“Yes,” returned Peggy gravely. “’Tis fortunate that ’tis market day, for there are some things needed. I shall have to use the sleigh. Thee won’t mind? I cannot get into the city otherwise.” “Oh, take it, by all means,” replied Harriet. “I wouldn’t go out in this weather for a dozen Sir Henrys. La, la! ’tis cold!” She shivered in spite of the great fire. “What doth father wish to see Sir Henry alone for?” she asked abruptly. “He told me but now that he did not desire my company after dinner. And I had learned a new piece on the harpsichord, too,” she ended pettishly. “I know not, Harriet,” said Peggy instantly troubled. She did not doubt but that it had something to do with the movement against General Washington, but she did not utter her suspicion. “Mayhap ’tis business of moment.” “Oh, yes; I dare say,” retorted Harriet. She yawned, and left the room. Peggy gave the necessary orders for the dinner and then quietly arrayed herself for the marketing. She was allowed a certain freedom of movement, and went into the city about business of the household without question. With scrupulous conscientiousness she attended to the marketing first, and then bidding the coachman wait for her, went rapidly to Little Queen Street on foot. She had met with but few Quakers. They were regarded as neutrals, but Colonel Owen disliked them as a sect and had forbidden her to hold communication with them. Still Peggy knew where many of them lived, and among these was Rachel Kenton. It was a quaint Dutch house, easily found. New York was not so large as Philadelphia at this time, and Peggy hastened up the stoop with eagerness, her heart beating with delight at the prospect of at last hearing from her dear ones. A pleasant-faced, sweet-mannered woman responded to her knock, and ushered her at once into a room just off the sitting-room, where Drayton sat awaiting her. She ran to him with outstretched hands. “Now I can tell thee how glad I am to see thee,” she cried. “And oh, John, do tell me of my mother! And father! How are they?” “Both are well,” he answered, “but they have grieved over your going away. Why did you leave camp, Peggy?” “’Twas because of Harriet,” she told him. “She was a spy, John. They would have hanged her had they found out that it was she who wrote that note. And oh, what did General Washington say when he found me gone? It hath been so long since then, and never a word could I hear.” “Well, he was pretty much cut up over it, and so were we all. Your mother thought that Harriet must be at the bottom of the matter, and so did I. Her boxes were searched, and some notes found that proved she was a spy. Then, too, we made that fellow confess to everything he knew. You remember him, Peggy? He accused you.” “Yes,” answered Peggy. “I remember, John. I can never forget how I felt when he accused me of being the girl who gave him that letter. And it wasn’t the same one at all.”