_Quaker_. I will.

_Mr. Secord_ (_rising and taking his crutch_).
I'll walk a piece with you, friend Penn,
And see you past the lines.

[_His little daughter_, HARRIET, _hands him his hat_.

_Quaker_. That's right, 'twill do thee good:
Thy wounds have left thee like an ailing girl,
So poor and pale.

[_Exeunt_ Quaker _and_ MR. SECORD.

_Charlotte_. Oh, dear, I wish I were a man, to fight
In such brave times as these!

_Enter_ MARY, _a girl of fourteen_.

_Mary_. Were wishing aught
Soon should another sword strike for the King,
And those dear rights now rudely overlooked.

_Mrs. Secord_. My child?

_Mary_. Oh naught, mamma, save the old tale: no nook
That's not invaded, even one's books
Borrowed without one's leave. I hate it all!