The Loyalist. James Francis Barrett

must manifest itself at times."

      "Not when the habit is turned to pleasure."

      "You are a philosopher, then?"

      "No. Just a mere observer of men and their destinies."

      "Have you included the duration of the war in your legitimate conclusions?"

      "It is not over yet, and it will not terminate, I think, without an improvement in the present condition of affairs. The proposed help from France must become a reality of no ordinary proportion, else the discordant factions will achieve dire results. Tell me," he said, suddenly changing the topic of conversation, "were you in attendance at the Mischienza?"

      "No, I did not care to attend."

      "I would I had been present."

      "You would have been expelled in your present capacity."

      "Ah, yes! But I would have affected a disguise."

      "You would expect to obtain important information?" She fingered her gown of pink satin as she spoke, oblivious of everything save the interest of the conversation.

      "I might possibly have stumbled across some items of value."

      "None were there save the British Officers and their Tory friends, you know."

      "A still greater reason for my desire to be present. And why did you not dance attendance?" This question was frank.

      "Do you really want to know my sole reason?" She looked at him somewhat suspicious, somewhat reliant, awaiting her womanly instinct to reveal to her the rectitude of her judgment.

      "I should not have asked, otherwise," Stephen gravely replied.

      "Well, it was for the simple reason that my soul would burn within me if I permitted myself to indulge in such extravagance and gayety the while our own poor boys were bleeding to death at Valley Forge."

      Stephen grasped her hand and pressed it warmly. "You are a true patriot," was all he could say.

      Whether it was his emotion for the cause of his country or the supreme satisfaction afforded him by the knowledge that this girl was loyal to the cause, Stephen did not know, nor did he try to discover. He knew that he was thrilled with genuine gratification and that he was joyously happy over the thought which now relieved his mind. Somehow or other he earnestly desired to find this girl an ardent patriot, yet he had dared not ask her too bluntly. From the moment she had entered the hall in company with the other girls, he had singled her alone in the midst of the company. And, when the summons came to him from the Governor, he had seen her standing at the side of the dais, and her alone. Little did he suspect, however, that she bore his billet, nor did he presume to wish for the pleasure of her exclusive company for the evening.

      She danced with grace and was wholly without affectation. How sweet she looked; pink gown, pink flowers, pink ribbon, pink cheeks! How interesting her conversation, yet so reserved and dignified! But she lived in the city and the city he knew teemed with Loyalists. Was she one of these! He dared not ask her. To have her so declare herself enraptured him. She was one of his own after all.

      Moreover she was one with him in religious belief—that was a distinct comfort. Catholics were not numerous, and to preserve the faith was no slight struggle. He was thoroughly conversant with the state of affairs in the province of New York where Catholics could not, because of the iniquitous law and the prescribed oath of office, become naturalized as citizens of the state. He knew how New Jersey had excluded Roman Catholics from office, and how North and South Carolina had adopted the same iniquitous measure. Pennsylvania was one of the few colonies wherein all penal laws directed against the Catholics had been absolutely swept away. To meet with a member of his own persecuted Church, especially one so engaging and so interesting as Marjorie, was a source of keen joy and an unlooked-for happiness.

      "You will not deny me the pleasure of paying my respects to your father and mother?" Stephen asked.

      She murmured something as he let go her hand. Stephen thought she had said, "I had hoped that you would come."

      "Tomorrow?" he ventured.

      "I shall be pleased to have you sup with us," she smiled as she made the soft reply.

      "Tomorrow then it shall be."

      They rose to take their part in the next dance.

III

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      As the evening wore on Peggy, wearied of the dance, sought a secluded corner of the great room to compose herself. She had been disappointed in her lottery, for she detested the thought of being a favor for a French officer and had taken care to so express herself at home long before. She could not rejoice at Marjorie's good fortune as she thought it, and found little of interest and less of pleasure in the evening's doings.

      She was aroused from her solitude and made radiant on the instant at sight of the Military Governor, limping his way across the hall in her direction. He had seen her seated alone, and his heart urged him to her side. With the lowest bow of which he was then capable, he sought the pleasure of her company. Her color heightened, she smiled graciously with her gray-blue eyes, and accepted his hand. He led the way to the banquet room and thence to the balcony, where they might hear the music and view the dancing, for his lameness made dancing impossible.

      "I hesitate to condemn a young lady to a prison seat, when the stately minuet sends a summons," he said as he led her to a chair a little to one side of the balcony.

      "You should have thought of that before you made us cast lots," she replied quickly. "I was wearying of the rounds of pleasure."

      "Is the company, then, all too gay?"

      "No, rather extravagant."

      "You insisted on the Mischienza ladies being present."

      "And can you not distinguish them? Do they not appear to better advantage than the others? Their gowns are superior, they give evidence of more usage in society, their head-dress is higher and of the latest fashion."

      "And their hearts, their hopes, their sympathies! Where are they?"

      "You know where mine lay," she adroitly replied.

      "True, you did wear a French cockade," he laughed.

      "Please do not call it 'French.' I scorn all things 'French.'"

      "They are our allies now, you must know."

      "For which I am most sorry. I expect no mercy from that scheming Papist country," she replied bitterly.

      "But they have lent us much money at a time when our paper currency is practically worthless, and the assistance of their fleet is now momentarily expected," the General went on to explain.

      "And to what purpose? Lord North has proposed to meet our demands most liberally and with our constitutional liberties secured, I fail to see why further strife is necessary."

      "But our independence is not yet secure."

      "It was secure after your brilliant victory at Saratoga. With the collapse of Burgoyne, England saw that further campaigning in a country so far removed from home was disastrous. It only remained to formulate some mutual agreement. We have triumphed. Why not be magnanimous? Why subject the country to a terrible strain for years for a result neither adequate nor secure?"

      She talked rapidly, passionately. It was evident from the manner of her address that the subject was no new one to her.

      "You can be court-martialed for treason?" he remarked with a slight smile playing about the heavy lines of his mouth.

      "Is it treason to talk of the welfare of the country? I look upon the alliance with this Catholic and despotic power as more of an act of treason than the total surrender of our armies to King