou art in truth my kinsman’s daughter there is no reason why thee should not answer my questions.”
“Ask what you will, if you are Mr. David Owen, and I will answer,” she said, her manner changing to one of extreme courtesy. “My father is William Owen, a colonel of the Welsh Fusileers. My brother’s name is Clifford, and I am Harriet. Do you believe me now, my cousin? Or is there aught else to be asked?”
“Nay,” replied he mildly. “I believe that thou art truly William’s daughter.”
“Then may I place myself under your protection, cousin?” she queried so appealingly that Peggy’s tender heart could not bear it, and she went to her quickly. “My father wished it, and I am a stranger in a strange land.”
“Surely thee may,” exclaimed Mr. Owen, touched, as his daughter had been, by the pathetic quiver that had come into her voice. “That is”—he hastened to add, “if His Excellency hath no objection?”
“I have none, Mr. Owen,” declared General Washington. “As the young lady hath proved herself a relative I give her into your keeping. There could be no better sponsor for her, sir.”
“I thank thee,” said David Owen gravely. “I will see that thy trust is not misplaced. And now, sir, we have troubled thee o’er long, I fear, and will therefore say good-night.”
“But not until Mistress Owen tells me when she and Miss Peggy, together with this newly found kinswoman, will honor me by their presence to dinner. Will you have recovered from the fatigue of your journey by Monday, Madam Owen?”
“Yes, Your Excellency. It will afford us great pleasure to dine with thee at that time,” replied the matron bowing.