“’T was not that of which I am apprehensive, but when I wrote to General Brereton, and besought his aid, I promised that I would wed him if he would but save you, and—­and, oh, dadda, please be not angry with me, but I—­I feel I must fulfil my pledge, if he asks it of me.”

“And how of your promise—­and mine—­to Phil?”

“I came to you, ere seeking to see him, to explain—­”

The squire shook his head doubtingly.  “I can’t lay blame on ye, Jan, since I owe my very life to what ye did.  Yet ’t is bitter to me to break faith with Philemon.”

“I feel as guilty, dadda, but I think he will be generous, and give us back our promise, when I tell him all the facts.”

“And ’t is nigh as hard,” went on the father, “to think of letting ye wed General Brereton, though I do owe my life to him.”

“Ah, dadda, you will not punish him for the wrong his parents did him?”

“’T is not that, Jan, but because he is a rebel to—­”

The girl gave a little laugh, as if a weight were taken from her thoughts, and she flung her arms about her father’s neck and kissed him.  “Why, dadda,” she cried, with the old roguishness, “how can he be a rebel, now that they’ve won?”

The squire pulled a wry look.  “Little I dreamed I’d ever break faith, or make friends of the enemies of my king, but the times are disloyal, and I suppose one must go with them.  If ye can persuade Phil to release us, Jan, have your way.”

Again his daughter kissed him, but this time tenderly, with all the archness gone.  “Thank you, dadda, for yielding,” she said, “for ’t would have been horrible to me had you not.”

The squire kissed her in return.  “Better one rebel in the family than two,” he responded with a laugh, which suggested that whatever his compunctions, he knew at heart that the outcome was for the best, and was already reconciled to it.  “Thou ’rt too good a lass, Jan, to make into more of a rebel than this same Brereton will no doubt make thee.”

“He’ll make no rebel of me to my darling dadda, that I promise,” asserted Janice, joyfully.

Mr. Meredith laughed still more heartily.  “I’ll rest content if ye don’t declare independence of your old dad, and allegiance to him, within one month of marriage, Jan.”

As he ended, came a knock on the door and an officer entered.  “His Excellency directs me to say, Miss Meredith,” he announced, “that the provost-marshal has orders to bring Colonel Hennion to you, whenever you are ready to see him.”

“I’ll see him now,” replied the girl.

“Poor lad!” lamented the squire.

“Oh, dadda, what can I say to him?” grieved Janice.

“I know not, lass,” replied the father, as he hastened to leave the room.

It was a hard interview the girl had with Colonel Hennion, but she went through with it bravely, telling all the circumstances.  “’T is not merely that I owe him the fulfilment of the promise I made him before that to you was given, Phil,” Janice ended, “but though I thought my love for him was dead, the moment I heard of how he had risked life and station to spare me grief; I—­I—­” There she ceased speaking, but her eyes and cheeks told eloquently what her tongue refused to put in words.