“’T is in the hands of One who knows best.”

Bagby went to the door.  “The Assembly meets on the twenty-eighth,” he remarked, “and I promised some of the members I’d quit Congress to ’tend the early part of the session, so I’ve got to go back to Trenton in three days.  If you change your mind before then, let me know.”

“Oh, mommy,” groaned the girl the moment the door closed, “I wish there were no such things in the world as lovers!” Then she told a yet greater untruth:  “Or would that I had been born as plain as Tibbie’s aunt!”

“’T is ingratitude to speak thus, child.  Hast already forgot the help Philemon tried to give us, and what we owe to Colonel Brereton?”

The girl made no response for a little, then said hurriedly, “Mommy, dost think dadda, and wouldst thou wish me to wed Colonel Brereton, provided ’t would save us our lands and let us live in peace at Greenwood?”

“I know not what to say, Janice.  It would be a deliverance, indeed, from a future black with doubt and trouble; but thy father holds to his promise to Philemon, and I question if he’d ever consent to have a rebel for a son-in-law.  Nor do we know that Colonel Brereton was not but speaking in jest when he said what he did at Greenwood.”

“He meant it, mommy,” answered the daughter, “for—­for at grave risk he stole into Philadelphia last April to see me; and then he vowed he could save us from the Whigs if—­if—­”

“And wouldst thou wed him willingly?” asked the mother, when Janice lapsed into silence with the sentence unfinished.

With eyes on the floor and cheeks all aflame, the girl answered:  “I—­I scarce know, mommy.  At times when I am with him I feel dreadfully excited and frightened—­though never in the way I am with Lord Clowes—­and want to get away; but the moment he is gone I—­I wish him back, if only he would do but what I’d have him—­and yet I like him for—­ for having his own way—­as he always does—­though I know he’d do mine if—­if I asked him.”

“Janice, canst thou not speak less lightly and foolishly?” chided Mrs. Meredith.  “If thou lovest the man, say so without such silly maunderings, which are most unbefitting of thy years.”

“But I—­I don’t love Colonel Brereton, mommy,” protested the girl; “and I never could, after his—­after knowing that he once gave his love to that—­”

“And art thou so foolish, Janice,” demanded her mother, “as to pretend that thou dost not care for him?”

“Really it—­it would only be for you and dadda, and to save the property, mommy,” persisted Janice.

“Then why didst thou draw back from Lord Clowes and Bagby?” asked the mother, sternly.

“But I—­I could never have—­have—­Oh, mommy, there is a cart just stopped at the door, and I’ll see what is wanted,—­ an excuse conveniently present for the flustered maiden to escape an explanation.

As it proved, the arrival of the cart was of very material moment, for by the time Janice was at the door a lean-visaged woman had been helped from it, and her salutation was anything but promising.