“But not now, Peggy,” interposed Betty. “Since thee has become a Whig, and have been read out of meeting thee is an apostate. Sally and I both have learned to languish and glide at the new academy in Third Street. They are taught there in the politest manner. Thee must attend.” Peggy looked troubled. “I do not think we should give up everything of our religion because we are led to differ from the Society in the matter of politics,” she said. “At least that is the way mother looks at it, though I should like to learn to dance. Oh, dear! I am getting worldly, I fear. Now, Betty, thee and Robert run along while I stand here and watch you. It hath been long since I saw so bright a scene.” Thus urged, Robert and Betty glided out upon the floor, and Peggy looked about her. The extravagance of the costumes was beyond anything hitherto seen in the quiet city of Penn, and Peggy’s eyes opened wide at the gorgeous brocades and wide hooped skirts. But most of all did she marvel at the headdresses of the ladies. These, built of feathers, aigrets and ribbands, topped the hair already piled high upon steel frames and powdered excessively. The air was full of powder from wig and head-dress. Happy laughter mingled with the music of the fiddles, and the rustle of brocades. All made up a scene the luxury of which stole over the little maid’s senses and troubled her. Unconsciously she sighed. “Why not treading a measure, my little maid?” queried General Arnold’s pleasant voice, and Peggy looked up to find him smiling down upon her. “I am a Quaker,” she told him simply. “Then mayhap we can console each other; although I do not refrain from religious scruples.” “No; thee does it because of thy wound,” uttered the girl a glow of such intense admiration coming into her eyes that the general smiled involuntarily. “Does it pain thee much, Friend—I should say—General Arnold?” [Illustration: “FRIEND—I SHOULD SAY—GENERAL ARNOLD”] “Nay; call me friend, Miss Peggy. I like the name, and no man hath too many. At times I suffer much. At first I was in a very fever of discontent, ’twas so long in healing. I chafed under the confinement, for it kept me from the field. Of late, however, I have come to bear its tardiness in healing with some degree of patience.” “Mother thinks that as much bravery may be shown in endurance as in action,” she observed shyly. “More, more,” he declared. “Action is putting into execution the resolve of the moment, and may be spurred by excitement or peril to deeds of daring. One forgets everything under its stimulus. But to be compelled to sit supinely when the liberties of the country are in danger——Ah! that is what takes the heart out of a man. It irks me.” “Thee should not fret,” she said with such sweet gravity that his worn dark face lighted up. “Thou hast already given so much for thy country that ’tis well that thou shouldst take thy ease for a time. Thee has been very brave.”