“Why,” gasped Peggy, turning about in amazement as a lad of about eighteen, whose appearance was far from reassuring, stepped from the woods into the road. “Who art thou, and what does thee want?” “I want to help you mend your saddle,” said the youth coolly, doffing a tattered beaver with some grace. “Didst not say that the girth had broke?” “Yes, but,” began the girl, when her mother spoke: “Art sure that thou canst aid us, my lad?” she asked mildly. “Thou wilt not mind if I say that thee looks in need of aid thyself.” “As to that, madam, it can be discussed later,” he rejoined. “For the present, permit me to say that here is a piece of rawhide, and here a jack-knife. What doth hinder the repairing of the saddle but your permission?” “And that thou hast,” returned the lady. “We shall be indeed grateful to thee for thy aid.” At once the youth stepped to the side of the mare, and inspected the broken band critically. Then, removing the saddle to the ground, he set to work upon it with a dexterity that showed him to be no novice. “What is the name of the pony?” he asked, addressing the maiden directly. “Star,” answered she regarding him with curious eyes. He was in truth a spectacle to excite both curiosity and pity. He was haggard and unkempt, and his garments hung about him in tatters. His form was thin to emaciation, and, while he boasted the remains of a beaver, his feet were without covering of any sort. “’Tis a pretty beast,” he remarked, seeming not at all concerned as to his rags. “One of the likeliest bits of horse-flesh I’ve seen in many a day. Are you fond of her?” “I am indeed,” answered the girl, patting the mare gently. “My father gave her to me, and I would not lose her for anything. He is now with the army at White Plains, New York.” “Are you not Quakers?” he queried, glancing up in surprise. “We are of the Society of Friends, which the world’s people call Quakers,” interposed the matron from the chaise. “And they, methought, were neutral,” he observed with a smile. “Not all, friend. There be some who are called Free Quakers, because they choose to range themselves upon the side of their country. Methinks thou shouldst have heard of them.” “I have,” he rejoined, “but as Fighting or Hickory Quakers.” “It doesn’t matter what we are called so long as we are of service to the country,” exclaimed Peggy with some warmth. “Is thee not of the army too? Thou art an American.” The lad hesitated, and then said quickly: “Not now. I have been.” And then, abruptly—“Are you ladies alone?” “No,” replied the girl, casting an anxious glance down the roadway. The highways of Pennsylvania, once so peaceful and serene, were by this period of the war so infected with outlaws and ruffians as to be scarcely safe for travelers. “We have an escort who are coming up with the wagons. One broke, and it took all hands to repair it. They should be here at any time now.”