“Enclosed please find the letter your brother hath writ, and permit me to thank you for the enjoyableness of this little frisk. If I have gained an enemy, you at least have found a brother; so honors are even. Whenever you have another service to perform you have only to call upon him who subscribes himself “Your humble and devoted servant, “John Drayton. “_To Mistress Harriet Owen_, “_Philadelphia, Pa._” “The wretch!” cried Harriet, throwing the letter to the floor in a pet. “How dare he act so? Oh, I wish that Clifford had run him through. ’Twere well for John Drayton that he had no sword. How dare he flout him in that manner?” “Softly, softly, my child,” spoke Mrs. Owen mildly, with difficulty suppressing her smiles, while Peggy laughed outright. “Methinks both the lads were at fault, but John wished only to satisfy himself of the other’s identity. And he did serve thee in that, Harriet. But why should Clifford wish to conceal it?” “I know not,” answered Harriet soberly. “I suppose ’twas because he feared father would make him withdraw from the service should he find him.” “Mayhap he explains the matter in his letter,” suggested Peggy picking up the neglected enclosure, and handing it to Harriet. “Oh, yes; the letter,” cried Harriet tearing it open eagerly. “Why!” she exclaimed casting her eye quickly down the page. “He’s angry! Just listen. “‘And is it true,’” began the missive without heading or beginning of any sort, “‘that Harriet Owen, my sister Harriet, hath so far forgot her duty to her king as to labor in behalf of his rebellious subjects? And such an one as you have chosen to favor, Harriet! Could not the daughter of Colonel William Owen, of the Welsh Fusiliers, find a better object than this whippersnapper of a Yankee captain? “‘Harriet! Harriet! And has it come to this? Are you a traitor to your country and your king? To make a shirt for a rebel were infamy enough, but to embroider your name across its shoulders that all might see that Harriet Owen, a loyal subject of the king, was so employed surpasses belief. “‘Harriet, if this be true, if you have forgot what is due yourself, your brother, your father, your country and the most illustrious prince that ever sat upon the throne—if you have forgot your duty to all these, I say, then never more shall I call you sister. Never will I write the name of Clifford Owen again, but go down to my grave under the one I have chosen. “‘But, my sister, I cannot believe it of you. I cannot believe that so short a time could change you so. Some one other than you must have made that shirt, and this popinjay of a captain—or is it a lieutenant? no matter!—hath stolen it to flaunt before me, and to stir me to anger.