“My letter,” she said, “would have told you better than ever I now can all about the routs and the plays, and everything else; but, alas! some one broke into our house the night the British left Philadelphia, and search as I would the next day, I could not find what I had written you.”
“I should think thee ’d be glad,” replied Tibbie; “for surely thou ’rt ashamed of having been so Toryish.”
“Not I,” denied Janice. “And why should I be?”
“Shame upon thee, Janice Meredith, for liking the enemies of thy country!”
“And pray, madam,” questioned Janice, “what has caused this sudden fervour of Whigism in you?”
“I never was unfaithful to my country, nor smiled on its persecutors.”
“Humph!” sniffed Janice. “One would think, to hear you talk, that you have given those smiles to some rebel lover.”
“Better a Whig lover than one of your popinjay British officers,” retorted Tibbie, crimsoning.
“Gemini!” burst from the other. “I believe ’t is a hit from the way you colour.”
“And if ’t was—which ’t is not—’t is naught to feel ashamed of.” resentfully answered the accused.