“Oh, do let us go alone, Cousin David,” pleaded Harriet. “Peggy and I have gone so a few times. There is nothing to harm us.” “I see not how harm could befall you so long as you stay within the lines,” said Mr. Owen indulgently. “But it shall be as Lowry says.” “And what say you, madam my cousin?” The girl turned toward the lady with pretty deference. “Could not the ride go over for one day?” asked she. “I like not for you to ride alone.” “’Twill be good for Peggy,” spoke Harriet with an air of concern. “She is not well to-day.” “Is thee not, my daughter?” asked Mrs. Owen. “Thee is pale.” “’Tis nothing to wherrit over, mother,” spoke Peggy cheerfully. “I did not sleep well, that is all. Almost do I believe with Doctor Franklin that the windows should be raised in a sleeping-room, though none but he advocates such a thing.” “Doctor Franklin advocates naught but what he hath proved by experience to be good,” declared Mr. Owen, rising. “He is a philosopher who profits by his own teaching. I think ’twould be best for the girls to go, wife.” “Then, by all means, go,” decided Mrs. Owen. “But start earlier than usual, so as to be back long before the retreat sounds; else I shall be uneasy.” “We will do that, mother,” promised Peggy. And as soon as the morning tasks were finished the maidens set forth. “Are you not glad that we are alone to-day?” asked Harriet, when they had ridden a while. “I tire of even Cousin David. Do you not?” “Why, no!” exclaimed Peggy in surprise. “I would rather have father with us. I do not see how any one could tire of him.” Harriet made no reply to this speech, and the two rode for some distance in silence. The February day was chill and gray, the roads slushy, but the outdoor life they had led rendered the maidens hardy, and they did not mind the dampness. “Why!” ejaculated Harriet suddenly. “Aren’t we on the Elizabethtown turnpike?” “Yes,” said Peggy glancing about. “I knew not that we had come so far. We must turn back, Harriet. Mother said that she would be uneasy if we were not there before the sounding of the retreat, and the afternoons are so short. ’Twill be time for it before we know it.” “I’ll tell you what, Peggy,” cried her cousin. “Let’s go by Liberty Hall.” “It is too late,” answered Peggy. “Thee must know that it is all of twenty miles to Elizabethtown, and though we have ridden a goodly part of the distance ’twould be more than we could do to-day. There and back, Harriet, is not to be thought of.” “Well, I am going, anyway,” exclaimed Harriet with more petulance than Peggy had ever seen her exhibit. “So there!” She struck Fleetwood a sharp blow with her riding crop as she spoke, and set off at speed down the road. Too much surprised to do more than call after her, Peggy drew rein, undecided what course to pursue. As she did so her eye was caught by a folded paper lying in the roadway. Now this had fallen from Harriet’s person as her horse started off unnoticed by either girl.