“Thee is tired, Peggy,” he cried lifting her from Star’s back. “Thy mother hath been full of worriment anent thy absence, but Harriet said that she had left thee at the governor’s, so I knew that thou wert safe. Wilt light, William? We will be honored to have thy company for the night, and as much longer as ’twill please thee to remain.” “Thank you, David.” Mr. Livingston swung himself lightly down to the ground. “I accept your hospitality with pleasure. Methought I was safe for this winter at home. Odds life! but the British grow reckless to make sallies so near the main army.” “The more glory should the attempt have been successful,” laughed Mr. Owen. “Come in, William.” “And this is the young lady who would give me no opportunity to thank her for her information,” said the governor, going directly to Harriet who, looking superbly beautiful, despite a certain languor, reclined in a large chair surrounded by a group of officers. “You must thank Peggy,” declared Harriet laughing. “’Twas she who found the note. Peggy and Fleetwood, my horse, deserve all the credit, if there be any.” “And Harriet not a bit?” he quizzed, quite charmed by her modesty. “I fancy that there are those of us who think that Harriet deserves some little herself. And now that we are at ease, let us hear all about it.” “Hath not Peggy told you?” asked Harriet. “Only given me the outline of it,” he answered. “Now that the need for action is past, let’s hear the story.” “Why, we were riding along when all at once I took a dash ahead of Peggy, just for sport. When I returned she had the letter, which she had found while I was gone,” Harriet told him. “I was miles away then, was I not, Peggy?” Without waiting for an answer she continued hastily: “At first we hardly understood what it meant, and then suddenly it flashed over us that to-day was the twenty-fourth, and if there was an attack to be made ’twould be to-night. Of course when we realized that, there was but one thing to do, which was to let you know about it as quickly as possible, and to warn the brigade at Elizabethtown. Really,” she ended, laughing softly, “there is naught to make such a fuss about. Twas a simple thing to do.” “Mother,” spoke Peggy, rising abruptly, “if thee does not mind I think I’ll go to my room. I—I am tired.” Her voice quivered as she finished speaking and a wild inclination to sob came suddenly over her. Mrs. Owen glanced at her daughter’s pale face anxiously as she gave her permission to withdraw. Something was amiss, she saw. The two girls had not spoken, and had avoided each other’s glances. Wondering much, she turned again to the guests while Peggy, safe at last in her own little chamber, gave vent to a flood of tears. CHAPTER XIX—A PROMISE AND AN ACCUSATION Under each flower of radiant hue A serpent lies unbidden; And chance ofttimes doth bring to view That which hath been hidden.