“There!” spoke the youth, rising. “I think, mistress, that you will find your saddle in prime order for the rest of your journey.” “Thank thee,” said Peggy gratefully. “It is well done. And now what shall we do for thee? How can we serve thee for thy kindness?” “Are you bound for Philadelphia, or do you stop in Germantown?” he asked. “Philadelphia, my lad,” spoke the mother. “Would thee——” She hesitated a moment and then drew forth some bills. “Would thee accept some of these? ’Tis all I have to offer in the shape of money. Hard coin is seldom met with these days.” “Nay,” said the boy with a gesture of scorn. “Keep your bills, madam. I have had my fill of Continental money. ’Twould take all that you have to purchase a meal that would be filling, and I doubt whether the farmers hereabouts would take them.” “There is a law now compelling every one to take them,” cried Peggy. “They will have to take the Continental money whether they wish to or not. And they should. Every good patriot should stand by the country’s currency.” “You are all for the patriots, I see,” he remarked. “When one has suffered in the cause, and received naught from an ungrateful country one doesn’t feel so warmly toward them.” “But, my lad,” broke in the lady, “thee will pardon me, I know, if I say again that thee looks in need of assistance. If we cannot aid thee here perchance in the city we could be of service. I am Lowry Owen, David Owen’s wife. Thou mayst have heard of him?” “Perchance then, madam, you would not mind if I accompanied you to the city?” queried the lad. “Wilt let me ride with you?” “With pleasure,” answered Mrs. Owen. “Thou shalt sit in the chaise with me while Tom may go in the wagons. This chair is not so comfortable as a coach, because it hath no springs or leather bands, but thou wilt not find it unbearable.” “’Twill be better than walking,” he returned with easy assurance. His assurance deserted him suddenly, and he sank upon the ground abruptly. “I am faint,” he murmured. “The poor lad is ill,” cried Peggy hastening to his side. “Oh, mother! what does thee think is the matter?” “’Tis hunger, I fear,” replied Mrs. Owen hastily descending from the chair. “Peggy, fetch me the portmanteau from under the seat. Why did I not ask as to thy needs?” she added with grave self-reproach as the youth reached eagerly for the food. “There! Be not too ravenous, my lad. Thou shalt have thy fill.” “Oh, but——” uttered the boy, clutching the provisions. He said no more, but ate with frantic haste, as though he feared the viands would be taken from him. Mrs. Owen and Peggy regarded him with pitying eyes. Presently he looked at them with something of his former jauntiness. “’Tis the first real food that I have eaten for three days,” he told them. “I have been living on wild grapes, and corn whenever I could find a field. I thank you, madam; and you also, mistress.”