“The marvel to me,” remarked Harriet Owen thoughtfully, “is that such ill-clad, ill-fed looking troops can stand against our soldiers. Why hath not the British swept them down like chaff before the wind? ’Tis past understanding.”
“Because their cause is a righteous one,” said David Owen solemnly. “And because, also, what thou art in the way of forgetting, my little cousin: they are of thine own blood, and therefore fight with the spirit of Englishmen.”
“English?” she exclaimed. “English! I had not thought of that, my cousin.”
“Consider our case,” he said. “Thou art of the same blood as ourselves. Doth it make a difference in the stock because thou dost happen to live in England, while Peggy there lives in America?”
“I had not thought of it in that way,” she said again. “I think the English have not considered it either. I would talk more of the matter, Cousin David, but not now. I have much to think of now. But do you not fear that I shall tell the British about this camp?” added Harriet smiling.
“No, my child. Thou wilt not have opportunity,” observed Mr. Owen. “Does thee not know that once being with us there can be no returning to New York? There can be no passing and repassing to the city.”
“Oh,” she cried in dismay. “I did not know. Can I not return if I should wish to?”
“Not unless thou hadst been away from the army for a long time,” he answered.
“But suppose, suppose father should come?”
“Even then thee would have to stay with us until such time that it was deemed advisable for thee to return. So thee sees, Harriet, that the rebels, as thee calls them, will have the pleasure of thy company for some time to come.”