“Fix another kettle of water, Peggy,” she said, “and let it be near to boiling. Into it put some salts of tin, alum and cream of tartar. It needs brightening, and will come a pretty blue when washed in the solution. There! Punch each part of the cloth down into the water, child, so that it may be thoroughly wetted. So! Now rinse well, and hang it out to dry. That done thou shalt tell me for what purpose thou hast dyed the cloth such especial colors. Thy father hath no need of a new uniform.” “’Tis for Friend John,” said Peggy dabbling the cloth vigorously up and down in the rinsing water. “Why! hath he expressed a wish to return?” exclaimed Mrs. Owen in amazement. “I had heard naught of it.” Peggy laughed. “Not yet, mother,” she cried, her eyes dancing with mirth. “But I see signs. Oh, I see signs. This must be ready anent the time he does wish to go. This, with socks, and weapons, and aught else he may need.” “Hast thou been reasoning with him, Peggy, that thee feels so sure?” “A little,” admitted the girl. “This afternoon, if none comes to interrupt, I shall do more. Mother, what would I do without thee? Thee did just the right thing to bring this cloth to the proper color. Is it not beautiful? Would I could do so well.” “’Twill come in time, my daughter. Skill in dyeing as in aught else comes only from practice. But here is Sukey to tell us of visitors. Wash thy hands and join us, Peggy. If ’tis Sally Bache I make no doubt but that there is news from Dr. Franklin.” ’Twas customary at this time to pay morning visits in Philadelphia, and several came, one after another, so that by the time she had finished her interrupted tasks Peggy found the afternoon well on toward its close before she could pay her usual visit to Master Drayton. She found him awaiting her coming with eagerness. “’Tis good to be sheltered and fed,” he said as the maiden entered the room, “but none the less ’tis monstrous tiresome to be cooped up. What shall be done to amuse me, Mistress Peggy?” “Would thee like to have me read to thee?” she asked, a gleam of mischief coming into her eyes. “The very thing,” he cried, seating himself comfortably on the settle. “Is it a tale? Or perchance you have brought a verse book?” “Neither,” she answered. “Art sure that thou art comfortable, Friend John? Does thee need anything at all?” “Nothing at all,” he replied pleased at her solicitude. “And now for the reading. I am curious to see what you have chosen, for I see that you have brought something with you.” “Yes,” she responded, producing a pamphlet. “’Tis just a little something from a writer who calls himself, ‘Common Sense.’” Before he had time to expostulate she began hurriedly: