But Peggy made no answer. She looked from father to daughter, from daughter to father thoughtfully. Over her rushed the many things that had befallen her since they had entered her life. The father had caused the death of her dog; had treated her mother and herself scornfully; had lodged a spy in their very home; and had finally robbed them of everything the house contained in the way of food. And Harriet! Had she not deceived them all? Her father, mother and herself? Would she not do so again if she were to be with them once more? Would she not spy and plot against the cause if she were given opportunity? Could she forgive and forget the deceit, the long absence from her mother, the hardships and trials, and take her to her own dear home? Could she do it? Her heart throbbed painfully as she turned a searching glance toward her cousin. She was so thin, so wasted, so different from her former brilliant self, that the last tinge of bitterness left Peggy, and a sudden glow of tenderness rushed over her. “Of course thee shall come with me,” she cried, catching Harriet’s hands and drawing her to her. “And thee shall see how soon mother and I will make thee well. And oh, Harriet, thee will be in my very own home!” “Oh, I shall be so glad,” cried Harriet, a faint flush coming to her face. “Father, do you hear? Peggy says that I am to go!” “You are a good little thing after all, Peggy,” observed Colonel Owen, not without emotion. “A good little thing!” “I think that I will leave this love-feast,” exclaimed Colonel Tarleton, laughing cynically. “’Fore George, but I am glad the girl is going. A little more of this sort of influence would be bad for my reputation as leader of the cruel raiders. Be sure that you are up betimes, Mistress Peggy. I will have no dallying in the morning.” “I will be ready, and so will Harriet,” cried Peggy, darting to his side and seizing the hand of the arm that she had wounded. Bending quickly she kissed it, exclaiming, “I will never forget how good thee has been, sir.” “There,” exclaimed he. “I have no more time to spare.” And he strode away. It was a snowy day in early December, fourteen days later, that Peggy, mounted on Star and Harriet on Fleetwood, left the ferry, and galloped into Philadelphia. “’Tis my own dear city at last,” cried Peggy excitedly. “And that is the Delaware in very truth. Thee hasn’t seen a river like it, has thee, Harriet? We will soon be home now. ’Tis not much further.” And so in exuberance of spirit she talked until at length the home in Chestnut Street was reached. She sprang to the ground just as Tom, the groom, came to the front of the house. The darkey gave one glance and then ran forward, crying: “Foh massy sake, ef hit ain’t Miss Peggy! An’ Star! Yas, suh, an’ Star! Mis’ Owen will be powerful glad ter see yer. She am in de dinin’-room.” “Yes, it’s Peggy. Peggy—come to stay,” cried she, giving the bridle into his hand. “Come, Harriet!”