“You must have something to eat,” she declared. “You’ve had naught but gruel for so long that you must be hungry.” “I am,” replied Peggy, watching her in a maze of content. Presently she sat up as a thought came to her. “Friend,” she cried, “how came I here?” “Why, Henry brought you,” responded the woman. “It was after the big storm. We ain’t seen such a storm in years. Henry’s my husband. He’s a fisherman, as mayhap you’ve surmised. That is, he fishes for food, but I reckon you might call him a wrecker too,” she added with a smile. “Well, as I was saying, he was down on the beach when you was washed up by the waves. He thought you was dead at first, but when you got up, and tried to walk he just ran over to you as you fell and brought you right up to the house. Land! but we thought you was never coming to! But you did, and now you’ll be all right in a day or two.” “How good thee has been,” said Peggy gratefully. “Why, thou and thy husband have saved my life. I was so cold in the water and I—I was drowning. Then that terrible wave threw me——” She paused shuddering at the remembrance. “Dear heart, don’t think about it,” exclaimed the good dame hastening to her. “Here, child, eat this piece of chicken. It will hearten you up more than anything. After a bit mayhap you can tell me about yourself. But not a word until every bite of chicken is gone.” Peggy smiled at the good woman’s insistence, but did not refuse the chicken. Her appetite was awakened and keen, and she ate the piece with such a relish that her hostess was well pleased. “There now! you look better already,” she declared. “Henry will be glad to see it. He takes a heap of interest in the folks he saves. I reckon he’s saved more lives than any man on the coast of North Carolina.” “Is this North Carolina?” asked Peggy. “Yes; and this is Fisherman’s Inlet, near the Cape Fear River. What ship did you say you was on?” “’Twas the schooner ‘Falcon,’ from New York,” Peggy told her. “It was one of the vessels with Sir Henry Clinton, who set forth to attack Charleston.” The woman’s face darkened ominously. “And you air a Tory, of course, being as you air a Quaker and with a British ship?” she said questioningly. “I? Oh, no, no!” cried Peggy quickly. “Why, my father is David Owen of the Pennsylvania Light Horse. He is with the Continental army. I am a patriot, but I was captured and taken to New York City, where I have been since the last day of February of last year. It’s nearly a year,” she ended, her lips quivering. “You don’t say!” ejaculated the woman. “Then you must be a prisoner of war?” “I know not that I would be truly a prisoner of war,” answered Peggy, “for ’twas my father’s cousin who captured me. I will tell thee all about it.” “You pore child,” exclaimed the woman, who ceased her work as Peggy unfolded her story, and listened with wide-eyed attention. “What a lot you’ve been through! I’m glad that you’re not one of them English.” “And is thee a Whig?” asked Peggy.