The scene of gratitude and joy that ensued was not describable, and some hours passed before either mother or daughter became sufficiently composed to take thought of the future.  Then, by permission of the jailer, they saw Mr. Meredith and discussed the problem before them.  Neither wife nor daughter could bear the thought of again being separated from the squire, and begged so earnestly to be allowed to share the half-captivity, half-exile, that had been decreed him, that he could not deny them, the more that his own heart-strings in reality drew the same way, and only his better judgment was opposed to it.

“’T will be a hard journey, wife,” he urged, “and little comfort we’re like to find at the end of it.  For me there can be no escape, but ’t is not necessary that ye should bear it, for ’t is to be hoped ye can live on at Greenwood, as ye have already.”

“We should suffer more, Lambert, in being separated from thee.”

“Oh, dadda, nothing could be worse than that,” cried Janice, her arms about his neck.

“Have your way, then,” finally acceded their lord and master.

This settled, they set about such preparations as were possible.  From Mr. Drinker a loan of five thousand dollars—­ equal to a hundred pounds, gold—­was secured, and a bargain struck with a farmer to bring from Greenwood such supplies of clothes as Mrs. Meredith wrote to Sukey to pack and send.  To most the prospect would not have been a cheering one, but after the last few days it seemed truly halcyon, and Janice was scarcely able to contain her happiness.  She poured her warmest gratitude and thanks out in a letter to Washington, which would have surprised him not a little had he ever received it, but the mail in which it went was captured, and it was a British officer in New York who ultimately read it.  Nor did this effusion satisfy her.

“Oh, mommy,” she joyfully bubbled, as they were preparing for bed, “was there ever a greater or nobler or kinder man than General Washington?”

And though the first frost of the season was forming crystals on the panes, she knelt down in her short night-rail on a lamb’s wool rug, so small that her little feet rested on the cold boards, and prayed for the general as he had probably never been prayed for,—­prayed until she was shivering so that her mother interfered and ordered her to come to bed.

Her prayers were far more needed by some one else.  From the commission of his wrong, Brereton made it a point to meet the post-rider as he trotted up to headquarters each afternoon, and on the third day after the action of the Governor, he found in the mail a letter which told him of the success of his trick.  While he was still reading, Colonel Hamilton came to him with a message that Washington desired his presence and, squaring his shoulders and setting his mouth as if in preparation for an ordeal, Jack hastened to obey, though, as he came to the closed doorway he hesitated for a moment before he knocked, much as if his courage failed him.