“I will,” she promised in tears. “Another thing,” he said, bringing forth a few gold pieces, “you must take these with you. They will help you in your journey, but use ’em only when you can’t get what you want any other way. ’Tis better to trust to kindness of heart than to cupidity.” In spite of her protests he made her accept them, and she sewed them in the hem of her frock, promising to use them with discretion. With many tears Peggy took leave of these kindly people the next morning, and set forth with Joe Hart and his wife and baby for Virginia. The road was mountainous, and the riding hard, but Peggy’s heart danced with gladness and she heeded not the fatigue, for at last she was going home. Home! The opaline splendor of the morning thrilled her with an appreciation that she had never felt before. What a wonderful light threaded the woods and glorified the treetops! Home! At night they stopped at some woodman’s hut, or at a plantation, if they were near the more pretentious establishment; for inns were few, and the habitations so far removed from each other that the people gladly gave entertainment to travelers in return for the news they brought. Often they encountered bodies of irregular troops upon the road directing their wearied march toward the headquarters of the patriot army. The victory at King’s Mountain had thrilled the people even as Concord and Lexington had done, and roused them to renewed exertions. Peggy’s companions were not very cheerful. The man was a rough, kindly, goodhearted fellow, but his wife was a delicate woman, peevish and complaining, whose strength was scarcely equal to the hardships of the journey and the care of the sickly infant who fretted incessantly. Four days of such companionship wore upon even Peggy’s joyousness. They were by this time some fifteen miles east of Hillsborough, where the remnant of the patriot army lay. The road was lonely, the quiet broken only by the whimpering of the baby and the querulous soothing of the mother. Peggy felt depressed and mentally reproached herself for it. “Thee is foolish, Peggy,” she chided sternly, “to heed such things. If the poor woman can bear it thee should not let it wherrit thee. Now be brave, Peggy Owen! just think how soon thee will see mother. Can thee not bear a little discomfort for that? And how exciting ’twill be to tell them——What was that?” she cried aloud, turning a startled look upon the mountaineer, who rode a short distance ahead of Peggy and his wife. “It sounded like a groan,” exclaimed he. They drew rein and listened. The road ran through a forest so densely studded with undergrowth that it was impossible to see any distance on either side. For a few seconds there was no sound but the whispering of the pines. They were about to pass on when there came a low cry: “You, whoever you are! Come to me, for the love of God!”