The two girls had been spatting thus in lowered voices on the sofa, and as Tibbie ended, her disputant’s arm was about her waist, and she was squeezed almost to suffocation.
“Oh, Tibbie, wilt tell me all about it—and him—once we are in bed to-night?” begged Janice, in the lowest but most eager of whispers.
Whether this prayer would have been granted was not to be known, for as it was uttered Mr. Drinker interrupted their dialogue.
“Why, Tabitha,” he called from across the room, “here ’s a great miscarriage. Mrs. Meredith tells me that Colonel Brereton rode with them from Philadelphia, but thinking to o’ercrowd us he has put up at the Sun tavern.”
Had the daughter merely remarked that “’T was a monstrous pity,” or suggested that her father should at once set off to the hostel to insist on his coming to them, Janice would have thought nothing of the incident; but in place of this Tibbie said, “’T is well,” with a toss of her head, even as she grew redder still, and realising this, she pretended that some supper preparation required her attention, and almost fled from the room.
“Colonel Brereton,” explained Mr. Drinker, “stopped with us last summer each time he rode through Trenton on public business, and we came to like him much; so glad were we when he was well enough from his wound this spring to once more drop in upon us.”
“His wound!” exclaimed Janice.
“Ay,” said Miss Drinker. “Didst thee not know that he was hit at Whitemarsh, and was weeks abed?”
Mr. Drinker gave a hearty laugh as the girl shook her head in dissent. “I’ll tell thee a secret, Jan,” he said, “and give thee a fine chance to tease. There was a girl not a hundred miles from this house who was sorely wounded by that same British bullet, and who pilfered every goody she could find from our pantry, and would have it that I should ride myself to Valley Forge with them all, but that I found a less troublesome conveyance.”
“’T was very good of her,” said Janice, gravely. “I—I did not know that he had been wounded.”