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The number and character of her guests had
greatly added to the cares of Miss Jeannette Peyton.
The morning had found them all restored,
in some measure, to their former ease of body,
with the exception of the youthful captain of dragoons,
who had been so deeply regretted by Dunwoodie.
The wound of this officer was severe,
though the surgeon persevered in saying that it
was without danger. His comrade, we have
shown, had deserted his couch; and Henry Wharton
awoke from a sleep that had been undisturbed
by any thing but a dream of suffering amputation
under the hands of a surgical novice. As it
proved, however, to be nothing but a dream, the
youth found himself much refreshed by his slumbers,
and Dr. Sitgreaves removed all further apprehensions,
by confidently pronouncing him a
well man within a fortnight.

During all this time Colonel Wellmere had not
made his appearance; he breakfasted in his own
room, and, notwithstanding certain significant
smiles of the man of science, declared himself too
much injured to rise from his bed. Leaving him.

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therefore, endeavouring to conceal his chagrin in
the solitude of his chamber, the surgeon proceeded
to the more grateful task of sitting an hour by the
bedside of George Singleton. A slight flush was on
the face of the patient as the doctor entered the
room, and he advanced promptly and laid his fingers
on the pulse of the youth, beckoning him to
be silent, while he filled the vacuum in the discourse,
by saying—

“Growing symptoms of a febrile pulse—no—
no, my dear George, you must remain quiet and
dumb; though your eyes look better, and your
skin has even a moisture.”

“Nay, my dear Sitgreaves,” said the youth,
taking his hand, “you see there is no fever about
me—look, is there any of Jack Lawton's hoarfrost
on my tongue?”

“No, indeed,” said the surgeon, clapping a
spoon in the mouth of the other, forcing it open,
and looking down his throat as if he was disposed
to visit his interior in person; “your tongue is
well, and your pulse begins to lower again. Ah!
the bleeding did you good. Phlebotomy is a sovereign
specific for southern constitutions. But
that mad-cap Lawton obstinately refused to be
blooded for a fall he had from his horse last
night. Why, George, your case is becoming singular,”
continued the doctor, instinctively throwing
aside his wig; “your pulse even and soft, your
skin moist, but your eye fiery, and cheek flushed.
Oh! I must examine more closely into these
symptoms.”

“Softly, my good friend, softly,” said the
youth, falling back on his pillow, and losing some
of that colour which alarmed his companion; “I
believe in extracting the ball you did for me all
that is required. I am free from pain, and only
weak, I do assure you.”

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“Captain Singleton,” said the surgeon with
heat, “it is presumptuous in you to pretend to tell
your medical attendant when you are free from
pain; if it be not to enable us to decide in such
matters, of what avails the lights of science? for
shame, George, for shame; even that perverse
fellow, John Lawton, could not behave with more
obstinacy.”

His patient smiled as he gently repulsed his
physician in an attempt to undo the bandages,
and with a returning glow to his cheeks, inquired—

“Do, Archibald,” a term of endearment that
seldom failed to soften the operator's heart, “tell
me what spirit from heaven has been gliding
around my apartment, while I lay pretending to
sleep, but a few minutes before you entered.”

“If any one interferes with my patients,” cried
the doctor hastily, “I will teach them, spirit or
no spirit, what it is to meddle with another man's
concerns.”

“Tut—my dear fellow,” replied the wounded
man with a faint smile, “there was no interference
made, nor any intended; see,” exhibiting
the bandages, “every thing is as you left it—
but it glided about the room with the grace of a
fairy, and the tenderness of an angel.”

The surgeon, having satisfied himself that every
thing was as he had left it, very deliberately resumed
his seat and replaced his wig, as he inquired,
with a brevity that would have honoured Lieutenant
Mason—

“Had it petticoats, George?”

“I saw nothing but its heavenly eyes—its bloom—
its majestic step—its grace;” replied the young
man, with rather more ardor than his surgeon
thought consistent with his debilitated condition,

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and he laid his hand on his mouth, to stop him;
saying himself—

“It must have been Miss Jeannette Peyton—a
lady of fine accomplishments, with—with—hem—
with something of the kind of step you speak of—
a very complacent eye; and as to the bloom, I
dare say offices of charity can summon as fine a
colour to her cheeks, as glows in the faces of her
more youthful nieces.”

“Nieces!” said the invalid; “has she nieces
then? Oh, the angel I saw may be a daughter, a
sister, or a niece, but never an aunt.”

“Hush, George, hush, your talking has brought
your pulse up again; you must observe quiet,
and prepare for a meeting with your own sister,
who will be here within an hour.”

“What, Isabella! and who sent for her?”

“The major,” said the surgeon drily.

“Kind, considerate Dunwoodie,” murmured
the exhausted youth, sinking again on his pillow;
where the commands of his attendant compelled
him to continue in silence.

Even Captain Lawton had been received with
many and courteous inquiries after the state of his
health, from all the members of the family when
he made his morning entrance; but an invisible
spirit presided over the comforts of the English
colonel. Sarah had shrunk with retiring delicacy
from entering the room; yet she knew the position
of every glass, and had, with her own hands,
supplied the contents of every bowl, that stood on
his well furnished table.

At the time of which we write we were a divided
people, and Sarah thought it was no more
than her right to cherish the institutions of that
country to which she yet clung as the land of her
forefathers: but there were other, and more cogent
reasons for the silent preference she was

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giving to the Englishman. His image had first
filled the void in her youthful fancy, and it was an
image that was distinguished by many of those
attractions that can enchain a female heart. It is
true, he wanted the graceful and lofty stature of
Peyton Dunwoodie, his commanding brow, his
speaking eye, and his clear and comprehensive
diction; but his skin was fair, his cheeks coloured,
and his teeth no less white than those which shone
in the fascinating smile of the young Virginian.
Sarah had moved round the house during the
morning, casting frequent and longing glances at
the door of Wellmere's apartment, anxious to
learn the condition of his wounds, and yet ashamed
to inquire: conscious interest kept her tongue tied,
until her sister, with the frankness of innocence,
had put the desired question to Dr. Sitgreaves.

“Colonel Wellmere,” said the operator gravely,
“is in what I call a state of free-will, madam.
He is ill, or he is well, as he pleases; his case,
young lady, exceeds my art to heal; and I take it,
Sir Henry Clinton is the best adviser he can apply
to: though Major Dunwoodie has made the
communication with his leech rather difficult.”

Frances smiled archly, but averted her face to
do so, while Sarah moved haughtily, and with the
stately grace of an offended Juno, from the apartment.
Her own room, however, afforded her but
little to relieve her thoughts, and in passing through
the long gallery that communicated with each of
the chambers of the building, she noticed the door
of Singleton's room to be open. The wounded
youth seemed sleeping, and was alone. Sarah
ventured lightly into the apartment, and busied
herself for a few minutes in arranging the tables,
and nourishment provided for the patient, hardly
conscious of what she was doing, and possibly
dreaming that it was done for another. The

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natural bloom of her cheek was heightened by the
insinuation of the surgeon, and the lustre of her
eye was by no means diminished from the same
cause. The sound of the approaching footsteps
of Sitgreaves had hastened her retreat through
another door, and down a private stair-way to the
side of her sister. Together they sought the fresh
air on the piazza to the cottage, and they pursued
their walk arm in arm, holding the following dialogue—

“There is something disagreeable about this
surgeon, Dunwoodie has honoured us with,” said
Sarah, “that causes me to wish him away, most
heartily.”

Frances fixed her laughing eyes on her sister,
who, meeting their playful glance as they turned
in their walk, blushed yet deeper than before as
she added hastily; “but I forget he is one of this
renowned corps of Virginians, and as such must be
spoken reverently of.”

“As respectfully as you please, my dear sister,”
returned Frances mildly; “there is but little danger
of your exceeding the truth.”

“Not in your opinion,” said the elder with a
little warmth; “but I think Mr. Dunwoodie has
taken a liberty that exceeds the rights of consanguinity;
he has made our father's house an hospital.”

“We ought to be grateful,” replied the younger
in a low voice, “that none of the patients it contains
are dearer to us.”

“Your brother is one,” said Sarah laconically.

“True, true,” interrupted Frances hastily, and
blushing to the eyes; “but he leaves his room,
and thinks his wound lightly purchased by the
pleasure of being with his friends—if,” she added
with a tremulous lip, “this dreadful suspicion that

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is affixed to his visit were removed, I could feel
his wound as nothing.”

“You now have the fruits of rebellion brought
home to you,” said Sarah, moving across the piazza
with something more than her ordinary stateliness;
“a brother wounded and a prisoner, and
perhaps a victim; your father distressed, his privacy
interrupted, and not improbably his estates
torn from him on account of his loyalty to his
king.”

Frances continued her walk in silence. While
facing the northern entrance to the vale, her eye
was uniformly fastened on the point where the
road was suddenly lost by the intervention of a
hill; and at each turn, as she lost sight of the
spot, she lingered until an impatient movement of
her sister quickened her pace to an even motion
with that of the other. At length, a single horse
chaise was seen making its way carefully among
the stones which lay scattered over the country
road that wound through the valley, and approached
the cottage. Frances lost her brilliancy of
colour as the vehicle gradually drew nigher, and
when she was enabled to see a female form in it
by the side of a liveried black who held the reins,
her limbs shook with an agitation that compelled
her to lean on Sarah for support. In a few minutes
the travellers approached the gate, and it
was thrown open by a dragoon who had followed
the carriage, and who had been the messenger
despatched by Dunwoodie to the father of Captain
Singleton. Miss Peyton advanced to receive
their guest, and the sisters united in giving her the
kindest welcome; still Frances could with difficulty
withdraw her truant eyes from reading the
countenance of the visitor. She was young, of a
light and fragile form, yet of exquisite proportions;
but it was in her eye that her greatest charm

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existed; it was large, full, black, piercing, and at
times a little wild. Her hair was luxuriant, and
without the powder it was then the fashion to
wear, but shone in its own, glossy, raven, blackness.
A few of its locks had fallen on her cheek,
giving its chilling whiteness by the contrast yet a
more deadly character. Dr. Sitgreaves supported
her from the chaise, and when she gained the
floor of the piazza, she turned her expressive eye
on the face of the practitioner in silence; but it
spoke all that she wished to say—

“Your brother is out of danger, and wishes to
see you, Miss Singleton,” said the surgeon in reply
to her look.

For an instant the lady clasped her hands with
energy, rolled her dark eyes to heaven, while a
slight flush, like the last reflected tinge of the setting
sun, beamed on her features, and she gave
vent to her feelings in a flood of tears. Frances
had stood contemplating the action and face of
Isabella with a kind of uneasy admiration, but she
now sprang to her side with the ardor of a sister,
and kindly drawing her arm in her own, led the
way to a retired room. The movement was so
ingenuous, so considerate, and so delicate, that
even Miss Peyton withheld her interference, following
the youthful pair with only her eyes and a
smile of complacency. The feeling was communicated
to all the spectators, and they dispersed
in pursuit of their usual avocations. Isabella
yielded to the gentle influence of Frances without
resistance, and having gained the room where the
latter conducted her, wept in silence on the shoulder
of the observant and soothing maiden, until
Frances thought her tears exceeded the emotion
natural to the occasion. The sobs of Miss Singleton
for a time were violent and uncontroulable,
until with an evident exertion she yielded to a

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kind observation of her companion, and succeeded
in suppressing her tears: raising her face to the
eyes of Frances, she rose, while a smile of beautiful
radiance passed over her features, made a
hasty apology for the excess of her emotion, and
desired to be conducted to the room of her brother.

The meeting between the brother and sister
was warm, but, by an effort on the part of the lady,
more composed than her previous agitation had
given reason to expect. Isabella found her brother
looking better, and in less danger than her
sensitive imagination had led her to suppose, and
her spirits rose in proportion; from despondency
she passed to something like gayety; her beautiful
eyes sparkled with renovated brilliancy, and
her face was lighted with smiles so fascinating,
that Frances, who, in compliance with her earnest
intreaties, had accompanied her to the sick chamber,
sat gazing on a countenance that possessed
such wonderful variability, as if impelled by a
charm that was beyond her control. The youth
had thrown an earnest look at Frances as soon
as his sister had raised herself from his arms, and
perhaps it was the first glance at the lovely lineaments
of the maiden, where the gazer turned his
eyes from the view in disappointment; pausing a
moment, during which the wandering eyes of Singleton
were bent on the open door of the room,
he said, as he took the hand of his sister affectionately—

“And where is Dunwoodie, Isabella? he is
never weary of kind actions. After a day of such
service as that of yesterday, he has spent the night
in bringing me a nurse, whose presence alone is
able to raise me from my couch.”

The expression of the lady's countenance
changed instantly; her eye roved round the apartment
with a character of wildness in it that

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repelled the anxious maiden, who studied her movements
with intensity of interest, as forcibly as the
moment before it had attracted her; while the
sister answered with a trembling emotion—

“Dunwoodie! is he then not here? with me
he has not been: I thought to have met him by the
side of my brother's bed.”

“He has duties that require his presence elsewhere;
yes, these English are said to be out by
the way of the Hudson, and give the light troops
but little rest,” said the brother musing; “surely
nothing else could have kept him so long from a
wounded friend; but, Isabella, the meeting has
been too much for you; you tremble like an aspen.”

Isabella made no reply, but stretched forth her
hand towards the table which held the nourishment
of the captain, and the attentive Frances
comprehended her wishes in a moment; a glass
of water in some measure revived the sister, who,
smiling faintly, was enabled to say—

“Doubtless it is his duty. 'Twas said above, a
royal party was moving on the river; though I
passed the troops but a short two miles from this
spot.” The latter part of the sentence was hardly
audible, and spoken more in the manner of a
soliloquy than as if intended for the ears of her
companions.

“On the march, Isabella?” eagerly inquired
her brother.

“No, dismounted, and seemingly at rest,” was
the reply, in the same abstracted manner as before.

The wondering brother turned his gaze on the
countenance of his sister, who sat with her full,
black eye bent on the carpet in unconscious absence,
but found no explanation. His look was
changed to the face of Frances, who, startling with

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the earnestness of his expression, arose, and hastily
inquired if he would have any assistance.

“If, madam, you can pardon the rudeness,”
said the wounded officer, making a feeble effort
to raise his body, “I would request to have Captain
Lawton's company for a moment.”

Frances hastened instantly to communicate his
wish to that gentleman, and impelled by an anxious
interest she could not control, returned again to
her seat by the side of Miss Singleton.

“Lawton,” said the youth impatiently as the
trooper entered, “hear you from the major?”

The eye of the sister was now bent on the
face of the trooper, who made his salutations to
the lady with the ease of a gentleman, blended
with the frankness of a soldier, and answered—

“His man has been here twice to inquire how
we fared in the Lazaretto.”

“And why not himself?” said the other quickly.

“Ah! that is a question the major can answer
best himself,” returned the dragoon drily; “but
you know the red coats are abroad, and Dunwoodie
commands in the county; these English
must be looked to.”

“True,” said Singleton slowly, as if struck
with the other's reasons; “but how is it that you
are idle when there is work to do?”

“My sword arm is not in the best condition,
and Roanoke has a dreadfully shambling gait this
morning,” said the trooper with a shrug; “besides
there is another reason I could mention, if
it were not that Miss Wharton would never forgive
me.”

“Speak, I beg, sir, without dread of my displeasure,”
said Frances, withdrawing her eyes from
the countenance of Miss Singleton, and returning

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the good-humoured smile of the trooper with the
natural archness of her own lovely face.

“The odours of your kitchen, then,” cried Lawton
bluntly, “forbid my quitting the domains, until
I qualify myself to speak with more certainty
concerning the fatness of the land.”

“Oh! aunt Jeannette is exerting herself to do
credit to my father's hospitality,” said the laughing
maid, “and I am a truant from her labours, as
I shall be a stranger to her favour unless I proffer
my assistance.”

After making a proper apology to the stranger,
Frances withdrew to seek her aunt, musing deeply
on the character and extreme sensibility of the
new acquaintance chance had brought to the cottage.

The wounded officer followed her with his eyes,
as her lovely figure moved with infantile grace
through the door of his apartment, and as she vanished
from his view, observed—

“Such an aunt and niece are seldom to be met
with, Jack; this seems a fairy, but the aunt is angelic.”

“Ah! George, you are doing well, I see,” said
the trooper; “your enthusiasm holds its own.”

“I should be ungrateful as well as insensible
did I not bear testimony to the loveliness of Miss
Peyton.”

“A good motherly lady,” said the dragoon
drily; “but as to love, you know that is a matter
of taste. I think a few years younger, with deference
to the sex,” bowing to Miss Singleton,
“would accord better with my fancy.”

“She must be under twenty,” said the other
quickly.

“Oh, doubtless, about nineteen,” said Lawton
with extreme gravity; “yet she looks a trifle
older.”

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