“Come, come, Miss Peggy,” he said soothingly. “Calm yourself. I knew not that Quakers were superstitious, and had regard for omens. Why, I verily believe that you would look for a stranger should the points of the scissors stick into the floor if they fell accidentally.” “I would,” she confessed. “I fancy all of us girls do. But this—this is different.” “Not a whit,” he declared. “’Tis a mere coincidence that you should happen to be present on both occasions.” And then seeing that her color had not returned even though the last of the mob had gone by, he gave a word to the coachman. “I am going to take you for a short drive,” he announced, “and to your destination.” “Why! I was coming to see thee,” cried Peggy with a sudden remembrance of her mission. “I wish to chat with thee anent something and—someone.” “Robert Dale?” he questioned with a laugh. “He is a fine fellow, and well worthy of a chat.” “Oh, no! Not about Robert, though he is indeed well worthy of it, as thee says. ’Tis about one John Drayton.” “What? Another?” He laughed again, and settled himself back on the cushions with an amused air. Then as he met the innocent surprise of her clear eyes he became serious. “And what about him, Miss Peggy?” “Does thee not remember him, Friend Arnold?” she queried in surprise. “He was with thee on thy march through the wilderness to Quebec.” “Is that the Drayton you mean?” he asked amazed in turn. “I do indeed remember him. What of him? He is well, I hope. A lad of parts, I recall. And brave. Very brave!” “He hath not been well, but is so now,” she said. “You have something to ask of me,” he said keenly. “Speak out, Miss Peggy. I knew not that he was a friend of yours.” “He hath not been until of late,” she answered troubled as to how she should broach the subject. “Sir,” she said presently, plunging boldly into the matter, “suppose that after serving three long years a soldier should weaken? Suppose that such an one grew faint hearted at the prospect of another winter such as the one just passed at Valley Forge; would thee find it in thy heart to blame him, if, for a time, he should”—she paused searching for a word that would express her meaning without using the dreadful one, desert—“he should, well—retire without leave until he could recover his strength? Would thee blame him?” “Do you mean that Drayton hath deserted?” he asked sternly. “He did; but he repents,” she told him quickly. “Oh, judge him not until I tell anent it. He wants to go back. His courage failed only because of sickness. Now he is ready and willing, nay, even eager to go back even though he meets death by so doing. As he says himself ’twas naught but the cold, and hunger, and scanty clothing that drove him to it.” Peggy’s eyes grew eloquent with feeling as she thought of the forlorn condition of the lad when she first saw him. “And if he goes back, will he not have hunger, and cold, and scanty clothing to endure again?” he asked harshly.