"I don't believe she will, Peggy," he answered gloomily. "She feels tricked. She will never forgive me. You Quakers are queer people. I did not dream that words spoken in jest would be taken so seriously." "Well, my cousin, we have been taught that for every idle word we shall give account. Perchance we do not speak with so much lightness as the world's people." "'Fore George, you do not," he ejaculated. "But, Peggy, to a soldier the thought of death becomes familiar. So familiar in fact that even when we are under its dark shadow if there comes a chance for amusement of any sort we seize it. I would not for the world offend her, Peggy. Will you try to make peace for me? Tell her," he smiled involuntarily, "that she is the unreasonable one now; that if she will not listen she lays herself open to the charge of being English which would be a most dreadful downfall from the high estate of being an American." "I'll tell her everything, my cousin. I am sure that all will be well as soon as she understands. And Harriet will come to thee this afternoon. Thee must not let this, or aught else make thee down-hearted, Clifford. I am hoping that something will come up to avert this terrible fate from falling upon thee." But the youth shook his head. "I have no hope," he said. "'Tis only to please my sister that I have consented that she should try to get your general to postpone the execution until she can see Sir Guy. It seems but a useless prolongation of anxiety. Now as to this other matter: you will go at once to Sally, will you not, my cousin? Tell her that I am sorry that I lent myself to such deception, and that I wish she would not think hardly of me. I shall never see her again, Peggy, but I like not to think that she thinks ill of me." "I'll tell her all, my cousin," promised Peggy as she took her leave. "Oh, dear!" she sighed as she wended her way toward Little Dock Street, where Sally lived. "Oh, dear! will naught ever go right again? Now just as Clifford gets so that he will listen to Sally this had to happen! But Sally ought not to hold it against him. She must not." Sally was up-stairs, her mother told Peggy, and slowly she went up to her friend's room. A crumpled heap on the bed told where Sally was, but it did not turn as Peggy entered. She went over and put her hand on the head that was buried between two pillows. "Thee is taking this too seriously, Sally," spoke Peggy. "Don't be too hard on him. After all thee knows that Clifford is just a boy." Sally turned a reddened, tear-stained face toward her. "He is to die," she murmured in shocked tones, "yet he jested. He jested, Peggy." "Sally, 'tis naught to make such a pother about. Men, especially soldiers, regard death differently from the way we look at it. Let me tell thee about the matter." "I don't care to hear any explanation," answered Sally shortly.