Peggy Owen Patriot Part 9

"But thee must not overdo in the beginning. There is also much unhatcheled flax to be made into thread for cloth, and if thee is too wearied from the spinning of the wool thou wilt not be able to undertake it. So stop now, and take a run through the garden."

"Just as soon as I finish this skein, mother."

Peggy's light foot on the treadle went swifter and swifter, and for a time no sound was heard in the living-room save the hum of the wheel.

Presently the spindle uttered an angry snarl, and the thread snapped short in her fingers.

"There!" she cried merrily, unraveling the knot dexterously. "Had I but heeded thy advice, mother, this mishap would not have occurred. The moral is that a maid should always obey her mother. I tried to outdo my stint of yesterday, and by so doing have come to grief. Now if thee will hold the skeins I will wind the yarn of to-day's spinning ready for knitting."

So saying she uprose from the wheel and took a snowy skein from the reel on the table, and adjusted it upon her mother's outstretched hands.

"Sukey and I could do this after supper, Peggy," expostulated the matron. "I like not to have thee confined too closely to work, albeit I would not have thee idle."

"Mother, thee knows that thee likes to have me excel in housewifery, and how can I do so unless I practice the art? I cannot become notable save by doing, can I?" questioned the maiden archly, her slim figure looking very graceful as she stood winding the yarn with nimble fingers. "I shall take the air when I have finished winding this ball, if it will please thee; though"-and a shadow dimmed the brightness of her face-"I like not to go out in the grounds since Star hath gone. How strange it is that something should happen to both the pets that father gave me!

Pilot, my dog, was shot, and now my pony is stolen. Dost think I will ever hear of her, mother?"

"It hath been some time since thou didst advertise, Peggy, hath it not?"

"Yes, mother. Three long se'nnights."

"And in all that time there hath come no word or sign of her." The lady hesitated a moment, and then continued: "Dear child, I fear that thou wilt see no more of thy pretty horse. But take comfort in the thought that though the gift hath been taken from thee the giver hath not. David is well, and in good spirits. That is much to be thankful for, Peggy."

"It is, mother. Dear father! would he were home for all time."

Without further remonstrance Peggy went out under the trees. A slight chill was in the air, for it was drawing toward evening. Summer's spell was released, and the sere decadence of the year was sweetly and sadly going on. Up and down the neglected alleys of the garden she strolled, pausing ever and anon to admire the scarlet fire of the late poppies.

Almost unconsciously her feet turned in the direction of the stable, a place to which she made daily pilgrimages since the loss of her pet. As she drew near the building the unmistakable sound of a low whinny broke upon the air. A startled look swept across the girl's face, and she stopped short in astonishment.

"That sounded like Star," she exclaimed. "Mother was right in thinking that I needed the air. I must not sit so long again at the wheel. I--"

But another and louder whinny broke upon her ear, and full of excitement Peggy flung wide the door, and darted within.

"Oh, Star! Star!" she cried throwing her arms about the pony's neck, for the mare was really standing in her stall. "Where did thee come from?

Who brought thee? And where hast thou been?"

But the little mare could only whinny her delight, and rub her soft nose against her mistress's sleeve.

"Thou dear thing!" cried the girl rapturously. "Is thee glad to get back? Does thee want some sugar? Oh, how did thee get here? Thee doesn't look as though thee had had much to eat. Poor thing! Couldn't they even groom thee?"

"Mistress!"

Peggy turned around abruptly, and there stood the same young fellow who had mended her saddle when she and her mother were waiting on the Germantown road. He was more ragged than ever, and thinner too, if that were possible. He still wore his air of jaunty a.s.surance, however, and returned her astonished gaze with a glance of amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Thou?" breathed Peggy. "And what does thee want?"

"Naught, but to return thy horse," he answered.

"Oh! did thee find her?" cried the girl in pleased tones. "How good of thee to bring her to me! Where did thee find her? And the thief? What did thee do with him?"

"The thief? Oh, I brought him too," he said coolly.

"But where is he?" she demanded looking around. "I do not see him."

"Here," he said sweeping her an elaborate bow.

"Thee?" Peggy recoiled involuntarily as the lad spoke. "Oh, how could thee do it? How could thee?" she burst forth.

"I couldn't. That's why I brought her back. I don't steal from a girl."

"But why did thee keep her so long?" she asked, mollified somewhat by this speech.

"I wanted to see my people," he answered.

"And did thee?" she queried, her tender heart stirred by this.

"No; they had moved, or something had happened. They weren't there any more." He spoke wearily and with some bitterness. "I'd have sold that horse if I hadn't kept thinking how fond you were of her."

"And did thee know that I had offered a reward for her, friend?"

"Why, of course I knew," he replied. "Now as I am ent.i.tled to the money for both the horse and thief, suppose you bring it out to me."

"But my pony," objected Peggy. "How do I know that thee will not take her again?"

"Your horse?" he questioned angrily. "Don't fear! Don't you suppose that if I had wanted to keep her I'd have done it? Now if you are going to give me the money, do it. Then feed your mare. She hasn't had much more than I have. Don't be afraid of me, but hurry. I can't stay around here any longer."

"I am not afraid, friend," responded Peggy her hesitation vanishing. "I was just thinking that thee looked hungry. Come to the house, and eat something. Then thou shalt have thy money, though I know not what my mother will say to that part of it. But thee should eat anyway. Come!"

"I will not," he cried. "I will not. Someone might see me and arrest me."

"But if mother and I do not wish to prosecute 'tis not the concern of any," she told him mildly. "Now that I have Star, I would not wish to be severe, and thou didst bring her back. Mother will feel the same way."

"'Tis not that," he cried sharply. "Don't you understand? I have run away from the army, and I don't want to be caught. I have been advertised, as well as your horse."

"And so thee could not steal from a girl, but thee can desert thy country in her fight for liberty," said Peggy, her eyes blazing with scorn. "I had rather a thousand times that thou hadst taken Star; that thou couldst find it in thy heart to steal, though that were monstrous sinful, than that thou should stand there, and declare thyself a deserter. Why, thou art worse than a thief! Thou hast committed robbery twice over; for thou hast robbed thyself of honor, and despoiled thy country of a man."

"But"-he began, amazed at her feeling-"you do not know. You do not understand. I--"

"No," blazed the girl. "I do not know. I do not want to know how a man can be a summer soldier, as Mr. Thomas Paine calls them. A sunshine patriot who rallies to his country's side in fair weather, but who deserts her when she needs men. A deserter! Oh!" her voice thrilling, "how can thee be such a thing?"

"It's-it's all up," he said leaning against the door white and shaken.

"I'm done for!" And he fell limply to the floor.

CHAPTER VIII-PEGGY'S RESOLVE

"Stand! the ground's your own, my braves!

Will ye give it up to slaves?

Will ye to your homes retire?