“No, mother. I shall murmur no more. ’Tis right to go. Thee will let Harriet know, though how she can do anything I see not. She will not be allowed to enter the lines again. What time doth the cabriolet with the nurse start? Should we not begin to prepare for the journey now?” And seeing her so willing to accept the charge the mother in Mrs. Owen would not down. She drew the girl in a close embrace. “If it were not right, Peggy,” she murmured. “If the doctor had not already prepared a place, or if I thought for a moment that harm would befall thee, I should not let thee go. But——” “Why, mother, there is naught else to do,” answered Peggy cheerfully. “Thee must not think of harm. I was foolish to give way, and so art thou, mother mine. Of course naught will happen, and it is the right thing to do. What shall I take? And we should have supplies also, should we not?” And with the Quaker habit of self-repression mother and daughter put aside their emotion to prepare for the coming journey. CHAPTER X—FAREWELL TO HOME “Such was the season when equipt we stood On the green banks of Schuylkill’s winding flood, A road immense, yet promised joys so dear, That toils and doubts and dangers disappear.” —“The Foresters,” _Alexander Wilson_. “There are lint and bandages in the large bundle, Peggy. Dr. Cochran says they can scarce get enough of them. The hospitals as well as the departments of the army are in sore need of supplies. Ah me! the long, grim, weary years of fighting have made the people slow to respond to the necessities of our soldiers, and the Congress hath not the power to make levies. I would send sheets and pillow cases if there was room. We shall see when thy companion comes. The hamper is filled with jellies and delicacies. Thou wilt divide them with the other poor wounded ones. They will be glad of them, I make no doubt. And thy portmanteau is all packed, child. I think we have forgot nothing. There is but little time left to dress for the journey.” Mrs. Owen cast an anxious glance at the array of bundles as she enumerated them, locked the portmanteau, and gave the key to her daughter. “I know, mother, but it will not take me long. I will run down to the stables to say good-bye to Star now, and then dress. How I wish the dear thing could go too!” “I fear thee will have to be content without her for this time, Peggy. It will not be for long.” “True, mother,” assented the girl cheerfully. “And the very first thing I shall do when I come back will be to take a long, long gallop. I will be gone just a moment.” She ran out of the room as she finished speaking, and without pausing for even a passing glance at the trees or the terrace, went swiftly through the orchard to the stables.