“That were best known by reading it,” suggested Peggy, as her cousin stood holding the letter without breaking the seal. “Open it quickly, Harriet. I am beset with curiosity.” Without more ado Harriet tore open the epistle. As she did so a sealed enclosure fell to the floor, but she was too intent upon what Drayton had written to notice it for the moment. The latter ran: “Esteemed and Honored Madam: It is with great pleasure that I take up my pen to inform you that at length I have located your brother; and a lively time it gave me, too. I left Philadelphia, as you doubtless remember, on Friday, but it was not until Sunday night that I overtook the party of American horse who had your brother in charge. “I had inquired concerning them at every inn on the highway, but they had either passed without stopping or had just left; so that I almost despaired of ever coming up with them. By great good fortune, however, I found them at The Head of the Elk[[3]] where I purposed to stay Sunday night. Supper was over, and prisoners and captors sat about the fire in the common room of The Three Lions Tavern when I entered. There were five prisoners in all, and I looked at each one carefully, hoping to recognize your brother by your description of him. “One, the youngest of the lot, had something strangely familiar about him, and all at once it came to me that he looked like Peggy.” “It could not have been Clifford, then,” Harriet paused to remark, looking at her cousin wonderingly. “I see no resemblance to you, Peggy.” “But thee said that he looked like father,” reminded Peggy. “I am like father too, save my eyes and hair, which are dark, like mother’s. If thy brother looks like father ’twould be natural that John should think him like me. Read on, Harriet. Perchance ’twas not he, after all.” “I was sure then,” continued Harriet, reading, “that this was your brother; so, after obtaining permission from the officer in charge, I approached him and said: “‘I cry you pardon, sir, but are you Clifford Owen, brother of Mistress Harriet Owen?’ “He looked at me queerly, it seemed to me, before he replied: “‘I am not he; but if it were my name I see not what concern it is of yours.’ “‘I bear a message to one Clifford Owen,’ I told him. ‘If you are not he of course ’twould be of no moment to you.’ “‘No,’ he said, and seemed disinclined to talk. Seeing him so I left off for a time, but after some chat with the others, I turned to him again. “‘If you are agreeable, sir, I would fain know your name?’ “‘You are persistent,’ he cried with some heat. ‘I am not the man you seek; then why should you wish my name?’ “‘And why should you not tell it?’ I returned. ‘Unless, perchance, there are reasons for its suppression. We of these states ofttimes have to do with persons who care not for us to know their names.’