"But how about Mr. Fonda?" I demanded, "if you don jack-boots and hanger and go for a dragoon?"
"I shall ask his permission to serve my country."
"A-horse, Penelope? Or do you march with fire-lock and knapsack and a well-floured queue?" I had meant to turn it lightly but not to ridicule; but her lip quivered, though she still found courage to sustain my laughing gaze.
"Come," said I, "we Tryon County men have as yet no need to call upon our loyal women to shoulder rifle and fill out our ranks."
"No need of me, sir?"
"Surely, surely, but not yet to such a pass that we strap a bayonet on your thigh. Sew for us. Knit for us——"
"Sir, for three years I have done so, foreseeing this hour. I have knitted many, many score o' stockings; sewed many a shirt against this day that is now arrived. I have them in Mr. Fonda's house, against my country's needs. All, or a part, are at your requisition, Mr. Drogue."
But I remained mute, astonished that this girl had seen so clearly what so few saw at all—that war must one day come between us and our King. This foreseeing of hers amazed me even more than her practical provision for the day of wrath—now breaking red on our horizon—that she had seen so clearly what must happen—a poor refugee—a child.
"Sir," says she, "have you any use for the stockings and shirts among your men?"
She stood resting both arms on the bent bough, her face among the flowers. And I don't know how I thought of it, or remembered that in Scotland there are some who have the gift of clear vision and who see events before they arrive—nay, even foretell and forewarn.