As Peggy replied in the affirmative, he called an orderly, and gave him some directions, then escorted the maiden into the dining-room. The Quaker habit of self-control enabled the girl to bear the curious glances cast at her pale face, but the dinner was a trying ordeal. She had grown to love the gay circle that gathered at the table, and to count a day spent with the brilliant men and women as one to be remembered; to-day she was glad when the time came for her to go home. Harriet had been very vivacious all through the afternoon, but as they set forth accompanied by the same aide who had escorted them to the mansion she relapsed into silence. It had been Peggy’s intention to tell the whole story to her father and mother in Harriet’s presence as soon as she reached home, but there was company in the drawing-room, and as she stood hesitating what to do her mother hastened to them. “How tired you both look,” she cried in alarm. “To bed ye go at once. Nay, David,” as Mr. Owen entreated a delay. “’Tis early, I know, but too much excitement is not to be endured. And both girls will be the better for a long sleep. So to bed! To bed!” And with some reluctance on the part of both maidens they went slowly up to the little chamber under the eaves. CHAPTER XXI—THE RECKONING “He flees From his own treachery; all his pride, his hopes, Are scattered at a breath; even courage fails Now falsehood sinks from under him.” —Walter Savage Landor. As Peggy placed the candle she had carried to light them up the stairs in the socket of a candlestick on the chest of drawers, Harriet closed the door, and shot the bolt. Then slowly the two turned and stood face to face. Not a word was spoken for a full moment. They gazed at each other as though seeking to pierce the mask of flesh and bones that hid their souls. It was a tense moment. The attitude of the Quakeress was accusing; that of the English girl defiant, changing to one of supplication as the dark eyes of her cousin held her own orbs in that intent look. For a time she bore the gaze unflinchingly, but soon her glance wavered, her eyelids drooped, and she sank into a chair whispering: “You know, Peggy. You know!” “Yes,” said Peggy. “I know, Harriet.” “Will—will they hang me, Peggy? What did Mr. Washington say? Oh, I have been so miserable this afternoon! I thought they were coming to take me every time the door opened. And you were so long with him. What did he say?” “He does not know that it was thee who writ the letter yet, Harriet,” Peggy informed her calmly. “Not know?” ejaculated Harriet, springing up in amazement. “Did you not tell him, Peggy?” “No, Harriet. I promised thee this morning that I would not, and I could not break my word,” explained Peggy simply.