“I fear we have made a mistake in returning to town,” observed Mrs. Owen when at length they reached the dwelling after a silent walk home. “I had no idea things had become so dear. There is hardly such a thing as living in town, but David wished us to be here. In truth, with so many outlaws scouring the country, I feel that we are far safer than we would be on the farm. And yet what shall be done anent the matter of clothes? Thou must have a frock for the tea party.” “I can wear my blue and white Persian,” said the girl bravely. “Thee must not worry so over my frock, mother.” “Thy Persian was new three years since,” objected her mother. “And thou hast grown, Peggy. Beside, ’tis faded. Stay! I have the very thing. Come with me, child.” She sprang up with so much animation that Peggy wondered at her. It was not customary with Mrs. Owen to be harassed over such a matter as clothes, but her daughter’s unselfishness when her need was so great had stirred her to unusual tenderness. Up to the garret they went, the lady leading the way with the agility of a girl. The attic extended over the entire main building. There were great recesses under the eaves which pigeons sought, and dark closets where one might hide as in the old legend of the old oak chest. From one of the shadowed niches Mrs. Owen drew forth a chest. It was battered and old, yet it required all the lady’s strength to force the lock. “The key is lost,” she explained to Peggy who was following her movements with eagerness. “’Tis a mercy the house was occupied by British in place of Hessians. Had they had it everything would have been taken. The English were more moderate in their plundering, though they did take many of Dr. Franklin’s books, I hear, and his portrait.[[1]] “There,” she exclaimed almost gaily, drawing forth a yellowing dress, and holding it up to view with gentle pride. “There, Peggy! There is thy frock.” A faint sweet perfume emanated from the folds of the garment as Mrs. Owen held it up. Peggy touched it wonderingly. “Whose was it, mother?” she asked almost in a whisper. “Not thine?” “Mine, Peggy? Why, ’twas my wedding dress.” The lady smoothed the satin folds tenderly. “’Twas once the sheerest white, but it hath lain so long that it hath mellowed to cream. But that will be the more becoming to thy dark hair and eyes.” “And I am to wear it?” queried the maiden in awed tones. “Oh, mother, ’tis too much to ask of thee.”