At length the peace-treaty was signed and ratified by Congress, the last winter of dire poverty went by and with the Spring the Colonies of America began the task of setting their affairs to rights and forming a new government. Many jealous eyes were watching them from across the seas, for all the world was saying that, though Americans might know how to fight for freedom they had no wisdom in the matter of keeping it. Their good friend France had helped them to win their battles, but she had no power to aid them now. Ah, how sorely was Stephen Sheffield missed at this crisis and how much he could have done to smooth the rough road of the blundering nation. Not only those nearest to him, but also many of the great men of the country mourned the fact that Stephen Sheffield’s calm, clear, tolerant mind could not assist in this great task.
Miles Atherton did not come back to Hopewell until the last company of soldiers had disbanded and until General Washington had gone back to Mount Vernon to become a plain country gentleman again, instead of the greatest man of his time. Then it was that Clotilde’s old play-fellow came back to sit with her in the garden once more, to tell her that he was to make one more journey, to explain hesitatingly that this was to be a momentous one indeed—in short to unfold the whole story of the Quaker Ladies.
“All through that terrible winter at Valley Forge,” he said as, little by little, she drew the tale from him, “the soldiers used to talk of some one whom they called the ‘little Quaker Lady.’ No one had ever seen her close, for she used to come like a little grey shadow, slipping past our outer lines and then running away into the dark again as though she were a ghost. But what she left behind was apt to be far from ghost-like, such baskets of wonderful good things, such fat capons, such eggs and butter and fresh cream cheese! You would have to be a half-starved soldier to realise what her gifts meant.”
“Well,” smiled Clotilde encouragingly, as Miles paused, “surely all your raptures are not merely concerning what she brought you to eat.”
“No,” he answered. “I was only thinking of how I began to tell you of this when I was here before, and of how my unwonted talkativeness betrayed me to Master Sheffield and how he laughed at me. I am glad now that he did guess my secret and that I have the memory of the good wishes that he gave me. No,” he went on, returning to his tale, “if it had not been for a chance happening, I would have had no raptures nor ever known more of the Quaker Lady than that her hens laid most wondrous fresh eggs.”