“I know not,” answered Peggy regarding the book almost with awe. “Oh, girls! hath he not indeed been kind to me? ’Tis most wonderful how everything hath happened. How vastly delightsome town life is! I hope mother will go to every tea to which we are asked.” “And has thee had so much excitement that thee does not care for my secret?” asked Sally. “’Twas my purpose to declare it at this time.” “Do tell it, Sally,” pleaded Peggy aroused by Sally’s earnest tone. “Thee promised.” “Yes, yes, Sally,” urged Betty. “Do tell us.” “Then come close,” said Sally motioning to Robert and Mr. Deering to draw nearer. “Know then, all of you, that to-morrow I am to begin to prepare for being a nurse in the General Hospital.” “Oh, Sally!” cried Betty and Peggy in a chorus. “Yes,” said she, enjoying their surprise. “Mr. Deering seems to have known it, and Robert here, but ’tis known to no others. I have been minded for some time to do something more than make socks and shirts, though they are badly needed, too, I hear.” “’Tis just splendid, Sally,” declared Peggy. “But Betty and I must do something too. It will never do for thee to be the only one of us girls to do so well. What shall we do, Betty?” “I fancy that my hands at least will be full,” said Betty. “Mother thinks it advisable for me to take the smallpox as soon as she can spare me.” “La!” giggled Sally. “How will that help the country, Betty?” “By preventing it from spreading,” answered Betty, at which they all laughed. The music struck up at this moment, and the talk which had threatened to become serious was interrupted. About eleven a genteel supper was served, and General Arnold’s tea had come to an end. CHAPTER VII—A SUMMER SOLDIER “What, if ‘mid the cannon’s thunder, Whistling shot and bursting bomb, When my brothers fall around me, Should my heart grow cold and numb?” But the drum Answered “Come! Better there in death united than in life a recreant—come!” —“The Reveille,” Bret Harte. “Mother, what did thee think of the tea?” asked Peggy of Mrs. Owen the next morning. Lowry Owen laid down her sewing and turned toward her daughter gravely: “’Twas an enjoyable occasion in many respects, my daughter. ’Twas most pleasant to meet with old friends, but——” “Yes, mother?” questioned the maiden as the lady hesitated. “There was so much of extravagance and expenditure in the costumes and even in the entertainment that I fear we cannot indulge often in such pleasures. Mr. Arnold”—calling him after the London manner, a fashion much in vogue at this time in the colonies—“must be a man of great wealth to afford such hospitality. I understand that ’tis extended often to his friends, and ’tis expected to some extent from a man in his position. But we are not wealthy now, my child, and I wish not to be drawn into a manner of life beyond our means.”