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A Little Girl in Old Philadelphia

by Amanda M. Douglas · English · Gutenberg #28648 · 589,322 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: A Little Girl in Old Philadelphia

Author: Amanda M. Douglas


        
Release date: April 30, 2009 [eBook #28648]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/28648

Credits: E-text prepared by Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, J. P. W. Fraser, Josephine Paolucci,


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD PHILADELPHIA ***


E-text prepared by Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, J. P. W. Fraser, Josephine
Paolucci, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
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A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD PHILADELPHIA

by

AMANDA M. DOUGLAS







[Illustration]

A. L. Burt Company
Publishers      New York

Copyright, 1890,
by
Dodd, Mead and Company.




TO MR. AND MRS. HENRY HORTON LAWRENCE.

The early youth of an old town has a certain simplicity like the youth
of human life. Its struggles, its romance, its unfolding come down
through the earnest hands that have labored for its welfare and left
imperishable monuments. To the legacies of remembrances you have had
handed down to you, I add this little story of a long ago time, a posy
culled from quaint gardens.

              _With sincere regard_,

                  AMANDA M. DOUGLAS.

NEWARK, N.J., 1899.




CONTENTS.


CHAPTER                                       PAGE

I.     HERE AND THERE,                           1

II.    BESSY WARDOUR,                           14

III.   IN A NEW WORLD,                          29

IV.    OF MANY THINGS,                          44

V.     A BOULEVERSEMENT,                        58

VI.    TO THE RESCUE,                           74

VII.   AT SOME CROSSROADS,                      87

VIII.  A LITTLE REBEL,                         104

IX.    FATE TO THE FORE,                       122

X.     TO TURN AND FIGHT,                      134

XI.    A RIFT OF SUSPICION,                    150

XII.   TRUE TO HER COLORS,                     167

XIII.  UNDER THE ROSE,                         183

XIV.   FOR NATIVE LAND AND LOYALTY,            200

XV.    PARTING,                                215

XVI.   LOVE AND TRUE LOVE,                     231

XVII.  MID WAR'S ALARMS,                       238

XVIII. WHOM SHALL SHE PITY,                    264

XIX.   MIDNIGHT TIDINGS OF GREAT JOY,          279

XX.    WHEN THE WORLD WENT WELL,               297

XXI.   AN APRIL GIRL,                          312

XXII.  POLLY AND PHIL,                         330

XXIII. PRIMROSE,                               342

XXIV.  THE OLD AND THE NEW,                    364





A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD PHILADELPHIA.




CHAPTER I.

HERE AND THERE.


She was swinging her gingham sunbonnet, faded beyond any recognition of
its pristine coloring, her small hand keeping tight hold of the strings.
At every revolution it went swifter and swifter until it seemed a
grayish sort of wheel whirling in the late sunshine that sent long
shadows among the trees. When she let it go it flew like a great bird,
while she laughed sweet, merry childish notes that would have stirred
almost any soul. A slim, lithe little maid with a great crop of yellow
hair, cut short in the neck, and as we should say now, banged across the
forehead. But it was a mass of frowzy curls that seemed full of
sunshine.

With two or three quick leaps she captured it again and was just
preparing for her next swirl.

"Primrose! Primrose! I think thee grows more disorderly every day. What
caper is this? Look at these strings, they are like a twisted rope. And
if thy bonnet had gone into the pond! For that matter it needs the
washtub."

Primrose laughed again and then broke it in the in the middle with a
funny little sound, and glanced at the tall woman beside her, who was
smoothing out the strings with sundry pinches.

"Certainly thou art a heedless girl! What thou wilt be----" She checked
herself. "Come at once to the kitchen. Wash thy face and hands and comb
out that nest of frowze. Let me see"--surveying her. "Thou must have a
clean pinafore. And dust thy shoes."

Primrose followed Aunt Lois in a spell of wonderment. The scolding was
not severe, but it was generally followed by some sort of punishment. A
clean pinafore, too! To be set on a high stool and study a Psalm, or be
relegated to bread and water, and, oh! she was suddenly hungry. Down in
the orchard were delicious ripe apples lying all about the ground. Why
had she not gone and taken her fill?

She scrubbed her face with her small hands until Aunt Lois said, "That
is surely enough." Then she wet her hair and tugged at the tangles, but
as for getting it straight that was out of the question. All this time
Aunt Lois stood by silent, with her soft gray eyes fixed on the culprit,
until Prim felt she must scream and run away.

The elder turned to a chest of drawers and took out an apron of homespun
blue-and-white check, a straight, bag-like garment with plain armholes
and a cord run in at the neck. A bit of tape was quite a luxury, as it
had to be imported, while one could twist cords, fine or coarse, at
home.

"Your Aunt Wetherill's housekeeper is in the next room. She has come
hither to give notice. Next week will be the time to go in town."

"Oh, Aunt Lois! Aunt Lois!" Primrose buried her face in the elder's
gown. A curious yearning passed over the placid countenance, followed by
a stronger one of repression, and she unclasped the clinging hands.

"It is a misfortune, as I have ever said, and there will be just
shifting hither and yon, until thou art eighteen, a long way off. It
makes thee neither fish nor fowl, for what is gained in one six months
is upset in the next. But thy mother would have it so."

Primrose made no further protest, but swallowed over a great lump in her
throat and winked hard. What she longed to do was to jump up and down
and declare she would not go, in a tone that would reach the town
itself. Even well-trained children had unregenerate impulses, but
self-control was one of the early rules impressed upon childhood, the
season and soil in which virtues were supposed to take root and flourish
most abundantly.

There were two doors opening from this kitchen to a small hall, from
thence to the ordinary living room, and a smaller one adjoining, used
for a sort of parlor, as we should call it now, a kind of state room
where the Friends often held meetings. It was very plain indeed. There
were straight white curtains at the windows, without a bit of fringe or
netting. Women used to make these adornments as a kind of fancy work,
but the rigid rules of the Friends discountenanced all such employments,
even if it was to improve odd moments. There was no carpet on the floor,
which was scrubbed to spotlessness; chairs of oaken frame, bent, and
polished by the busy housewife until they shone, with seats of broad
splint or rushes painted yellow. A large set of drawers with several
shelves on top stood between the windows, and a wooden settle was ranged
along the wall. A table with a great Bible and two or three religious
books, and a high mantel with two enormous pitchers that glittered in a
brilliant color which was called British luster, with a brass snuffers
and tray and candlesticks, were the only concession to the spirit of
worldliness.

Primrose entered with a lagging step behind her aunt. There sat Mistress
Janice Kent in her riding habit of green cloth faced with red silk, and
a habit shirt of the same color just showing at the neck where the
lapels crossed. Her hat was wound around with a green veil, and her
gauntlet gloves were of yellow buckskin broidered with black. In one
hand she still held her riding whip. A somewhat airy but
dignified-looking person with dark, rather sharp eyes, and dark hair;
and a considerable amount of color, heightened now by the rapid
exercise.

"Mercy of me! The child has grown mightily!" she exclaimed. "Indeed,
there will not be a thing fit for her to wear! Madam Wetherill was
considering that, and has sent for new measurements. With the last
vessel in, has come lots of choice stuffs of every kind, and the maid
has already fallen to work. How do you do, Mistress Primrose? Rose would
better become such a blossoming maid without the Prim," and she laughed
gayly, as if pleased with her conceit. "Come hither, child; do not be
afraid. There, I'll lay my whip on the floor. It has a threatening look,
I will admit, yet 'tis a harmless thing without the owner's hand. I am
sent to measure thee, Mistress Rose, and to announce that next Wednesday
the chaise will be sent out for you, with perhaps Madam Wetherill.
Meanwhile we shall be making ready to transform you from a sober gray
Friend to a gay young damsel. It is a pity you are not older. There
will be great doings this winter."

Lois Henry's face settled into sterner lines. It was a sweet and
peaceful face, rendered so by some discipline and much freedom from
care. For the Friends made small efforts to shine in society, and at
this period there were few calls upon charity or even sympathy. James
Henry was a prosperous farmer, and the style of living simple. Fair as
to complexion, rather aquiline in features, with blue-gray eyes and
nearly straight brows, her soft hair drawn back from her forehead and
gathered under a plain cap with a frill a little full at the sides and
scant across the top, a half square of white linen crossed over her
bosom, a gray homespun gown reaching barely to the ankles, with blue
homeknit stockings and stout low shoes with a black buckle on the top,
Lois Henry was a fine sample of a Quaker gentlewoman.

"There are many things to life beside gayety," she said rather severely.
"And such a child hath much that is useful to learn."

"Oh, we have a tutor in the house, Madam Wetherill's two cousins will
spend the winter in town, Miss Betty Randolph from Virginia, and Martha
Johns from some western county. There will be lessons on the spinet and
in dancing."

Mistress Kent gave a little smile of malice and a jaunty toss to her
head.

"The child needs nothing of that since she comes back to us and plainer
living. She reads well and is not slow in figures. I shall see that she
is instructed in all housewifely ways, but it is ill making headway when
the tide runs down the stream."

Lois Henry really sighed then. She did hate to have her six months'
labor and interest come to naught. She longed to snatch the child from
these paths of temptation, for now, as she was growing older, they might
be more alluring.

"Come hither, little one, and let me measure you. My, but you have grown
tall, and keep slim, so there will be less for stays to do. 'As the twig
is bent,' you know," laughing and showing her even teeth, of which she
was very proud. "And a fine figure is a great advantage. Your hands are
not ill-kept, I see."

They were tanned, but dimpled, with tapering fingers and rosy nails, and
the skin fine and soft.

"Hands are for use and not ornament. Thou art to do with thy might
whatsoever comes in thy way."

"True, Friend Henry. But a clean room may abound in virtue as well as an
untidy one. And a well-kept person surely is no sin. Put off your shoe,
child. Ah, you have a slim foot, though no one would think it, to see
the shoe."

She had been taking measurements and putting figures on an ivory tablet
that she slipped into a cloth pocket hanging at her side.

"I have the necessary requirements, I believe, and the maid can have a
few things in order. We will send in on Wednesday. That is the date
appointed, Friend Henry."

She picked up her whip with an airy grace, and stood tall and straight,
her habit falling around her feet.

"Now I will bid you good-day, though it is almost evening. Do not look
so sober, little Rose, but then we will soon have smiles displacing the
Quaker gravity, which ill beseems young people. Friend Henry, why do
your community consider smiling sinful when it is so pretty and comes
from a merry heart? A man who went about to commit murder would scarcely
smile, methinks."

"'The laughter of fools is as the crackling of thorns under a pot,'" was
the somewhat severe answer.

"One need not break out into silly giggling," was the rather tart reply.
"I abhor that myself. But a smile on a child's face is much to be
preferred to a frown. 'And a merry heart doeth good like a medicine.'"

"'Children,' saith the wise man, 'are to be brought up in the fear and
admonition of the Lord.'"

"Ah, well! luckily there are many rules and opinions in the world.
Good-by, Rose-blossom. Next week we will welcome thee at Wetherill
House."

Primrose followed her aunt to the door. There were Mistress Kent's horse
and the black servant, who respectfully touched his hat and assisted his
mistress to mount, then sprang on his own steed, and with a wave of the
hand and a nodding of the veil she cantered away.

"Next week! Why, Aunt Lois, how near it is! I had forgotten," Primrose
exclaimed breathlessly.

"It would be a most excellent thing if thou wert allowed to forget
altogether. This continual changing works ill. Now go and stir the meal
and feed those late chicks. Put in some of the cracked corn for the
mother hen."

Primrose went at once, though she was eager to ask about the promised
journey, but the habit of repression was strong upon her, and obedience
to the letter was exacted from children at that period. It must have
been a halcyon time for mothers when a child never ventured to ask why.

Friend Henry went out to the kitchen again. It was a great room with a
wide fireplace and a crane that accommodated two kettles. An iron baking
pot stood in a bed of coals, with a plentiful supply on the cover. The
black woman came and gave it a push partly around, with the tongs, so
that the farthest side should have the benefit of the blaze.

There were even then many Friends who owned slaves, indeed most of the
servants were of African descent. The feelings and beliefs of
Philadelphia were more in consonance with the settlements farther south,
than those to the north of them. But the Henrys held slavery in
abhorrence, and hired their servants. Lois Henry kept but one woman, and
she was quite superior to the average of her race; indeed, like her
mistress, was of the persuasion of Friends.

The two women busied themselves about the supper. If Friends were plain
in their household adornments and attire, they did not stint in food nor
the trouble of preparing it.

Primrose fed the two late broods whose mothers had stolen their nests
and brought off their families in great triumph. One had thirteen, the
other eleven. Their mothers ran cheerfully to the coops and called their
progeny. When the families were within, Primrose took up the slatted
door and fastened it down with a stake and shut up the peeping things so
busy with their supper.

As she was loitering on the way back, she saw her uncle and cousin
Andrew talking eagerly. Did they know she was going away next week? She
ran forward and Andrew turned to her with a smile, while his father
talked on.

She clasped his hands in hers so warm and soft. His were brawny and
hard, but he was a great fellow and he looked down with a kindly,
protective air.

"Oh, do you know Aunt Wetherill has sent over, and----"

"Yes," slowly, "we knew it was time. Madam Wetherill does not forget
easily."

"Primrose!" called her aunt.

She hastened to the kitchen, rinsed out her dipper, and hung it up.
Uncle Henry was washing his hands and Chloe was taking up the hot bread
and dishing the stewed chicken. Oh, how delightfully appetizing the
fragrance was! And she was so glad not to have forfeited her right to
the supper.

"Come to the table," said Aunt Lois.

The four heads were bowed reverently. There was not much talking at meal
time. Aunt Lois was ever afraid of idle words and vain babbling. Uncle
James had a good, hearty appetite, as became his size and strength, and
generally occupied himself in ministering to it. Children in Quaker
households--indeed, in nearly all others--had the wise old adage dinned
into their ears that they were to be seen and not heard, and they also
understood that they were to be seen as little as possible.

When the supper was ended Primrose went out to the kitchen and dried the
teacups, of which Aunt Lois was quite choice, and the silver
heirlooms--the teaspoons her grandmother had brought from old England.

Friend Dunscomb was coming up the path. That meant an evening in the
best room with Uncle James and Aunt Lois. There were many agitating
subjects to talk about in these days. Primrose walked out of the kitchen
door and around the path, sending a long, dubious glance in the
direction of her new home.

Six months ago she had left it. How queer to be divided up in this way.
She had felt lonely at Wetherill House, and missed her mother sadly. To
be sure it was winter, and here on the farm it was glowing, golden
summer. She had not known the dreariness of a long winter here. There
were so many enchanting things, so much life and joy and beauty. In a
vague way it thrilled her, even if she did not understand. There were
rambles in the lanes, and the orchard where she could climb trees; there
was luscious fruit in which she was never stinted. Rides behind Cousin
Andrew on Jack, and going to market, as a rare treat, with Uncle James,
learning to spin on the little wheel, stealing away to the old garret
and reading some forgotten, time-stained books that she dared not ask
about. Sometimes she had a misgiving of conscience, but no one ever
inquired about them, or what she did up there.

Andrew came out and took a seat under the old apple tree. She ran down
to him.

"Andrew, why must I go to Aunt Wetherill's every six months?" she asked.

He glanced at her in a slow, irresolute fashion.

"I must go again next week. It is like a ball being tossed back and
forth. I--I didn't quite like it. I would rather stay here."

"I'm glad of that." He passed his arm around her and gave her a gentle
hug.

"But why must I go?" impatiently.

"It was thy mother's will. Madam Wetherill was her dearest cousin, like
a mother to her. Thou art too young to understand."

"But my mother is dead this long while." There was a sound of perplexity
in the youthful voice.

"Yes. It is hard to explain to thee, and a child should not be thinking
of money. Thy father appointed mine guardian of thee. Then the Wardours,
thy mother's people, left her some fortune, and as thy father was dead
she made her will as she pleased."

"Is a will such a very bad thing, Cousin Andrew?" she inquired in a
timid voice. She had heard much talk through the winter of governing and
restraining the will until it had become a sort of personality to her,
and connected solely with a state of grace, another vague territory.

He smiled. "This is not----" How could he explain it to her
comprehension? He had only the plainest sort of education. For though it
was true that many of the earliest Friends were versed in worldly
knowledge, they had grown more restricted in their narrower lives in the
new country. And on the farms there were not many advantages. Perhaps he
could mend her confusion of mind in another fashion. "When one has some
property or money and desires to give it to another, he or she states
the wish in writing before witnesses. And the law makes this intention
respected. This is too grave a matter for a child's understanding, but
thy mother and Madam Wetherill planned this. When my father protested,
this compromise, I think they call it, was decided upon."

Primrose was not much used to long words. Most of the Friends kept to
brief, concise Saxon.

"A compromise? Is that why I am changed about so? What queer names
things have! I like better living straight along. And I was much
frightened last winter. But there were two little girls in the next
place, and I should have been sorry enough to leave them, only they were
going to England to be educated."

Andrew remembered there was some talk of sending her to England, where
she had a half-brother, but that was not on the mother's side.

"Cannot something be done with this wicked compromise? I should like to
stay here. Andrew, I love you better than anyone in the wide world."

Andrew hugged her up close and gave a soft sigh. He could remember two
little girls sleeping in the Friends' burying ground. One would have
been seventeen now, and had stayed with them five years, dying the night
her sister was born. He had believed it was little Lois come in a new
baby body. And after three brief years she, too, had gone to the other
country. His mother had been graver ever since; more self-contained,
more spiritual, the Friends said.

This little girl, whom they had seen occasionally in her mother's life,
had crept into his heart during her six months' stay and he hated to let
her go. He was so fond of all young and helpless things. The lambs, the
tiny chickens, and the calves appealed to him strongly as they looked
out of asking eyes, it seemed to him. He was beginning to chafe under
the colorless, repressed life about him, and the little girl had been a
great outlet for his affection, though much of it had been nursed in
secret.

"I do not know what can be done, if anything," he said in answer to her
question. "But I am truly sorry. I love thee dearly, Primrose. I wish
thou wert my sister."

He bent over and kissed the soft, fragrant child lips. Oh, how sweet
they were! Was such tenderness reprehensible? He was beginning to think
of love and marriage as strong, heartsome youth will, but, strange to
say, the young woman his father approved of was not at all to his
liking. He was nearing man's estate, and though he labored with himself
to repress what he knew would be considered lawless desires, they
returned again and again. And how much he should long for the sweetness
of this little girl.

She put her arms up around his neck and her soft, caressing fingers
seemed to play with his very heart strings. Oh, how dear she was! And
her new life would be so different. Madam Wetherill rather flouted the
Friends with what she called their drab religion.

"Primrose! Primrose!" called the curiously soft voice of Chloe, that had
a different accent from the habitual evenness of the real Quaker tone.
"Where is the child!"

"Here! here! I am coming." She gave Andrew one long, tender kiss and
then walked rapidly to the kitchen porch.

"Thee should have been in bed with the chickens. Go at once. The moon is
coming up and thou wilt need no light. Forget not thy prayers. Mistress
Janice is an emissary of the evil one that thou must resist."

Primrose went up to her chamber under the eaves in a state of half
terror and restrained rebellion.




CHAPTER II.

BESSY WARDOUR.


It was a rather curious tangle, as Primrose Henry was to learn
afterward. Philemon Henry was older than his brother James, and in trade
in the city that William Penn had planned and founded in an orderly
manner. And though it is the common belief that Philadelphia was born at
right angles and on a level, at its early inception there was much
diversity to it. Creeks swept it in many directions, and there were
hills and submerged lands waiting for the common sense of man to fill up
and hew down the romance. Even before Revolutionary times there was much
business on the wharves of the Delaware, and many men owned trading
ships and warehouses. And though England had made no end of bothersome
and selfish restrictions as to trade, men had found ways to evade them;
at some peril, it is true, but that added zest.

Philemon Henry was tolerably successful in his undertakings and adhered
to the faith of William Penn, even if his own son afterward went astray.
He married an Englishwoman of good descent, who had left her native land
with a company of Friends for the sake of the larger liberty. The fine,
stalwart Quaker had soon attracted her, and with him she spent three
years of happy married life, when she died, leaving a baby boy of little
more than a year old. A goodly housekeeper came to care for them, and
the boy throve finely. She would willingly have married Philemon, but
as he evinced no inclination, she provided for her old age by marrying
another well-to-do Friend. And then, as sometimes happens in a widower's
household, there was an interregnum of trouble and disorder.

He had business dealings with the Wardours and met a connection, an
orphan, pretty young Bessy Wardour, who fell in love with the fine,
strong, still handsome Quaker, whose attire was immaculate, and whose
manners were courtly. And he surprised himself by a tenderness for the
winsome, kittenish thing, who, for his sake, laid aside her fripperies
and, to the amazement of her relatives, joined the Society of Friends.
But if she had been tempting in her worldly gear, she was a hundred
times more bewitching in her soft grays that were exquisite in quality,
and her wide brim, low-crowned beaver tied under her dimpled chin with a
bow that was distracting. The great blue eyes were of the melting,
persuasive kind, her voice had a caressing cadence, and her smile was
enough to conquer the most obdurate heart, and yet withal she had an air
of masquerading and enjoyed it to the full. She was deeply in love with
Philemon, and though he struggled against a passion he deemed almost
ungodly, she being so young and pretty, she conquered in the end. He
almost scandalized the Society when he stood up to be married. The young
Quaker women envied her, the elders shook their heads doubtfully.

She was sunny and charming and did adore her great stalwart husband. She
had so many tempting, beguiling ways, her kisses had such a delicious
sweetness that he sometimes felt afraid. And yet, was she not his lawful
wife, and had he not a right? Were not husbands enjoined to be tender
to their wives? She charmed little Phil as well. She played with him,
ran races, repeated verses, caressed him until sometimes the father was
almost jealous of the tenderness showered upon the child. She had such a
dainty taste and was always adding delicate touches to the plain Quaker
habits that made them seem twice as pretty. Sometimes he tried to frown
upon them.

"But God has made the world beautiful," she would protest. "And is it
not for us, his children? If I go out in the lanes and woods and gather
wild flowers that have cost no man any time or strength to be taken from
money-getting and business, but have just grown in God's love, and put
them here in a bowl and give Him thanks, what evil have I done? In
heaven there will be no business, and we shall have to adore His works
there, not the works of our own hands."

"Thou hast a subtle tongue, dear one, and what thou sayest seems to have
an accent from a finer world. I am at times sore at loss----"

"Thou must believe in a kindly All-father and the eyes of thy inner soul
will be opened."

Then she would kiss him tenderly and he would go away much puzzled.

Presently an incident happened that caused them both no little
perplexity. The Nevitt estate had lost its direct heir, and that of Leah
Nevitt was next in succession, after an old great-uncle, who sent for
the boy to be brought up in English ways and usages. Sir Wyndham Nevitt
was not a Friend, though several branches of the family were. And if
Philemon Henry failed, the next heir was a dissolute fellow up in
London, who would soon make ducks and drakes of the fine old estate.

"It does seem a pity that it should be destroyed," said the young wife.
"If only the boy were old enough to choose! But, you see, he is next in
the succession, and it would come to him even if he were here. English
laws are curious. I should hate to give up the boy. He is a sweet child
and a great comfort to me when thou art away. But his welfare ought to
be considered."

"And thou dost spoil him every hour in the day. I should have to send
him away presently for some sterner training. And then"--she blushed
scarlet at the hope--"there may be other sons and daughters."

Friend Henry took counsel of several respected and judicious men, and
the weight of it lay with sending the child abroad. It would be a hard
wrench, but if he was called upon to do it? Many that he knew had sent
their children abroad for education, the advantages being limited at
home. And it was true that the settlers below New York had a much warmer
affection for the mother country than the Puritans of New England.

It ended by little Philemon Henry being sent abroad with many tears and
much reluctance, and a safe convoy. The boy went quite readily, under
the impression that he could come back frequently, and having no idea of
the length of the journey, but being an adventurous little fellow.

Bessy Henry sorrowed deeply. "The house was as if one had been buried
out of it," she said. Then her own baby was born.

Philemon Henry was disappointed that it should be a girl.

"Do not mind, husband," she said in her winsome way, "this shall be _my_
child, for its head is full of yellow fuzz like mine, and its eyes are
blue. Presently there will be a son with dark eyes, and no doubt a
houseful of sons and daughters," laughing merrily. "And Phil, I think,
will be better pleased about a sister. He might be jealous if we filled
his place so soon."

There was some wisdom in that, and quite a comfort to the father's
heart.

The baby's name was the first real disagreement. She grew rapidly and
was a bright, smiling little thing. Bessy loved her child extravagantly,
jealously. But she would have none of the plain or biblical names her
husband suggested. She laughed at them with her bright humor and made
merry amusement over them, calling the child by endearing and fanciful
appellations. To-day she was one kind of a flower, to-morrow another,
and Rosebud a great deal of the time.

She was often at the house of Madam Wetherill. Indeed, she was generally
spoken of as the gay little Quaker, but it was only her slim
gracefulness and dainty ways that gained this description, for she was
quite tall. She discarded her thees and thous here, though at that day
all language was much more formal. Sometimes, when her husband was to be
away all day, she would take the child and its nurse and spend the time
with her relative.

It was after one of these occasions that she took off a little of the
worldly frippery she had indulged in and put on her very plainest cap,
but she could not disguise the arch, pretty face, and this evening it
really seemed more beguiling than ever. Caresses of all kinds were
frowned upon as being not only undignified, but savoring of the world
and the flesh. Still, Philemon Henry would have sorely missed the
greeting and parting kiss his wife gave him. She had a certain
adroitness, too, and the tact to make no show of this before the
brethren, or any of the sober-minded sisters. He sometimes wondered if
it was not "stolen waters," it had such an extraordinary flavor of
sweetness. Then he would resolve to forget it, but he never did.

She kissed him tenderly this evening. His dinner was excellent, his
day's work had been very profitable, and he was in high good humor.

"Husband," she began afterward, leaning her head on his shoulder, "I
must make a confession to thee of my day's doings. Thou wilt be angry at
first, but it is done now," smilingly.

"Hast thou been up to some mischief?" His tone had a sense of amusement
in it.

"Very serious mischief. For a brief while I felt like going back to the
faith of my childhood, but my love for thee will keep me in the straight
and narrow faith. But to-day I have had my babe christened in Christ
Church, and named Primrose."

"Bessy!" in a horror-stricken tone.

He strove to put her from him, but she clung the more tightly.

"Bessy! woman! To do such an unlawful thing!"

"It is not unlawful to give a Christian name."

"A vain, trifling, heathenish name!" he interrupted fiercely. "I will
have none of it! I will----"

"God made a Primrose and many another beautiful thing in this world of
His. He has even given me a prettiness that plain Quaker garb cannot
wholly disguise. Suppose I scarred my face and deformed my body, would
my praise be any more acceptable to Him? And people do not all think
alike. They look at religion in divers ways, and so they who deal
justly and are kind to the poor and outcast, and keep the Commandments
are, I think, true Christians in any garb. And her name is writ in the
Church books, her legal, lawful name that only the law can change. And
see, husband, thou shalt call thy son whatever pleaseth thee. But the
little daughter is mine own."

"She is my child as well. And to go through all this mummery that we
believe not in, that we have come to this new country to escape! It is
wicked, sinful!"

"And some consider that discarding all forms and sacraments is sinful. I
am sure God ordained many for the Jews, his chosen race!"

"Which they could not keep, which were of no importance to real
salvation. Then Christ came and all was abrogated."

"Nay, He added to the Commandments the one tenderer rule--thou shalt
love thy neighbor as thyself."

"Woman, thou art full of excusing subtleties. Thou art no true Friend,
methinks. Is there any real conviction under thy plain garb, or was it
only put on for----"

"For love of thee," she interrupted with brave sweetness shining in her
appealing eyes. "I was in Christ's household before I knew thee. I
worshiped God and prayed to Him and gave thanks. He hath not made the
world all alike, one tree differeth from another, and the lowly Primrose
groweth where other flowers might not find sustenance, but God careth
for them all, and gives to each its need and its exquisite coloring. So
he will care for the child, never fear."

"But I am very angry at thy disobedience."

"Nay, it was not that," and a glimmering light like a smile crossed her
sweet face. "I did not ask and thou didst not deny."

"Sophistry again. Thou art still in the bonds of iniquity."

"And thou must forgive seventy times seven. Thou must do good to those
that despitefully use thee. If thou art so much wiser and stronger than
I, then set this example. I have done many things to please thee. And,
husband, thou canst call the little one Prim. I am sure that is plain
enough, but to me she will be Rose, the blended sweetness of three
lives."

He broke away from her. She had softened many points in his character,
he knew, and just now she was a temptress to him. He must assert his own
supremacy and deliver himself from these dangerous charms. Just now it
looked sinful to him that she had come over to the Friends' persuasion
for love of him.

She had been a sweet, thoughtful wife, he could not deny that. But he
had been weak to yield to so much happiness. And when the brethren heard
of this outrage put upon their usages there would be hard times for her.
Suddenly his whole soul protested against having her haled before the
meeting. Oh, what had her spirit of willfulness led her into!

She went back to her baby, kissed it and caressed it, prepared it for
the night, and sang it to sleep. Philemon Henry wrote long in his little
office at home, where he kept sundry business matters he did not want
his clerks gossiping about. There were only two discreet friends that he
had taken into his confidence and his ventures. Just now there was a
slight, uneasy feeling that if he were brought to the strictest
account--and yet there was nothing really unlawful in his gains. There
were many curious questions in the world, there were diverse people,
many religions. And the Friends had sought out liberty of conscience.
Was it liberty to compel another?

Bessy and her child were sleeping sweetly when he glanced at them, and
his heart did soften. But he would never call her by that name. He would
give her another.

Bessy was up betimes and made some delicacy with her own hands for her
husband's breakfast. She came around and kissed him on the forehead as
was her morning custom, and though she was a little more grave than
usual, she was serene and charming. But he must show her how displeased
he was.

The christening had been very quiet. Madam Wetherill had been godmother,
and the godfather was a distant relative who resided in New York. Good
Parson Duche had been asked to keep the matter private. And so, if the
meeting came to know, Philemon Henry must be the accuser. It was his
duty, of course, but he put it off month after month. The babe grew
sweet and winsome, and there were many things beside family cares to
distract men's minds: The friction between the mother country and grave
questions coming to the fore; the following out of Mr. Penn's plans for
the improvement of the city, the bridging of creeks and the filling up
of streets, for there was much marsh land; the building of docks for the
trade that was rapidly enlarging, and the public spirit that was
beginning to animate the staid citizens.

Philemon Henry called his babe little one, child, and daughter, and the
mother was too wise to flaunt the name in his face. She had great faith
in the future.

"For if you keep stirring your rising continually, you will have no good
bread," she said. "Many things are best left alone, until the right
time."

She dressed the child quaintly, and she grew sweeter every day. But they
talked about the son they were to have, and other daughters. Little Phil
wrote occasionally. He was studying in an English school, but he had
spells of homesickness now and then, and his uncle said if he learned
smartly he should take a voyage to America when he was older. Nevitt
Grange was a great, beautiful place with a castle and a church and
peasants working in the fields. And he was to go up to London to see the
king.

One damp, drizzling November night Philemon Henry came home with so
severe a cold that he could hardly speak. He had been on the dock all
day, supervising the unloading of a vessel of choice goods. He could eat
no supper. Bessy made him a brew of choice herbs and had him hold his
feet in hot water while she covered him with a blanket and made a steam
by pouring some medicaments on a hot brick. Then he was bundled up in
bed, but all night long he was restless, muttering and tumbling about.
He would get up in the morning, but before he was dressed he fell across
the bed like a log, and Bessy in great fright summoned the doctor.

He had never been ill before, and for a few days no one dreamed of
danger. Then his brother James was summoned, and his clerk from the
warehouse, and there were grave consultations. Bessy's buoyant nature
could not at first take in the seriousness of the case. Of course he
would recover. He was so large and strong, and not an old man.

Alas! In a brief fortnight Philemon Henry lay dead in the house, and
Bessy was so stunned that she, too, seemed half bereft of life. She had
loved him sincerely, and for months they had forgotten their unfortunate
difference over the child's name. And when he was laid in the burying
ground beside his first wife, there was a strange feeling that he no
longer belonged to her, and she was all alone; that somehow the bond had
snapped that united her with the Friends.

Philemon Henry had made a will in the lucid intervals of his fever. His
brother was appointed guardian of the child and trustee of the property.
To Bessy was left an income in no wise extravagant, so long as she
remained a widow. The remainder was to be invested for the child, who
was not to come into possession until she was twenty-one. She and her
mother were to spend half of every year on the farm, and in case of the
mother's death she was to be consigned to the sole guardianship of her
uncle. There were a few outside bequests and remembrances to faithful
clerks.

The other trustee was Philemon's business partner, who had lately
returned from Holland. If Friend Henry had lived a few years longer he
would have been a rich man, but in process of settlement his worldly
wealth shrank greatly.

Uncle James proposed that the house should be sold, and she be free from
the expense of maintaining it.

"Nay," she protested. "Surely thou hast not the heart to deprive me of
the little joy remaining to my life. The place is dear to me, for I can
see him in every room, and the garden he tended with so much care. Thou
wilt kill me by insisting, and a murder will be on thy hands."

She spent the winter and spring in the house. One day in every week she
went to cousin Wetherill's.

The elder lady, a stickler for fashion, suggested that she should wear
mourning.

"I like not dismal sables," declared Bessy. "And it is not the custom of
Friends. I shall no doubt do many things I should be restricted from
were my husband alive, but I will honor him in this."

She attended the Friends' meeting on Sunday afternoon, but the evening
assemblies that had convened at the Henrys' once a fortnight were
transferred to another house. And in summer, although she went to the
Henry farm, she made visits in town and resumed some of her old
friendships.

The next autumn there came an opportunity to sell the house and the
business, and James Henry urged it.

"Then her home will be here with us," he said to his wife. "Philemon was
anxious to have the child brought up under the godly counsel of Friends,
and she will be less likely to stray. I think she is not a whole-hearted
Friend, and her relatives are worldly people."

But when the place was sold she went at once to Madam Wetherill's. And
she began to lay aside her Quaker plainness and frequented Christ
Church; indeed, though she was not very gay as yet, she was a great
attraction at the house of her relative.

Before the summer ended an event occurred that gave her still greater
freedom of action. This was a legacy from England left to the Wardour
branch in the New World, and as there were but three heirs, her portion
was a very fair one. There was some talk of Madam Wetherill taking her
to England, but the cold weather came on, and there seemed so many
things to settle. That winter she went over to the world's people
altogether.

"I think, Bessy, you should make a will," said Madam Wetherill as they
were talking seriously one day. "It will not bring about death any
sooner. I have had mine made this fifteen years, and am hale and hearty.
But, if anything should happen, the child will be delivered over to the
Henrys and brought up in the drab-colored mode of belief. It seems hard
for little ones so full of life."

"She must have her free choice of religion. Having tried both," and
Bessy gave a dainty smile, "I like my own Church the best. If she should
grow up and fall in love with a Friend, she can do as she likes. There
are not many as manly and handsome as was Philemon. Indeed I think they
make their lives too sad-colored, too full of work. I should go wild if
I lost my little one, but Lois Henry goes about as if nothing had
happened. I found it a luxury to grieve for Philemon. There is wisdom in
thy suggestion."

A lawyer was sent for and the matter laid before him. She could appoint
another guardian now that she had money of her own to leave the child,
and she could consign it part of the time to that guardian's care.

There was much consultation before the matter was settled. And though,
when the time came, she moved some chests of goods out to the farm and
made a pretense of settling, she and Madam Wetherill soon after went up
to New York and were gone three full months.

James Henry found himself circumvented in a good many ways by woman's
wit. There was no dispute between them, and much as he objected to the
ways of the world's people, he had no mind to defraud his small niece
out of a considerable fortune that might reasonably come to her. Indeed
he began to be a little afraid of Bessy Henry's willfulness. And she
might marry and leave all of her money to a new set of children.

But fate ordered it otherwise. Bessy went for a visit to Trenton, and
though she was rarely separated from her darling, this time she left her
behind. She did not return as soon as she expected, on account of a
feverish illness which would be over in a few days, her friends
insisted, but instead developed into the scourge of smallpox, the
treatment of which was not well understood at that time, and though she
was healthy ordinarily, the bleeding so reduced her strength that she
sank rapidly and in a week had followed her husband.

Madam Wetherill was cut to the very heart by the sad incident, for she
loved Bessy as if she had been her own daughter, and she was tenderly
attached to baby Primrose, who was too little to realize all she had
lost.

When Friend Henry preferred his claim to his brother's child, he was met
by some very decided opposition. In the first place the child had been
christened in the church, and was, according to her mother's wishes, to
be left in Madam Wetherill's charge for six months every year and be
instructed in the tenets of her own church, and to remain perfectly free
to make her choice when she was eighteen. If her mother's wishes could
not be carried out, her fortune was to revert to Madam Wetherill, and
she would inherit only what her father bequeathed her.

"I cannot believe my brother was knowing to this nefarious scheme!"
cried Friend Henry in a temper. "And I always thought Primrose a most
ungodly name. It was his wish she should become a Friend."

"And if your son marries among the world's people and leaves the faith
what will you do?" asked Madam Wetherill.

"I should disown him," was the hasty reply.

"Then Bessy had a right to disown her child if she left the faith. See
how unreasonable you are, Friend Henry, and how little true love is in
your mind. Now if you have any regard for the little child do not let us
quite dismember her after the fashion of Solomon's judgment. You may
have her next summer, and I in the winter. I warn you, if you do not
agree, I shall fight to the end. I have no children of my own to deprive
if I go on lawing, and my purse will surely hold out as long as yours."

That was true enough; longer, he knew. So, after a while, he assented
ungraciously, and the matter was adjusted.

But it was not a happy omen that the child's name should cause one
quarrel and the possession of her another. She herself was bright and
joyous, with much of her mother's merry nature and her clear, frank,
beguiling blue eyes.




CHAPTER III.

IN A NEW WORLD.


A very homesick little girl was Primrose Henry when she went out to her
uncle's farm. The nurse went with her, but Lois Henry preferred that she
should not stay. The child was old enough to wait upon herself. She had
a longing for it to fill the vacant place of her own little girls, but
she knew that was carnal and sinful, and strove against it. Since God
had deprived her of them it was not right to put aught else in their
place. So it was a continual struggle between love and duty, and she was
cold to the little stranger.

The name, too, was a stumbling block. They had to accept it, however,
and called her Primrose with the soberest accent. Uncle James felt sore
about being worsted in his suit, for he had desired supreme control of
the child.

She soon found things to love. There was the big house dog Rover. Tiger,
the watch dog, was kept chained in the daytime and let loose at night to
ward off marauders. But he soon came to know her voice and wagged his
tail joyously at her approach. She was quite afraid of the cows, but a
pretty-faced one with no horns became a favorite, and she used to carry
it tid-bits to eat. The cats, too, would come at her call, though they
were not allowed in the house.

And there was Andrew. She was very shy of him at first, but he coaxed
her to look at a bird's nest with its small, blue-speckled eggs. And
there were the chickens that, as they grew larger, followed her about.
Andrew found the first ripe early pear for her, and the delicious, sweet
July apple; he took her when he went fishing on the creek, but she
always felt sorry for the poor fish so cruelly caught, it seemed to her.
He taught her to ride bareback behind him, and some boyish tricks that
amused her wonderfully.

Aunt Lois trained her in spelling, in sums in addition, sewing
patchwork, and spinning on the small wheel. But there was not enough in
the simple living to keep a child busy half the time, and she soon found
ways of roaming about, generally guarded by Rover. Aunt Wetherill had
said, "In six months you are coming back to us," so at first she was
very glad she was not to stay always.

It is the province of happy and wholesome childhood to forget the things
that are behind, or even a future in which there is dread. The life of
childhood is in the present, and it finds many pleasures. So now
Primrose had almost forgotten her joyous and sorrowful past, and really
dreaded the next change. She hated to leave Andrew, the dogs and the
chickens, the cows that she did not fear quite so much, the great
orchard, the long reaches of meadows, and the woods where the birds sang
so enchantingly. But Aunt Lois had not grown into her heart, and she
stood greatly in awe of Uncle James, who had a way of speaking sharply
to her.

But black Cato came with Madam Wetherill in the lumbering chaise, which
was a great rarity at that period. Primrose was dressed in a white
homespun linen frock. At this early stage of the country's industries
they were doing a good deal of weaving at Germantown, though many
people had small looms in their houses. Imported goods were high, and
now that so much of the land was cleared and houses built, they had time
for other things, and were ingenious in discoveries.

Madam Wetherill was very grand in her satin petticoat and brocade gown,
that fell away at the sides and made a train at the back. Her imported
hat of Leghorn, very costly at that period but lasting half a lifetime,
had a big bow of green satin on top, and the high front was filled in
with quilled lace and pink bows. From its side depended a long white
lace veil with a deep worked border of flowers. Her shoes had glittering
buckles, and she wore a great brooch in her stomacher.

Primrose was dreadfully shy, she saw so few strangers. She scarcely
raised her eyes to the rustling dame, and her heart beat with unwonted
agitation.

Madam Wetherill wanted to laugh at the queer little figure, but she was
better bred, and kept a lingering fondness for the child's mother.
Besides, she was one of the possible heirs to her fortune, and some of
the grandnieces and nephews were not altogether to her fancy. And though
she was high-spirited and could both resent and argue fiercely, she had
the Wardour suavity, and some early training abroad in the Court.

"Come hither, little one," and she held out her jeweled hand. "Friend
Henry, I should have called to see my grandniece, but you remember we
thought it best not so to do. You have had the uninterrupted six months,
and I can see you have kept her well. What a clear complexion the child
hath! A little sun-burned, perhaps. Her mother was a fine hearty woman,
and it was a thousand pities she had not been inoculated and cared for
carefully, instead of being attacked in that blind way no one suspected.
She was a sweet thing and I loved her as a daughter of my own, though I
would fain not have had her marry Philemon Henry. But la! love rules us
all, at least us worldly people. I am thankful for thy good care of
Primrose. And now, child, put on thy hood or cap or whatever 'tis, and
come to thy new home, where we promise to treat thee well."

"And return her to us," subjoined Lois Henry, almost afraid to let her
go now that the time had come. "Get thy hat, child."

Chloe entered just then with a glass of home-made wine of excellent
flavor and age, and some newly baked cake that was quite enough in its
very appearance to make one long to taste it. And the napkin she spread
on my lady's lap was fine and soft, if it had not been woven in English
air and taken a sea voyage.

Primrose had glanced up at the lady when she began to address her, and
one by one old memories returned. Friend Henry never spoke of her mother
or Madam Wetherill, and in six months a good deal drops out of a child's
mind, but she smiled a little as the stream of remembrance swept over
her, and recalled her pretty mother's kisses and fondness and a
beautiful house that had made this seem like a desert to her. And Madam
Wetherill squeezed the small hand in a friendly manner, then began to
eat her cake and praise it as well, though Friend Henry protested
against that.

"Chloe, bring the child's hat," she said in so calm a tone it hardly
seemed a command.

Then Madam took her by the hand and they walked out together and the
black servant put her in the chaise. Madam Wetherill spread out her fine
gown so that it almost covered the plain garments of the child.

Lois Henry had merely uttered the briefest of good-byes, with no parting
kiss. She had given her some counsel before. Yet when she shut the main
door that opened into the sitting room, for the strictest of Friends
would have no parlor, she sat down suddenly and put both hands to her
face. It would be very hard to part thus every year, to know one's
sincere efforts in training the child to a godly life would be uprooted
by the vain show of the world, so attractive to youth, and the vision of
the two little girls gone out never to return, swept over her with a
pang. Why could she not give them wholly to the Lord, and be glad they
were in His fold, safe from evil? And this little one--Madam Wetherill
was quite at middle life--she herself was surely younger and might
outlive the other. But at eighteen the child could choose, and she would
be likely to choose the ways of the world, so seductive to youth.

They did not go in to the city house, which was being repaired and
cleaned. Many people owned farms along the banks of the Schuylkill and
in the outlying places, where choice fruits of all kinds were
cultivated, melons and vegetables for winter use as well as summer
luxury. For people had to provide for winter, and there was much
pickling and preserving and candying of fruits, and storing commoner
things so that they would keep well.

The houses were large, if rambling and rather plain, with porches wide
enough to dance on on the beautiful moonlight nights. And there were
sailing and rowing on the river, lovely indeed then with its shaded
winding banks, mysterious nooks, and little creeks that meandered gently
through sedgy grass and rested on the bosom of their mother, lost in her
tenderness.

Parties of young people often met for the afternoon and evening. There
would be boating and dancing and much merrymaking. The people of this
section were less strenuous than the New Englanders. They affiliated
largely with their neighbors to the South. Indeed, many of the business
men owned tobacco plantations in Maryland and Virginia. They kept in
closer contact with the mother country as well. Madam Wetherill herself
had crossed the ocean several times and brought home new fashions and
court gowns and manners. The English novelists and poets were quite well
read, and, though the higher education of women was not approved of,
there were bright young girls who could turn an apt quotation, were
quick at repartee, and confided to their bosom friend that they had
looked over Sterne and Swift. They could indite a few verses on the
marriage of a friend, or the death of some loved infant, but pretty,
attractive manners and a few accomplishments went farther in the gentler
sex than much learning.

The Friends who were in society were not so over strict as to their
attire. Those who lived much alone on the farms, like Lois Henry, or led
restricted lives in the town, pondered much on how little they could
give to the world. But they took from it all they could in thriftiness
and saving.

Young Mrs. Penn and Mrs. Logan and many another indulged in pretty gear,
and grays that went near to lavender and peachy tints. There were
pearl-colored brocades and satins, and dainty caps of sheerest material
that allowed the well-dressed hair to show quite distinctly. There was
also a certain gayety and sprightliness in entertaining, since there
were no matinees or shows to visit. Both hostess and guest were expected
to contribute of their best.

Madam Wetherill had long been a well-to-do widow and conducted her large
estate with ability, though she employed a sort of overseer or
confidential clerk. She had inherited a good deal in her own right from
the Wardours and sundry English relatives. Some of the Wetherills were
of the Quaker persuasion, but her husband had wandered a little from the
fold. She had been a Churchwoman, and still considered herself so, but
she was of a very independent turn, and on her last visit to England had
come home rather affronted with the light esteem in which many professed
to hold the colonies.

"They talk as if we were a set of ignoramuses," she declared in high
dudgeon. "We are worthy of nothing but the tillage of fields and
whatever industries the will of the mother country directs. Are we,
their own offspring, to be always considered children and servants, and
have masters appointed over us without any say of our own? We can build
ships. Why can we not trade with any port in the world? What if we have
raised up no Master Chaucer nor Shakspere nor Ben Jonson, nor wise Lord
Bacon and divers storytellers--did England do this in her early years
when she was hard bestead with the hordes from the Continent? We have
had to make our way against Indian savages, and did we not conquer the
French in our mother's behalf? And then to be set down as ignorant
children, forsooth, and told what we must do and from what we must
refrain. The colonies have outgrown swaddling-clothes!"

But she was fond of gayety and pleasure as well, and having no children
to place in the world and no really near kindred but first and second
cousins she saw no need of being penurious, and lived with a free hand.
She was very fond of young people also, and it seemed a great pity she
had not been mother of a family. Her city house was a great rendezvous,
and her farmhouse was the stopping place of many a gay party, and often
a crowd to supper with a good deal of impromptu dancing afterward.

The porch was full of young people now, with two or three men in
military costume, so they drove around to the side entrance. Mistress
Janice was busy ordering refreshments and making a new kind of frozen
custard. A pleasant-faced, youngish woman came to receive them.

"Here is the little Quaker, Patty, in her homespun gown. I might as well
have sent you, for Friend Henry made no time at all, but was as meek as
a mild-mannered mother sheep. It is the law, of course, and they had no
right to refuse, but I was a little afraid of a fuss, and that perhaps
they had set up the child against such ungodly people."

"Oh, how she has grown!" cried Patty. "Child, have you forgotten me?"

"Oh, no!" said Primrose a little shyly. "And my own mother liked you so.
You were my nurse----"

She slipped her hand within that of the woman.

"She was a sweet person, poor dear! It will always be a great loss to
thee, little child. Oh, madam, the eyes are the same; blue as a bit of
sky between mountains. But she is not as fair----"

"Thou must bleach her up with sour cream and softening lotions that will
not hurt the skin. There, child, go with Patty, who will get thee into
something proper. But she is like her mother in this respect, common
garb does not disfigure her."

Patty led her upstairs and through the hall into a sort of ell part
where there were two rooms. The first had a great work table with
drawers, and some patterns pinned up to the window casings that seemed
like parts of ghosts. The floor was bare, but painted yellow. There was
a high bureau full of drawers with a small oblong looking-glass on top,
a set of shelves with a few books, and numerous odds and ends, a long
bench with a chintz-covered pallet, and some chairs, beside a sort of
washing stand in the corner. The adjoining room was smaller and had two
cot beds covered with patchwork spreads.

"Yes, thou hast grown wonderfully," repeated Patty. "And who cut thy
lovely hair so short? But it curls like thy mother's. I find myself
talking Quaker to thee, though to be sure the best quality use it."

"I had so much hair and it was so warm that it hath been cut several
times this summer."

"Oh, you charming little Friend!" Patty gave her a hug and half a dozen
kisses. "I'll warrant thou hast forgotten the old times!"

"It comes back to me," and the blue eyes kindled with a soft light that
would have been entrancing in a woman. "Aunt Lois checked me when I
would have talked about them. And when I was here--it was in the other
house, I remember--I was so sad and lonely without my dear mamma."

She gave a sigh and her bosom swelled.

"Patty, I cannot understand clearly. What is death, and why does God
want people when He has so many in heaven? And a little girl has but one
mother."

"Law, child! I do not know myself. The catechism may explain it, but I
was ever a dull scholar at reading and liked not study. Yes, thy face
must be bleached up, and I will begin this very night. They were good to
thee"--tentatively.

"I always felt afraid of Uncle James, though he never slapped me but
once, when I ran after the little chickens. They were such balls of
yellow down that I wanted to hug them. Afterward I asked Andrew what I
might do. He was very good to me, and he wished I had been his little
sister."

Patty laughed. "And did you wish it too?"

"I liked my own dear mother best. When I was out in the woods alone I
talked to her. Do you think she could hear in the sky? Aunt Lois said it
was wrong to wish her back again, or to wish for anything that God took
away. And so I ceased to wish for anybody, but learned to put on my
clothes and tie my strings and button, and do what Aunt Lois told me. I
can wipe cups and saucers and make my bed and sweep my room and weed in
the garden, and sew, and spin a little, but I cannot make very even
thread yet. And to knit--I have knit a pair of stockings, Patty. Aunt
Lois said those I brought were vanity."

"Stuff and nonsense! These Quakers would have the world go in hodden
gray, and clumsy shoes and stockings. Let us see thine. Oh, ridiculous!
We will give them to little Catty, the scrubwoman's child. Now I will
put thee in something decent."

She began to disrobe her and bathed her shoulders and arms in some
fragrant water.

"Oh, how delightful! It smells like roses," and she pressed the cloth to
her face.

"It is rose-water. What was in the garden at the Henrys'? Or is
everything wicked that does not grow to eat?"

"The roses were saved to make something to put in cake. But the lavender
was laid in the press and the drawers. It was very fragrant, but not
like the roses."

She combed out the child's hair until it fell in rings about her head.
Then she put on some fine, pretty garments and a slip of pink silk, cut
over from a petticoat of Madam Wetherill's. Her stockings were fine, cut
over as well, and her low shoes had little heels and buckles.

"Oh," she cried with sudden gayety that still had a pathos in it, "it
brings back mamma and so many things! Were they packed away, Patty, like
one's best clothes? It is as if I could pull them out of a trunk where
they had been shut up in the dark. And there were so many pretty
garments, and a picture of father that I used to wear sometimes about my
neck with a ribbon."

"Yes, yes; madam has a boxful, saving for you, unless you turn Quaker.
But we shall keep a sharp eye on you that you do not fall in love with
any of the broadbrims. But your father was one of the handsomest of his
sect, and a gentleman. It was whispered that his trade made him full
lenient of many things, and your mother looked like a picture just
stepped out of a frame. She had such an air that her dressing never made
her plain. I am afraid you will not be as handsome. Oh, fie! what
nonsense I am talking! I shall make thee as vain as a peacock!"

Primrose laughed gayly. She felt happy and unafraid, as if she had been
released from bondage. And yet everything seemed so strange she hardly
dared stir. Why, this was the way she felt at Aunt Lois' the first week
or two.

There was a rustle in the little hall, and the child turned.

"I declare, Patty, thou hast transformed our small Quaker, and improved
her beyond belief. She is not so bad when all's said and done!"

"But all isn't done yet, madam. When she comes to be bleached, and her
hair grown out, but la! it's just a cloud now, a little too rough for
silk, but we will soon mend that, and such a soft color."

"Canst thou courtesy, child? Let me see?"

Primrose looked a little frightened and glanced from one to the other.

"This way." Patty held up a bit of the skirt of her gown, took a step
forward with one foot, and made a graceful inclination. "Now try. Surely
you knew before you fell into the hands of that strait sect who consider
respectable manners a vanity. Try--now again. That does fairly well, my
lady."

Primrose was so used to obeying that, although her face turned red, she
went through the evolution in a rather shy but not ungraceful manner.

"Thou has done well with the frock, Patty, and it is becoming. My! but
she looks another child. Now I am going to lead thee downstairs and thou
must not be silly, nor frighted of folks. They knew thy dear mother."

Madame Wetherill took her by the hand and led her through another hall
and down a wide staircase to the main hall that ran through the house. A
great rug lay in the front square, and on one side was a mahogany settle
with feather cushions in gay flowered chintz.

Out on the porch was a girlish group laughing and jesting, sipping mead,
and eating cake and confections. Little tables placed here and there
held the refreshments. The sun was dropping down and the Schuylkill
seemed a mass of molten crimson and gold commingled. The fresh wind blew
up through the old-fashioned garden of sweet herbs and made the air
about fragrant.

"This is my little grandniece, Primrose Henry," she exclaimed,
presenting the child. "Some of you have seen her mother, no doubt, who
died so sadly at Trenton of that miserable smallpox."

"Oh, and her father, too!" exclaimed Mrs. Pemberton, putting down her
glass and coming forward.

Primrose had made her courtesy and now half buried her face in Madame
Wetherill's voluminous brocade.

"A fine man indeed was Philemon Henry, with the air of good descent, and
the manner of courts. And we always wondered if he would not have come
over to us if his sweetheart had stood firm. Girls do not realize all
their power. But it was a happy marriage, what there was of it. Alas!
that it should have ended so soon! But I think the child favors her
mother."

"And it will not do to say all the sweet things we know about her
mother," laughed pretty Miss Chew. "Sweet diet is bad for infants and
had better be saved for their years of appreciation. You see we may
never reach discretion."

"Come hither, little maid," said a persuasive voice. "I have two at home
not unlike thee, and shall be glad to bring them when Madam comes home
to Arch Street. Primrose! What an odd name, savoring of English
gardens."

Some of the younger women pulled her hither and thither and kissed her,
and one pinned a posy on her shoulder. Then Madam Wetherill led her down
quite to the edge of the porch, where sat a rather thin, fretted-looking
woman, gowned in the latest style, and a girl of ten, much more
furbelowed than was the custom of attiring children.

"This is the child I was telling thee of, Bessy Wardour's little one
that she had to leave with such regrets. This is a relative of thy
mother's, Primrose, and this is Anabella. I hope you two children may be
friends."

There was a certain curious suavity in Madam Wetherill's tone that was
not quite like her every-day utterances.

"A Wardour--yes; was there not something about her marriage----"

"She became a Friend for love's sake," laughed Madam Wetherill. "Others
stood ready to marry her, but she would have none of them--girls are
willful."

The lady rose with a high dignity.

"It grows late," she said, "and if you will keep your promise, dear
aunt, I should like to be sent home, since it is not well for children
to be out in the evening dews. And I hope the little girls may indeed be
friends."

"Yes, I will order the chaise."

Others had risen. Mrs. Pemberton and her daughter, and two or three
more, had been bidden to supper. Some of the ladies had come on
horseback, the ordinary mode of traveling. They clustered about Madam
Wetherill and praised her cake and said how glad they would be to get
her in the city again. Then they pinned up their pretty skirts and put
on their safeguard petticoats and were mounted by Cato and went off,
nodding. The chaise took in two other ladies.

The little girls had simply eyed each other curiously, but neither made
any advance, and parted formally.

Then Patty came and took Primrose upstairs and gave her a supper of
bread and milk and a dish of cut peaches and cream. Afterward she
undressed her and put her in one of the cots, bidding her go to sleep at
once. She was needed elsewhere.

But Primrose felt desperately, disobediently wide awake. It had been
such an afternoon of adventure after six months of the quietest routine
that had made memory almost lethargic. The remembrances came trooping
back--the long time it seemed to her when she had yearned and cried in
secret for her mother, the two little girls that in some degree
comforted her, and then the half terror and loneliness on the farm until
she had come to love the dumb animals and her Cousin Andrew. This was
all so different. A long, long while and then she must go back. What
made people so unlike? What made goodness and badness? And what was God
that she stood dreadfully in awe of, who could see her while she could
not see Him?

Thus, swinging back and forth amid unanswerable questions, she fell
asleep.




CHAPTER IV.

OF MANY THINGS.


Madam Wetherill was much engrossed with visitors and overseeing the farm
work, ordering what of the produce was to be sold, what of the flax and
the wool sent away to be spun and woven, and the jars and boxes and
barrels set aside to be taken into the town later on. Patty was busy
sewing for the little girl and her mistress, and sometimes, when she was
bothered, she was apt to be rather sharp. At others she proved
entertaining.

Primrose learned to know her way about the great house and the garden
and orchard. Now she must go with a bonnet to protect her from the sun
and linen gloves to keep her hands white, or to get them that color. At
night she was anointed with cosmetics, and her hair was brushed and
scented, but needed no help from curling tongs or pins.

It was like a strange dream to her, and in the morning when she awoke
she wondered first if she had not overslept and missed the call of Aunt
Lois; then she would laugh, remembering. She was a very cheerful,
tractable child, and Madam Wetherill was much drawn to her. Sometimes
she went riding with her in the coach, which was a rather extravagant
luxury in those days.

And then they came into town and it was stranger still to the little
girl. But now she began to be busy.

There were some schools where boys and girls went together, but many of
the best people had their daughters educated at home. It seemed quite
desirable that they should learn French, as it was useful to have a
language servants could not understand. They began with Latin, as that
gave a better foundation for all else. Then there was enough of
arithmetic to keep household accounts and to compute interest. Madam
Wetherill had found her knowledge most useful, as she had a large estate
to manage and had no such objections as many of the women of that
period.

There was the spinet and singing of songs, dancing and doing fine
needlework. Anabella Morris was to come in for the accomplishments.

Her mother professed to hold the weightier knowledge in slight esteem.

"Anabella will no doubt have a husband to manage for her," her mother
said with a high sort of indifference. "Women make but a poor fist at
money affairs."

"Indeed, Niece Mary, I do not see but what I have managed my affairs as
well as most men could have done them for me. And look at Hester Morris,
left with a handsome patrimony by an easy husband, and now dependent on
relatives. I am glad there is talk of her second marriage."

"Mere talk, it may be." With her nose in the air, Mary Morris was not a
little jealous that her almost penniless sister-in-law should capture
the prize she had been angling for.

"Let us hope it will be something more. I hear Miss Morris hath promised
her a wedding gown, and I will add a brocade with a satin petticoat.
Hester is a pleasant body, if not overdowered with wisdom."

Mrs. Mary Morris was not poor, though it needed much contriving to get
along on her income. She was very fond of play, one of the vices of the
time, and though she was often successful, at others she lost heavily.
She was fond of being considered much richer than she really was, and
kept her pinches to herself. One of her dreams had been the possibility
of being asked to stay at Wetherill House for the winter, at least, but
this had not happened. She was not as near a connection as Bessy Wardour
had been, but she made the most of the relationship, and there were not
a great many near heirs; so all might reasonably count on having
something by and by.

She had received a goodly supply of provisions from the farm, and the
offer had been made for Anabella to share Primrose Henry's teachers with
no extra charge.

"You are very generous to the child," she said in a complaining tone. "I
thought Philemon Henry was in excellent circumstances."

"So he was."

"And is not her guardian, the other one, a well-to-do Quaker? Why must
you be so regardful of her?"

"Yes, she will have a nice sum, doubtless. I want her brought up to fit
her station, which the Henrys, being strict Friends, would not do. Her
mother appointed me her guardian, you know. I do nothing beside my duty.
But if you do not care----"

"Oh, 'tis a real charity to offer it for Anabella, and I am glad to
accept. She is well trained, I suppose, so no harm can come of the
association."

"Oh, no harm indeed," returned the elder dryly.

After the simplicity of life at the Henrys' there seemed such a
confusion of servants that Primrose was almost frightened. Mistress
Janice Kent kept them in order, and next to Madam Wetherill ruled the
house. Patty was a seamstress, a little higher than the maid who made
her mistress ready for all occasions, looked after her clothes, did up
her laces, and crimped her ruffles. But Patty wrote her invitations and
answered the ordinary notes; and she was appointed to look after and
care for Primrose, who was too old for a nurse and not old enough for a
maid.

Patty was a woman of some education, while Mistress Kent had been to
France and Holland, and could both write and speak French. Patty's
advantages had been rather limited, but she was quick and shrewd and
made the most of them, though the feeling between her and Janice Kent
rather amused Madam Wetherill. Janice was always trying to "set her down
in her proper place," but what that was exactly it would have been hard
to tell. Janice would not have had time to look after the child, and
this responsibility rather raised her. Then she had wonderful skill with
caps and gowns, and could imitate any imported garment, for even then
those who could sent abroad for garments made up in the latest style,
though it was London and not Paris style.

Primrose kept her bed in Patty's room. There were plain little gowns for
her daily wear, but white aprons instead of homespun ginghams. She came
to breakfast with Madam Wetherill when there were no guests, or only one
or two intimates. For the people of the town had much of the Southern
ways of hospitality, and when on their farms in summer often invited
their less fortunate friends. It was not always lack of money, but many
of the merchants in trade and commerce between the home ports had no
time to spend upon country places, and were not averse to having their
wives and daughters enjoy some of the more trying summer weeks in the
cooler suburban places.

So Primrose sat like a mouse unless someone spoke to her, and it was
considered not best to take too much notice of children, as it made them
forward. Then there were two hours devoted to studying, and sewing with
Patty until dinner, which was often taken upstairs in the sewing room.
Twice a week the tutor came for Latin and French, the former first; and
then Anabella came for French, and after that the little girls could
have a play or a walk, or a ride with Madam Wetherill. Then there was a
dancing lesson twice a week, on alternate days, and a young woman came
to teach the spinet, which was a rather unusual thing, as women were not
considered to know anything except housekeeping well enough to teach it.
But this was one of Madam Wetherill's whims. For the girl's family had
been unfortunate, and the elder woman saw in this scheme a way to assist
them without offering charity.

"Do you suppose the little girls I knew last winter will ever come
back?" she asked of Patty one day.

"Oh, la, no!" was the reply. "Five years of school lies before them--not
like Master Dove's school, where one goes every morning, but a great
boarding house where they are housed and fed and study, and have only
half of Saturday for a holiday. And they study from morning to night."

"It must be very hard," sighed Primrose. "And why do they learn so
much?"

"To be sure, that's the puzzle! And they say women don't need to know.
They can't be lawyers nor doctors nor ministers, nor officers in case of
war, nor hold offices."

"But they can be queens. There was Queen Elizabeth, and Queen Anne. I
read about them in a book downstairs one day. And if women can be
queens, why can't they be something else?"

Patty looked down, nonplused for a moment. "I suppose it was because the
kings died, and all the sons were dead, if they ever had any. Well--I
don't know why woman shouldn't be 'most anything; but she isn't, and
that's all about it. There's more than one man wanted to marry the
madam, but she's wise not to take a spendthrift--or one of the Friends,
who would be obstinate and set in his ways. She's good enough at
bargaining, and she has a great tobacco plantation at Annapolis, and is
as smart as any man. And she can beat half of them at piquet and ombre
and win their money, too."

"What is piquet?"

"Oh, Lord, child! I've always heard that little pitchers had big ears,
and many a rill runs to the sea. Don't you carry things, now, nor ask
questions. Little girls have no call to know such things. What were we
talking about when I made that slip? Oh, about those girls. They'll be
trained in fine manners. The English ladies go to court and see the King
and the Queen and the princesses, and have gay doings."

"Have we any court?"

"Oh, dear, no! England governs us. But there's a good deal of
talk--there, child, get some sewing--hemstitching or something--and
don't talk so much."

She was silent quite a while. Then she said gravely: "I think I liked
the other girls better than I do Anabella. Is she my real cousin? She
said so yesterday. And once, just before I came here, Andrew said I had
no cousin but him."

"That's true enough. Andrew is a real cousin, your father's brother's
son. And your mother had no brothers or sisters. But it's a fashion to
say cousin. It sounds more respectful. Mistress Morris is a great one to
scrape relationship with high-up folks."

Primrose suddenly wondered if anybody missed her at the farm. The little
chickens must have grown into quite large ones, and all the other things
she cared for so much. There was a sudden homesickness. She would like
to see them. But--yes, she _would_ rather be here. There were so many
things to learn. She didn't see any sense in the Latin, and she was sure
it didn't make the French any easier. But the spinet----

"Patty," she ventured timidly, "do you not think I ought to go at my
notes? I didn't play them very well yesterday, and the mistress rapped
me over the knuckles."

She spread her small hand out on her knee and inspected it.

"Yes. Dear me! you'll never get that kerchief done. But, then, run
along. There's no one downstairs. They are all invited to Mistress
Pean's to take tea, and pick everybody to pieces."

"But they have no feathers," said the little girl with a quaint smile,
as she folded up her work and ran her needle through it. Then she put it
in a large silken bag that hung on a nail, and remembered with a
half-guilty conscience that there were some stockings to darn, and she
almost expected to hear Patty ask about them and call her back.

Down over the wide steps she tripped. She was half minded to take a
plunge amid the down cushions on the settle. She had sometimes turned
somersaults in the grass when no one was by, being very careful not to
let Aunt Lois surprise her. She felt like that now, but she walked along
decorously. The great company room was always a marvel to her. It held
so many wonderful things.

There was, even then, a good deal of luxury for those who had the money
to buy it. England did not care how much her colonists spent so that it
passed through her hands. She brought treasures from the far East--there
were only a very few ports allowed to the Americans.

And here were Oriental rugs on the polished floor; furniture carved and
padded in brocade, tables with massive claw feet, and others in thin
spindles that seemed hardly stout enough to hold up the top. There was a
great carved chimney-piece with some tiles let in, and some curious
iridescent bulbs not unlike the "bullseyes" over the wide hall door, but
in different phases of light they gave out varied colors. There were
queer, beautiful, and grotesque ornaments, some ugly Chinese gods that
had been brought hither by sea captains, but if to convert the new
continent, the scheme certainly would prove a failure. Primrose always
looked at them with a shudder, and instinctively thought of the Friends'
meeting with the soft gray gowns and shawls with fine fringes, or in
summer just a plain white kerchief crossed over the bosom. Then there
was a great blue-and-white Chinese pagoda, ornamented with numerous
bells, every story growing smaller. It stood on a solid clawfoot table,
and beside it, also in china, a mandarin with flowing sleeves and a long
pigtail in dark-blue.

There were curious chairs as well, and no end of square ottomans covered
with brocade or tapestry, sadly faded now and some of the edges worn.
Everywhere about were candlesticks and snuffers, for sometimes the room
was brilliantly lighted.

Adjoining this, with a wide doorway between, was a room not quite so
long, but jutting out at the side. In a sort of alcove stood the spinet.
There were also two corner buffets, as they were called. One of them had
drawers at the bottom, and the shelves above held various heirlooms, and
quaint old silver, with the punch bowl over two hundred years old,
bearing the Crown mark.

The other contained a good many books, for the descendants of the
cavaliers were not averse to something lighter than the "Book of
Martyrs." An old brown leather-covered Shakspere, and some of his
compeers, and Bacon, Lord Verulam, reposing peacefully on the shelf
underneath. Mr. Benjamin Franklin had given an impetus to knowledge and
ventured upon the writing of books himself.

Primrose wandered among them now and then, not understanding, and having
a greater fondness for the versifying part than the prose. But she did
pore over "Rasselas," and an odd collection of adventures in Eastern
lands, very like the "Arabian Nights."

But now she went straight at her spinet. She was thrilled through and
through with the sound of the notes, and often before she was aware her
little fingers would wander off in some melody, recalling how a bird
sang or how a streamlet rippled over the stones. Then she would stop in
affright and go carefully over her lesson.

Anabella really succeeded better than she did. There was no singing bird
in her brain that tempted her to stray. But sometimes the music master
was quite angry with her, and said she "might as well be a boy driving
nails or facing stone."

But now she went over and over and would not be seduced by "wonderful
melodies." It was quite dark when Mistress Janice called her to supper
in the tea room, with Patty. The two women had a great deal of sparring,
it would seem. At the farm there was never any bickering. Once in a
while Uncle James scolded some of the laborers. Yet it seemed curious to
Primrose that they should talk so sharply to each other and the next
minute join in gay laughter.

The very next day she had a visitor. Uncle James had been in once and
had a long talk with Madam Wetherill. After he had given her a somewhat
serious scrutiny and asked a few questions she was dismissed. But Aunt
Wetherill was out now and Andrew Henry asked for her.

"Promise me you won't run off with him," exclaimed Patty. "I must finish
this gown, as madam goes to Mrs. Chew's this afternoon, and all these
furbelows have to be sewed on. Folks can't be content with a plain gown
any more, but must have it laced and ruffled and bows stuck on it as if
it was Fair time!"

"When is Fair time?" asked Primrose, as she was putting on a clean
pinafore.

"How you take one up, child! There are fairs and fairs. They started in
England, where all things do. For all we put on such mighty independent
airs we do but follow like a flock of sheep. There, child, run and don't
stand gaping! And mind that you don't attempt to run off with friend
Broadbrim."

She was glad to be clasped in the strong arms and have the hearty kiss
on her forehead.

"It is like a different place without thee," he exclaimed. "I cannot
make the days go fast enough until spring opens and thou come back with
the birds. We are such quiet folk. And here all is gayety. Wilt thou
ever be content again?"

"Is gayety so very wrong, Andrew? It seems quite delightful to me," she
returned wistfully. "And when the ladies move about in their pretty
gowns it is like great flocks of birds, or the meadows with lilies and
daisies and red clover-heads. Why do they have all the bright colors?"

A hint of perplexity crossed her brow.

"Surely I cannot tell. And the woods have been robed in scarlet and
yellow, and such tints of red brown that one could study them by the
hour. And the corn has turned a russet yellow and looks like the tents
of an army. Yes, there are divers colors in the world."

"And sometimes I have wished to be a butterfly. They were so beautiful,
skimming along. God made them surely."

"Yes. But He put no soul in them. Perhaps that was to show His estimate
of fine gear."

Primrose sighed.

"They would make heaven more beautiful. And the singing birds! Oh,
surely, Cousin Andrew, they must be saved."

"Nay, child, such talk is not seemly. What should a thing without a soul
do in heaven where all is praise and worship?"

"And the worship at Christ Church is very nice, with the singing of
psalms and hymns and the people praying together. Why do we not sing,
Andrew?"

He hugged her closer. The soft "we" went to his heart. She had not
identified herself with these people of forms and ceremonies then, nor
quite accepted their "vain repetitions."

"Thou wilt understand better in the course of a few years. There is much
mummery in all of these things. They who worship God truly do it in
spirit and in truth. But tell me what else thou art doing on week-days?"

She told him of her studies. The Latin and French seemed quite useless
to him, although he knew it was taught at the Friends' school, and many
of the persuasion he knew did not disdain education. But his father was
quite as rigorous as the Church Catechism about the duties pertaining to
one's station in life, and as his son was to be a farmer and inherit
broad acres, he cared for him to know nothing outside of his business.

But the bits of history, of men and women, interested him very much.

"I hear them talk sometimes," she said. "And some of them do not want a
king. Why is he not content to govern England and let us alone?"

"I am not clear in my own mind about that," he answered thoughtfully.
"So many of us came over here to escape the rigors of a hard rule and to
worship God as we chose. And methinks we ought to have the right to live
and do business as we choose. I should like to hear able men talk on
both sides. I heard some things in the market place this morning that
startled me strangely."

"They will not have the tea," she said tentatively. "It is queer, bitter
stuff, so I do not wonder."

He laughed at that.

"Yes, I heard we were like to be as famous as Boston."

"Patty knows about Boston," she said. "She was a little girl there. But
she doesn't like it very much."

Mistress Kent came in with some cake and a home brew of beer, and asked
politely after Mrs. Henry. Then Andrew rose to go.

"I cannot take thee just yet," he said, twining the little fingers about
one of his. "But the time will soon pass. And I shall be likely to come
in on market day once in a while, if I do not make bad bargains!" with a
grave sort of smile. "Then I shall see thee, and take home a good
account."

"Thou mayst indeed do that," said Mistress Janice, with high dignity.
"She learns many things in this great house."

He stooped and kissed her, and she somehow felt sorry to say good-by.

"I suppose," exclaimed his father that evening, "that the child has been
tutored out of her simple ways, and is aping the great lady with fine
feathers and all that!"

"She is not much changed and plainly dressed, and seems not easily to
forget her old life, asking about many things."

"My brother Philemon's intentions will be sorely thwarted. He was called
upon to give up his son, but I am not sure I should have done it for
worldly gain. It was going back to the bondage we were glad to escape.
And he had counted on other sons to uphold the faith. But the mother was
only half-hearted, and the child will always be in peril."

Andrew Henry wondered a little about this question of faith. He had
heard strange talk in the market place to-day. The Puritans of Boston
had persecuted and banished the Friends, and the Friends here could
hardly tolerate the royalist proclivities of the Episcopalians. If war
should come, would one have to choose between his country and his
faith?




CHAPTER V.

A BOULEVERSEMENT.


It was a winter of much perturbation. Grave questions were being
discussed--indeed, there had been overt acts of rebellion. And while the
Friends counseled peace and preached largely non-resistance, those in
trade found they were being sadly interfered with, and this led them to
look more closely into the matter and frequent some of the meetings
where discussions were not always of the moderate sort.

There had been a congress held at Smith's Tavern after Captain Ayres,
with his ship _Polly_, had thought it wisdom to turn about upon reaching
Gloucester Point and hearing that the town had resolved he should not
land his cargo of tea. Boston and New York had destroyed it, and he
thought it wiser not to risk a loss.

They went, afterward, to Carpenter's Hall, where the Reverend Mr. Duche
made a prayer and read the collect for the day. The discussion was
rather informal, if spirited, and the general disuse of English goods
was enjoined.

A sentiment was given afterward:

"May the sword of the parent never be stained with the blood of his
children."

There were a number of Friends present at the table. One, who had
protested vigorously against the possibilities of war, said heartily:

"This is not a toast, but a prayer. Come, let us join it."

Christmas was kept with much jollity on the part of many who had no fear
of the Scarlet Lady before their eyes, and whose affiliations with
Virginia and Maryland were of the tenderer sort. There was great
merrymaking at Madam Wetherill's, visitors having been invited for a
week's stay. And just at this time the widow Hester Morris married
again, and Anabella assumed a great deal of consequence.

Wedding festivities lasted several days. Primrose, in a flowered silken
gown, was permitted to go and have a taste of the bride cake, with
strict injunctions to refuse the wine. There were several children, and
they danced the minuet, to the great admiration of the grown people.

There were some other pleasures as well. The creeks were frozen over and
there were fascinating slides,--long, slippery places like a sheet of
glass,--and the triumph was to slide the whole length and keep one's
head well up. You could spread your arms out like a windmill, only you
might come in contact with some other arms, and the great thing was to
preserve a correct and elegant balance. Sometimes there were parties of
large girls, and then the little ones had to retire elsewhere lest they
might get run over and have a bad fall.

One of the pretty ways was to gather up one's skirt by an adroit
movement, and suddenly squat down and sail along like a ball. There was
a great art in going down, for you could lurch over so easily, and you
were almost sure to come down on your nose.

Primrose and Bella went out together after the former learned her way
about a little. And though Anabella seemed a rather precise body and
easily shocked over some things, she was quite fond of the boys, and
often timed their play hour so as to meet the boys coming home from
school, and have a laughing chat with them.

Primrose had a scarlet coat edged with fur and a hood to match. She
looked very charming in it, and even a stranger could see the glances of
admiration bestowed upon her. She was very shy with strangers, though
she did make friends with two or three girls.

"You must be very careful," declared the pretentious Bella. "I wouldn't
take so much notice of that Hannah Lee. They are very common people. Her
father is a blacksmith and her mother was a servant before she was
married. And they are Quakers."

"So was my own father and my dear mother."

"But your mother wasn't really, you know, and she had all those English
Wardour relations, and was well connected. But the Lees are very common
people, and poor. You see such people hang to you when you are grown up.
My mother says one cannot be too careful. Then I think Aunt Wetherill
would not approve."

She did like the fresh, rosy, brown-eyed Hannah Lee, though her dress,
from crown almost to toe, was drab, and somewhat faded at that. Her gray
beaver hat was tied snugly under her chin, and her yarn stockings were
gray. Her shoes had plain black buckles on them. But there were other
little gray birds as well, and some Quaker damsels were in cloth and
fur.

Primrose thought she would ask Aunt Wetherill. One morning she was up in
the sewing room and Patty was downstairs pressing out a gown that was
to be made over.

"You look nice and rosy, little Primrose," said the lady. "A run out of
doors is a good thing for you. I saw a flock of children sliding
yesterday, and I thought I knew the scarlet hood. It is more sensible
than a hat. Did you like the fun?"

"Oh, so much!" answered Primrose, her soft eyes shining like a summer
sky. "And I can keep up a good long while. But, when I go down, I do
often tip over."

"Thou wilt learn all these things. I am glad to have thee with the
children, too. It is not good for little ones to live too much with
grown people and get their ways."

"I know some of the girls," said Primrose. "I like Hannah Lee very much.
She goes to Master Dove's school, but Bella said she was poor."

"Fie! fie! Children should put on no such airs! Bella hath altogether
too many of them, and her mother is not an overwise woman! Let me hear
no more about whether one is poor or rich."

Primrose was not at all hurt by the chiding tone. She was so glad that
she might keep her friend with a clean conscience that she looked up and
smiled.

"Thou art a wholesome little thing, and the training of the Friends has
some good points. Let me see--I think thou canst have a white beaver
this winter, and a cloak with swansdown. And I will give Bella one of
blue, so she shall not ape thee. I do not like one to copy the other
when one purse is long and the other short."

"Oh, a white beaver! That would be beautiful!" and the eager eyes were
alight more with pleasure than vanity.

"She is like her mother," Madam Wetherill thought. Primrose was really
happy not to give up Hannah Lee. They could find so many subjects of
interchange--what the children were doing at Master Dove's school, and
the plays they had. The snowballing, although as yet there had been only
one snow, had been almost a battle between two parties of boys.

"But Master Dove said no one should dip the balls in water and then let
them freeze, or he would get birched soundly. The soft ones are more
fun, methinks; they often go to pieces in a shower. My brothers and I
snowball after the night work is done. We can keep no servant, so we all
have to help."

That was being poor, Primrose supposed. Yet Hannah seemed a great deal
kinder and merrier than Bella, and never said sharp things, or was
haughty to a playmate.

What Primrose had to tell seemed like wonderland to the little girl
whose only story was "Pilgrim's Progress"--the great house, with rugs
and silken curtains, the Chinese mandarin and the pagoda, the real
pictures that had come from England, and a beautiful, full-length
portrait of her own mother, the books in the library, and the gay
companies, the silver and fine dishes, and all the servants.

Not that Primrose boasted. She was very free from such a fault. It was
not hers, either, and she had no sense of possession. She spoke of her
life at her uncle's as well, of the quiet at the farm, of the sewing and
spinning.

"I shall learn to spin another year," said Hannah with interest. "I like
the merry, buzzing sound. And when I am tall enough for the big wheel I
shall enjoy running to and fro. I have an uncle at Germantown who
weaves. Mother lets us visit him now and then, and I delight in that."

Hannah had so many aunts and cousins that the little girl quite envied
her.

Bella Morris had a great deal to say about her newly married aunt, who,
after all, was no real relation, but her father's sister-in-law. She had
married a Mr. Mathews, a well-to-do widower with two growing-up sons who
were among the mischievous lads of the day, for even then signs were
reversed and gates carried off and front stoops barricaded; even windows
were broken in sport, the sport seeming to be chiefly in the adroitness
with which one could parry suspicion. They had a house on Spruce Street,
set in the midst of a considerable garden, while not a few respectable
business men lived over their stores and offices. Polly Morris really
grudged her sister-in-law the good fortune, for Hester had been left
much worse off than she, but Hester had no incumbrances, and was
younger.

In January another congress met, and there was a warm discussion about
home manufactures. Underneath was a seething mass ready to bubble over
at another turn of the screws. England had utterly refused to listen to
the colonists or accede to their wishes. Franklin returned home
heavy-hearted indeed, and though he counseled prudence and moderation,
and could not believe there would be what he foresaw, if it came to an
open issue, would prove a long and bitter struggle. But the gun was
fired at Lexington, and the State of Massachusetts stood forth an
undisguised rebel.

One market day Andrew came in again. Primrose had wondered at his long
absence. There had been many things to disturb the serenity of the
peaceful farmhouse. A sister of Aunt Lois' who had cared for the mother
during years of widowhood was taken down, and died after a short
illness. The mother, old and feeble, and wandering in her mind, needed
constant care. There were three children also, a lad of sixteen and two
younger girls, one of whom was devoted to the poor old grandmother.
There was nothing to do but to offer them a home, James Henry felt, for
Lois would want to make her mother's declining years as comfortable as
possible. They were not penniless, but the income was small, and the
farm in debt, so it was judged best to sell it and invest the money for
the children. Penn Morgan was a stout young fellow and would be of much
assistance to Uncle James, while he was learning to do for himself.
Rachel, at fourteen, was very womanly, and little Faith was ten.

All this had happened during March. James Henry paid little attention to
outside matters. He was prosperous enough under the King's rule, he
thought, and he was not a man to take up the larger questions.

"We can hardly have thy brother's child here this season," Lois Henry
said to her husband one evening as she sat in her straight-backed chair,
too tired even to knit when the cares of the day were over, and the
poor, half-demented mother safely asleep.

He looked up in anger. "Not have her here?" he repeated vaguely.

"There is so much more care for me. Rachel is a great help and a
comforting maiden. I never thought anyone could come so near to the
place of the lost ones, the daughters I had hoped would care for my old
age. Faith is gentle and tractable, but two children so nearly of an
age, yet with such a different training, would lead to no end of
argument and do each other no good. I dare say Madam Wetherill has used
her best efforts to uproot our ways and methods."

"That would be a small and unjust thing, remembering her father's
faith."

There was something not quite a smile crossed Lois' face, so tired now
that a few of the placid lines had lost their sweetness.

"Yet it was what we did, James." Lois had a great sense of fair-dealing
and truth-telling. So far she had had no bargains to make with the
world, nor temptations to get the better of anyone. "We thought it our
duty to instruct her in her father's faith and keep her from the
frivolities that were a snare to her mother. I dare say Madam Wetherill
looks at the reverse side for her duty. They go to Christ Church, Andrew
said, and though christening signifieth nothing to us, she may impress
the child with a sense of its importance. Then the Wetherill House has
been very gay this winter. Friend Lane said there was gaming and
festivities going on every night, and that it was a meeting place for
disaffected minds."

"But Madam Wetherill is a fine royalist. Still there are many ungodly
things and temptations there, and this is why I requested Andrew not to
go there on market days. He was roused in a way I could not approve and
talked of the books in the house. Indiscreet reading is surely a snare.
I am not at all sure the ever-wise Franklin, while no doubt he hath much
good sense and counseleth patience and peace, hath done a wise thing in
advocating a public library where may be found all kinds of heresy. Yet
it is true that James Logan was learned in foreign tongues and gave to
the town his collection. It was better while they were kept in the
family, but now they have been taken to Carpenter's Hall, and some other
books added, I hear, and it is a sort of lounging place where the young
may imbibe dangerous doctrines. I am glad Penn is such a sensible
fellow, though Andrew hath been obedient, but he will soon be of age."

"The child has been subject to little restraint then, if she is allowed
to read everything. And it would be better for Faith not to have the
companionship. Then I do not feel able to undertake the training out of
these ideas, as I should feel it my duty to do."

James Henry gave a sigh. He could recall his brother's anxiety that the
child should not stray from the faith of the Friends.

"I will go in next week myself and have an interview with Madam
Wetherill and see the child. I shall be better able to decide what is my
duty."

Then they lapsed into silent meditation. If the prayers, since they are
only fervent desires, could have been uttered aloud, they would have
been found quite at variance.

Providence, which is supposed to have a hand in these matters, was
certainly on Lois Henry's side, though she never took comfort in the
fact; indeed, accepted the accident with the sweet patience of her sect
and never disturbed her mind studying why it should have been sent at
this particular time. For James Henry had a fall from the upper floor of
his barn and broke his hip, which meant a long siege in bed at the
busiest season.

Penn Morgan, a nice, strong fellow, was a great comfort. He had managed
his mother's smaller farm and was not afraid of work.

There was yet considerable farm produce, and much demand for the nicer
qualities. Andrew was instructed to call at Arch Street and request a
visit from Madam Wetherill.

The news had not yet come of the great battle at Lexington, but all was
stir and ferment and activity. For six weeks Andrew had not seen the
town. Now on nearly every corner was a group in eager discussion. There
had been Patrick Henry's incendiary speech, there was Mr. Adams from
Massachusetts, and Benjamin Franklin, so lately returned from England,
and many another one from whom the world was to hear before the struggle
ended.

Madam Wetherill was out, but would surely be in at dinner time, and
though society functions were sometimes as late as two, the ordinary
dinner was in the middle of the day. He would have almost an hour to
wait, but he had sold very rapidly this morning and made good bargains.

"It is thy cousin," said Mistress Kent. "I have no time to spare, and if
thou art not needed at lessons----"

"Oh, let me go to him!" cried Primrose, her face alight with joyous
eagerness. "It is so long since I have seen him. I can study this
afternoon, as there are no more dancing lessons."

"Well, run along, child. Don't be too forward in thy behavior."

Patty had gone out with her mistress to do a little trading, since she
was excellent authority and had many gossiping friends who were much
interested in the latest fashions. And now, in the disturbed state of
imports, it would not be so easy to have orders filled abroad.

Primrose danced down the stairs and through the hall. "Oh, Andrew!" she
cried, as she was clasped in the fond arms.

Then he held her off a bit. No, Faith could not compare with her. Yet
Faith had blue eyes, a fair skin, and light hair, straight and rather
stringy and cut short in her neck. But these eyes were like a glint of
heaven on a most radiant day, these curving red lips were full of smiles
and sweetness, and this lovely hair, this becoming and graceful
attire----

"Oh, why do you sigh!" in a pretty, imperious fashion. "Are you not glad
to see me? I thought you had forgotten me. It is such a long, long
while."

"Did I sigh? I was surprised. Thou art like a sweet, blossomy rose with
the morning dew upon it."

"Prim Rose." She drew her face down a little, drooped her eyes, and let
her arms hang at her side in a demure fashion, and though Andrew's
vocabulary had few descriptive adjectives in it, he felt she was
distractingly pretty. He wanted to kiss her again and again, but
refrained with Quaker self-restraint.

She laughed softly. "Madam Shippen was here one day with big Miss Peggy,
who can laugh and be gay like any little girl, and who is so pretty--not
like my dear mother in the frame, but--oh, I can't find a word, and I am
learning so many new ones, too. But one would just like to kneel at her
feet, and draw a long breath. And she took hold of my hands and we
skipped about in the hall with the new step Master Bagett taught me. And
Madam Shippen said I was 'most like a rose, and that if I became a
Friend I should be called Prim alone, since the name would be suitable.
And Madam Wetherill said I was divided, like my name. When will it be
time to go to the farm?"

"Would it be a great disappointment if thou didst not go?" he asked
gravely.

"What has happened, cousin?"

Her sweet face took instant alarm. The smiles shaped themselves to a
sudden unspoken sympathy.

"A great many things have happened." He would have liked to draw her
down to his knee as he had seen Penn hold his sister Faith and comfort
her for the loss of their mother. But Primrose did not need comforting.
He kept his arm about her and drew her nearer to him.

"Yes, a great many things. Mother's sister, Aunt Rachel Morgan, died in
March, and grandmother and the three children have come to live with us.
Grandmother is old and has mostly lost her mind. Penn is a large fellow
of his age, almost grown up, and is of great service. Rachel is fourteen
and is wise in the management of grandmother, who cannot tell one from
another and thinks my mother the elder Rachel who died. And then there
is little Faith."

"Faith? What is she like? Would you rather have her than--than me? Do
you love her most?"

A sudden jealousy flamed up in the child's heart. Since her mother had
gone she had really loved no one until she had met Andrew. Perhaps it
was largely due to the fact that he was the only sympathetic one in a
lonely life.

Andrew laughed, stirred by a sweet joy.

"I would a dozen times rather have thee, but Faith is nice and obedient
and my mother has grown fond of her. But there is something about thee,
Primrose--canst thou remember how the chickens followed thee, and the
birds and the squirrels never seemed afraid? Thou didst talk to the
robins as if thou didst understand their song. And the beady-eyed
squirrels--how they would stop and listen."

"I made a robin's song on the spinet quite by myself, one afternoon. And
the dainty Phoebe bird, and the wren with her few small notes. Do you
know, I think the wren a Quaker bird, only her gown is not quite gray
enough. We went out to great-aunt's farm one day, and oh, the birds!
Some had on such dazzling plumage and flew so swiftly. We went to the
woods and found trailing arbutus, that is so sweet, and hepatica, and
oh! many another thing. I can't recall half the names. There was a tall,
grave gentleman who talked much about them and said they were families.
Are the little birds the babies, and are there cousins and aunts and
grandmothers all faded and shriveled up? And can they talk to each other
with those little nods and swinging back and forth?"

"Thou art a strange child, Primrose," and he smiled. "What were we
talking of? Oh, the coming of the children. And then father hath had a
bad fall and has to be kept in bed for weeks. So we seem full of
trouble."

"Oh, I am so sorry, Andrew!" Her head was up by his shoulder and she
leaned over and kissed him, and then he held her in a very close embrace
and felt in some mysterious way that she belonged to him, rather than to
his father or to her grand aunt.

"And you will hardly want me," with a slow half question answering
itself.

"That is one of my errands. Father desires to see Madam Wetherill. He
did not say--he wishes to follow out my uncle's will concerning you."

Then he looked her all over. Her eyes were cast down on the polished
floor that had lately come in. Many people had them sanded; indeed, the
large dining room here was freshly sanded every morning and drawn in
waves and diamonds and figures of various sorts. The Friends used the
sand, but condemned the figures as savoring of the world.

As Primrose stood there she was grace itself. Her head was full of loose
curls that glinted of silver in the high lights and a touch of gold in
the shade, deepening to a soft brown. Her skin was fine and clear, her
brows and the long lashes were quite dark, the latter just tipped with
gold that often gave the eyes a dazzling appearance. Her ear was like a
bit of pinkish shell or a half crumpled rose leaf. And where her chin
melted into her neck, and the neck sloped to the shoulder, there were
exquisite lines. After the fashion of the day her bodice was cut square,
and the sleeves had a puff at the shoulder and a pretty bow that had
done duty in various places before. He did not understand that it was
beauty that moved him so, for he had always been deeply sympathetic over
the loss of her parents.

She was not studying the floor, or thinking whether she looked winsome
or no, though Bella Morris would have done for an instructor on poses
already, and was often saying, "Primrose, you must stand that way and
turn your face so, and look as if you were listening to something," or
"Bend your head a little."

"But I'm not listening, and I can't have my head bent over, it tires my
neck," she would reply with a kind of gay decision.

She was wondering whether she wanted to go out to the farm or not. Would
she be allowed to take her books along, or must she go on with the
spinning and sewing? And she did love her pretty gowns and the ribbons,
and the silver buckles on her shoes, and several times she had worn the
gold beads that her mother had left behind for her. And there was the
spinet, with its mysterious music, the drives about, and she was
learning to ride on a pillion; and Patty knew so many stories about
everything, merry and sad and awesome, for her grandmother's sister had
been thrust into prison at Salem for being a witch. And Patty also knew
some fairy stories, chief among them a version of "Cinderella," and that
fascinating "Little Red Riding Hood."

"I think I shall want thee always," he began, breaking the silence. "I
have missed thee so much, and counted on thy coming back to us. But you
might find it dull after all the pleasure and diversion. There would be
Faith----"

"Should I like her?"

"That I cannot tell," and he smiled gravely.

She did not altogether like Bella, but she did not want to say so. It
was queer, but she was learning that you could not like everybody to
order. There was something about kind, gentle Aunt Lois that held one at
a distance, and she was always afraid of her Uncle James.

"Do you like her very much?" with a lingering intonation.

"We are commanded to love everyone, chiefly those of the household of
faith."

"Cousin Andrew," very seriously, "I go to Christ Church now. I like the
singing. And it says--in the Scriptures, I think--'Let everything that
hath breath praise the Lord!'"

"One can praise in the heart."

"How should another know it? One might be thinking very naughty things
in the heart, and keep silence."

"But the naughty and evil heart would not be likely to do good works."

Primrose was silent. The spiritual part of theology was quite beyond
her.

Then there was a clang at the knocker and the small black boy in a
bright turban went to answer.




CHAPTER VI.

TO THE RESCUE.


Primrose was dismissed, though she saw her Cousin Andrew again at
dinner. Madam Wetherill had quite settled the question. She was going
out to her own country estate, and Primrose would have a change of air
and much more liberty, and under the circumstances it was altogether
better that she should not go to her uncle's, and Madam Wetherill
considered the matter as settled, though she promised to come out the
next day.

The dream of William Penn had been a fair, roomy city, with houses set
in gardens of greenery. There were to be straight, long streets reaching
out to the suburbs and the one to front the river was to have a great
public thoroughfare along the bank. Red pines grew abundantly, and many
another noble tree was left standing wherever it could be allowed, and
new ones planted. Broad Street cut the city in two from north to south,
High Street divided it in the opposite direction.

But even now "The greene country towne" was showing changes. To be sure
the house in Letitia Court was still standing and the slate-roof house
into which Mr. Penn moved later on. But market houses came in High
Street, the green river banks were needed for commerce, and little
hamlets were growing up on the outskirts. There were neighborly rows of
houses that had wide porches where the heads of families received their
neighbors, the men discussing the state of the country or their own
business, the women comparing household perplexities, complaining of
servants, who, when too refractory, were sent to the jail to be whipped,
and the complaints or the praises of apprentices who boarded in their
master's houses, or rather, were given their board and a moderate yearly
stipend to purchase clothes, where they were not made at home. Young
people strolled up and down under the great trees of elm and sycamore,
or lingered under the drooping willows where sharp eyes could not follow
them so closely, and many a demure maiden tried her hand on her father's
favorite apprentice, meaning to aim higher later on unless he had some
unusual success.

Up to this time there had been a reign of quiet prosperity. The old
Swedes had brought in their own faith; the church, so small at first as
to be almost unnoticed, was winning its way. And though Whitfield had
preached the terrors of the law, religious life was more tolerant.
Natural aspects were more conciliatory. The Friends were peace-loving
and not easily roused from placid methods of money-getting. There was
nothing of the Puritan environment or the strenuous conscience that
keeps up fanatics and martyrs. Witchcraft could not prosper here, there
being only one trial on record, and that easily dismissed. The mantle of
charity and peace still hovered over the place, and prosperity had
brought about easy habits. Perhaps, too, the luxuriant growth and
abundance of everything assisted. Nature smiled, springs were early,
autumns full of tender glory.

And though the city was not crowded, according to modern terms, there
were many who migrated up the Schuylkill every summer, who owned
handsome farms and wide-spreading country houses. Chestnut Hill and
Mount Airy, Stenton and the Chew House at Germantown, were the scene of
many a summer festivity where Friends and world's people mingled in
social enjoyment; pretty Quakeresses practiced the fine art of pleasing
and making the most of demure ways and eyes that could be so seductively
downcast, phraseology that admitted of more intimacy when prefaced by
the term "Friend," or lingered in dulcet tones over the "thee and thou."

Madam Wetherill always made a summer flitting to her fine and profitable
farm, and surrounded herself with guests. She was very fond of company
and asked people of different minds, having a great liking for argument,
though it was difficult to find just where she stood on many subjects,
except the Church and her decided objection to many of the tenets of the
Friends, though she counted several of her most intimate acquaintances
among them. She had a certain graceful suavity and took no delight in
offending anyone.

But she was moved to the heart by Lois Henry's misfortunes. The old
mother sat under a great walnut tree on a high-backed bench, with some
knitting in her hand, in which she merely run the needles in and out and
wound the yarn around any fashion, while she babbled softly or asked a
question and forgot it as soon as asked. Rather spare in figure and much
wrinkled in face, she still had a placid look and smiled with a
meaningless softness as anyone drew near.

For a moment Madam Wetherill thought of William Penn, whom her father
had visited at Ruscombe in those last years of a useful life when
dreams were his only reality, still gentle and serene, and fond of
children. Faith was sitting at her knee and answering her aimless talk,
and Rachel had her spinning wheel on the porch.

Madam Wetherill alighted from her horse, and Rachel came out to her. She
sometimes took her servant, but she was a fearless and capable rider.

"I will call my aunt," the young woman said with a courtesy of respect
such as girls gave to elders.

"Tell her it is Madam Wetherill. Nay, I will sit here," as the girl
invited her within; and she took the porch bench.

Lois Henry showed her added cares in the thinness of her face and
certain drawn lines about the mouth, but it had not lost its grave
sweetness.

"I hear you are full of trouble," began Madam Wetherill in her well-bred
tones. What with education on the one side, and equable temperament on
the other, perhaps too, the softness of the climate and the easier modes
of life, voices and manners both had a refinement for which they are
seldom given credit. The intercourse between England and the colonies
had been more frequent and kindly, though the dawning love of liberty
was quite as strong as in the Eastern settlements.

"Yes, there is heaviness and burthens laid upon me, but if we are glad
to receive good at the hands of the Lord we must not murmur against
evil. The spring is a bad time for the head of the house to be laid
aside."

"And you have added family cares. I have come to see if you are willing
to be relieved in some measure. Everyone counts at such a time, while in
a family like ours, with the going and coming, one more never adds to
the work."

"I should be quite willing if we could be assured it was our duty to
shift burthens in times of trouble. James is somewhat disquieted about
the child. Will you come in and talk with him?"

The bed had been brought out to the best room, as it was so much larger
than the sleeping chamber adjoining it. James Henry lay stretched upon a
pallet, his ruddy face somewhat paler than its wont.

"I am pleased to see thee," he said gravely.

"And I am sorry for thy misfortune."

The use of the pronoun "thou" had its old English manner and was not
confined to the Friends alone. The more rigid, who sought to despise all
things that savored of worldliness, used their objective in season and
out. And among the younger of the citified Friends, "you" was not
infrequently heard.

"It is the Lord's will. We are not allowed our choice of times. Though I
must say I have been prospered heretofore, and give thanks for it. I
hear there are other troubles abroad and that those pestilent Puritans,
who were never able to live in peace for any length of time, have
rebelled against the King. I am sorry it hath come to open blows. But
they will soon have the punishment they deserve. We are enjoined to live
at peace with all men."

"The news is extremely meager. There is a great ferment," Madam
Wetherill replied suavely.

"And in town they are holding congresses! The Lord direct them in the
right way. But we have many rebels among us, I think. This was to be a
town of peace. William Penn conciliated his enemies and had no use for
the sword."

"True--true! We shall need much wisdom. But I must not weary thee
talking of uncertainties. There is another matter that concerns us both,
our little ward. As affairs stand I think she had better remain with me
through the summer. She will be on a farm and have plenty of air and
take up some of the arts of country life. She is in good health and is,
I think, a very easily governed child."

"It is not following out her father's wishes. He hoped she would be of
his faith. And the influence here might serve to counteract some
follies. I would rather she came. But Lois is heavily weighted and two
children of the same age----"

"Primrose would have many strange things for her little cousin's ears.
Nay, they are hardly cousins." And Madam Wetherill smiled. A keen
observer might have observed a touch of disdain.

"Except as to faith. She would be forbidden to talk over her worldly
life. We discountenanced it before. It is a sad thing that a child
should be so torn and distracted before she can hardly know good or
evil. I do not think my brother meant this course should be followed."

"Yet he could not deprive the mother of her child. And he gave away his
son for worldly advancement. It was merely that Mistress Henry and her
child should live here half the year. The court decided she could
transfer her rights to another guardian, and I was nearest of kin. And I
shall have to seek heirs somewhere. But one summer cannot matter much,
and it will be a relief to thy overtired wife."

James Henry started to raise himself on his elbow and then remembered
that he was bandaged and strapped, and was but a helpless log. Two
months, the doctor had said, even if all went well, before he could
make any exertion. He glanced at his wife. He must be waited on hand and
foot, and now the child had been filled with worldliness and would need
strong governing. Andrew was overindulgent to her.

"It hath caused me much thought. This time we might make it a year for
good reasons. Mr. Northfield would no doubt consent. Then she would come
in the fall and remain."

"Nay, I will not promise that. Her winters in town are important for
education. It was for that partly that I preferred the winters. She hath
no farm to go to afterward and will lead a town life."

"But so much worldly education does not befit a woman or improve her."

"Yet we must admit that the earlier Friends were men of sound education.
They read Greek and Latin, and now at the Friends' school there are many
high branches pursued. And it is becoming a question whether spelling
correctly, and being able to write a letter and cast up accounts, will
harm any woman. Widows often have a sorry time when they know nothing of
affairs, and become the prey of designing people. I have had large
matters to manage and should have had a troublesome time had I been
ignorant."

James Henry sighed. He had wished before that this woman had not been
quite so shrewd. And though he was a stanch Friend and would have
suffered persecution for the cause, wealth had a curious charm for him,
and he was not quite certain it would be right to deprive Primrose Henry
of any chance. She had seemed easily influenced last year. If Faith
could gain some ascendency over her! But Faith was more likely to be
swayed than to sway, he was afraid.

"Then let the case stand this way," said Madam Wetherill. "After a month
or so matters may be improved with you, and she can come then, being a
month or two later in town."

"Yes, that may do," he answered reluctantly, but he did long for a whole
year in which to influence his brother's child. For surely she was born
in the faith. He would not have gone outside for a convert; the Friends
were not given to the making of proselytes. Everyone must be convinced
of his own conscience.

"Then we will agree upon this for the present. Thou hast my warmest
sympathy, and I shall be glad to hear of thy improvement. I hope Friend
Lois will not get quite worn out. Good-day to thee. If there is anything
a friend can do, command me at once."

"My own patience is the greatest requisite," said the master of the
house, while Lois raised her eyes with a certain grateful light.

She paused a moment for a word with Rachel, a nice, wholesome-looking
girl with the freshness of youth, and who responded quietly but made no
effort for conversation. Faith was still chatting with the grandmother.
Madam Wetherill stepped on the block and mounted her horse as deftly as
a young person might.

"The youth Andrew is not so straitlaced," she ruminated. "And he seemed
much interested in the talk of war. If it comes to that, what will the
Quakers do, I wonder? They can hardly go among the Indians to escape the
strife, and if home and country is worth anything they ought to take
their share in defending it. As Mr. Adams says, it would come sooner or
later. The colonists are of English blood and cannot stand so much
oppression. It is queer they cannot think of us as their own children.
And we of the more southern lands have felt tenderly toward the mother
country, especially we of the church."

Philadelphia believed herself on the eve of great changes, as well as
Boston. Virginia had her heroes that felt quite as keenly the injustice
of the mother country. Patrick Henry had fired many hearts with his
patriotic eloquence. When Governor Dunmore had seized a quantity of
gunpowder belonging to the colonies and had it shipped on board a man of
war, Henry went at the head of a party of armed citizens and demanded
restitution, which was made with much show of ill feeling. Not long
after the exasperated people had driven the Governor from his house,
shorn him of power, and compelled him to seek safety. In North Carolina
there had been a declaration of independence read aloud to a convention
at Charlotte. "An appeal to arms and to the God of Hosts, is all that is
left us," said Patrick Henry. And Joseph Hawley said, "We must fight."

The battle of Lexington was the match that started the blaze. The other
colonies were ready. Philadelphia prepared herself for the struggle. At
another meeting it was resolved, "That the United Colonies are of right
or ought to be free and independent states, and that they are absolved
from all duties to the British crown."

Jefferson wrote this declaration, submitting it to Franklin and John
Adams, and many discussions followed before it was adopted. And the
Continental Congress had been much encouraged by the enthusiasm of
Virginia. Washington had said publicly, "I will raise a thousand men,
subsist them at my own expense, and march with them, at their head, for
the relief of Boston."

Mrs. Washington had not been less patriotic, though her love of peaceful
domestic affairs was well known. To a friend she had written, "Yes, I
foresee serious consequences, dark days and darker nights, domestic
happiness suspended, social enjoyments abandoned, property of every kind
put in jeopardy by war, neighbors and friends at variance, and eternal
separations possible."

There had come news of the seizure of fortresses at Ticonderoga and
Crown Point. Ammunition, stores, and fifty pieces of cannon had been
taken. General Gage had announced his intentions of sending "those arch
offenders Samuel Adams and John Hancock" to England to be hanged. The
latter brave rebel had laughed the threat to scorn. But the Declaration
was considered a bold step.

There was a gathering of friends at Madam Wetherill's that very evening,
for it was known that she would soon be out on the farm, and since she
had much at stake in trade and property, many were curious to see which
side she would really espouse.

"The idea of a horde of common people running a government with no head
but their own wills is preposterous!" cried the proud old Tory Ralph
Jeffries, as he settled his wig with a shake of the head and pulled out
his lace ruffles. "Are these canting Puritans going to rule us with
their quarrels?"

"The whole country seems pretty well ablaze. It is like a Latimer and
Ridley fire," was the retort.

"We will put it out, sir! We will put it out! Where would be the dignity
or security of any such government? A pack of braggarts over a little
skirmish. King George is good enough for us."

"Then you may have to emigrate again presently," suggested portly John
Logan. "The storm has been long gathering. Little by little we have seen
our rights abridged, while we have been growing up to the full size of
manhood. We have tried our wit and ability. To-day we could enter the
lists of trade with foreign nations, but our ports have been closed.
England dictates how much and how little we shall do. We are not a
nation of slaves, but brethren with them over the seas. We are not to be
kept in the swaddling clothes of infancy.

"It hath been a sorry hardship not to trade where we will when the
country groweth steadily. It is a great and wonderful land and needeth
only wise rulers to make it the garden of the world. But the taxes are
grievous, and no one knows where this will end. I am a man of peace as
thou all knowest, but when the iron is at white heat and has been struck
one blow it is best to keep on."

"And you believe," returned Jeffries scornfully, "that a handful of men
can conquer the flower of Britain? How many, think you, will come to the
fore if there is a call to arms? A few of these noisy brawlers like
Henry and Jefferson and Adams, and those pestilent Puritans who have
been ever stirring up strife, and a few foolish men easily turned with
every wind that blows. Good Lord, what an army to cope with trained
men!"

"These same brawlers have done England some good service against the
French. They have fighting blood, and when it is roused on the side of
right will be a match for the redcoats at Champlain."

Some of the women were gathered in the hall where there was tea and
cakes, or mead if one liked better.

"But, if there is war, we shall not be able to get anything," said vain
and pretty Madam Jeffries, who was a second wife, and strong of will as
her husband seemed, twisted him around her finger. "And I have just sent
abroad for finery."

"We must come to linsey-woolsey, though the weavers of Germantown make
fine goods, and there is silk already made in our own town. Instead of
so much gossiping and sitting with idle hands we must make our own
laces. It is taught largely, I hear, at Boston, and my mother was an
expert at it. Then there are fringes and loops--and, oh, I think we
shall manage."

"But will there really be war?--Madam Wetherill, it will begin in the
room there," laughing and nodding her head. "They will come to blows
soon. And Hugh Mifflin, methinks, has forgotten his Quaker blood. How
well he talks! And hear--he quotes from the Farmers' letters. I thought
the Friends were resolved not to bear arms."

"Do they always turn the other cheek to the smiter?" asked someone, and
a laugh followed.

In the upper hall Primrose stood by the end window, listening and
wondering. Patty found her there, large-eyed.

"What will there be war about?" she asked. "And will they come here and
take us all prisoners?"

"Nonsense, child! This is no talk for thee. Come to bed at once."

"Patty, did you hear my great-aunt say if I was to go out to the farm?
What if they make Cousin Andrew fight? I should be so sorry."

"Quakers do not fight."

"But brave men do. I have read about them. And I am sure Andrew is
brave."

"Do not be sure of any man. Thou wilt get a sight of wisdom between this
and twenty years. And I believe thou art not to go out to Cherry Hill.
There is too much illness. And we are to move to our own farm."

"And will there be chickens and birds and squirrels, and little lambs
playing about, and----"

"Do not string any more things together with an 'and,' like beads on a
chain, but get to bed. Yes, they seem to be having a fine noisy time
downstairs. I know on which side the madam will be."

"For the King?"

"Not strongly, I think," with an ironical laugh Primrose did not
understand.

"And you, Patty?"

"The King would have poor luck if he depended on me to fight for him.
There, good-night, and good sleep."




CHAPTER VII.

AT SOME CROSSROADS.


There was much confusion in the old house, putting fine things and
ornaments away and packing family heirlooms and silver. There was also
much going to and fro, and after a few days Primrose, with her
attendant, Patty, went out to the farm, then in all its beauty of
greenness, though the fruit blooms were over. But there were countless
roses and garden flowers of all the old-fashioned sorts, and sweet herbs
and herbs for all kinds of medicinal brews. For though Dr. Shippen and
Dr. Rush had begun to protest against "old women's doses," many still
had faith in them and kept to feverfew and dittany and golden rod and
various other simples, and made cough balsams and salves.

The house was large and plain, with uncarpeted floors that were mopped
up in the morning for coolness and cleanliness, quite a Virginian
fashion. The kitchen and dining room were sanded, the chairs were plain
splint or rather coarse rush or willow. There were a wide wooden settle
and some curious old chests used for seats, as well as hiding places for
commoner things.

But it was the garden that attracted Primrose. She had never seen so
many flowers nor such lovely ones, for in the woods there was not this
variety. Life had been too busy, and wants too pressing, to indulge in
much luxury where gardening was concerned. John Bartram had many
remarkable trees and plants, but they were things of families and
pedigrees, and his house was the resort of curious and scientific men.
Although a Friend, he had a tender heart for beauty, as well as many
other things. But in general the Friends cultivated simple and useful
herbs. At the Henry farm there was no pretense of a flower garden.

Primrose ran up and down the wide, smooth walk, made of dirt and small
stones with much labor, where, through the summer at least, not a tuft
of grass was permitted to grow. How lovely it was! The house stood on
quite an elevation. One could see Mount Airy and Clieveden and other
summer homes, and the Schuylkill winding placidly about, peeping through
its embowered banks here and there.

But the quiet, romantic stream was to witness many a tragedy and many an
act of heroism that no one dreamed of that summer. The real alarms of
war scarcely penetrated it. Young people went sailing and rowing and had
picnics and teas along its banks, and the air was gay with jests and
laughter.

The town was much divided in spirit and did not really pull together.
There were rampant Tories, who declared boldly for the King; there were
more faint-hearted ones who had much business at stake and cared only
for making money, and many of the Friends who counseled peace at any
price. But events marched on rapidly and in June Congress declared for a
Continental Army, and the host of patriots at Cambridge called Colonel
Washington from Philadelphia, where he had been in consultation with
some of the important citizens, and made him commander in chief of the
American forces.

The city had been prosperous and stretched out its borders in many
directions. There were flourishing Friends' meeting houses, there was
Christ Church and St. Peter's on the hill. For the hills had not been
leveled, and there were many pretty altitudes crowned with brick
residences that were considered fine at that time and certainly were
roomy. The Swedes had their church and all the denominations were well
represented, for at this period religious, interest was strong. There
were not many outside amusements. Plays were considered rather
reprehensible.

There were a few bridges over the creeks where boys waded, and girls
were not always averse to the enjoyment on a summer afternoon. There
were flocks of geese and ducks disporting themselves. And along the
shore front docks had been built, there were business warehouses and
shipping plying to and fro, for the trade with more southern ports was
brisk. There were some noted taverns where one might see foreign
sailors, and shops that displayed curious goods. There was damask
Floreells silk, brocades and lutestrings done up in fair boxes, as you
found when you entered. There were gold and silver laces and gold
buttons and brocades of every variety and cost.

The young damsels were sometimes allowed to go out with their elders and
have a peep at the fine things and express their likings. Some of the
storekeepers who had laid in abundant stocks chuckled to themselves at
the thought that now, when all importations on private account must be
stopped, they would stand a better chance.

In the early part of the century there had been an eloquent divine, a
Mr. Evans, who had succeeded Mr. Clayton and who somehow had proved very
attractive to the Friends. They had flocked to church to hear him, they
had even taken off their broadbrims with a timid desire to conform to
the ways of the world's people. This had gone on until it awakened a
sense of alarm, and at the evening meeting where business might be
considered, they had been forbidden to attend the services. So there had
grown up a broader feeling, and numbers, while they did not quite like
to break with their own communion, were more tolerant, read disapproved
books, thought more of education, and began to look with different eyes
on the great world, while others, almost horror-stricken at the
latitude, drew their lines tighter.

From Christ Church, as an offshoot, had sprung up St. Peter's. Governor
Penn had his pew in the south gallery. Benjamin Franklin and many of the
elite thronged the stone aisles with pattering footsteps, in laced
coats, queues, and ruffles; the women with their big hats tied under the
chin with an enormous bow, a fashion that sent the top up with a great
flare where puffs of hair were piled one upon another, or little curls,
and stiff brocades that rustled along, little heels that clicked, lace
or lawn scarfs coquettishly arranged for summer use, and great fans
carried by a ribbon on the arm. In winter there were silk pelisses edged
with fur, or a fur or velvet coat. The great distinction was the young
girls in much more simple material, with pretty demureness and sometimes
longing looks cast at the attire of the young wives or older matrons,
and a thought of the time when this glory should be theirs.

Now that one must be for or against, Madam Wetherill, though not
aggressive in her opinions, plainly showed on which side her sympathies
were ranged.

Wiseacres shook their heads; even among those who came to drink tea in
the summer house, made primarily by four large, over-arching trees and a
latticework about, against which there was a bench all around, and a
great table sufficiently rustic not to mind the summer showers.

There was no spinet to practice on. There were no tutors, but Primrose
said a few lessons to Patty, sewed a little, and ran about, her hands
and arms encased in long linen mitts that left the fingers free, and a
widebrimmed straw hat tied well down, or a Quaker sun bonnet made of
reeds and cambric. But there were so many visitors that she was often
dressed up, and made much of by the young ladies.

Polly Morris complained that "Bella was in a very poor state and pining
for country air. If her purse were long enough she would take her up to
Martha Woolcot's, but boarding was high. The Matthews had gone over to
the Jerseys. They had been very kind in giving her a fortnight's visit,
but now the house would be shut up, and there was only her small
cottage, that had been so built around by reason of business that one
could hardly find a mouthful of fresh air."

"I did say I would not ask her here again in the summer. Bella is
troublesome and forward amid company. But, poor thing! she has only part
of her house, as below it is a shop and rented out, and her purse is a
slim one at best," said good-hearted Madam Wetherill. "Patty, suppose
you write for me, and ask her for a fortnight. She will stay a full
month. The children may play about and amuse themselves. 'Tis not that I
grudge what she eats and drinks, but I like not to have people take so
much by right, and feel that your best is hardly good enough for them,
and that you owe them something."

"Yes, madam," replied Patty respectfully, though she set about it rather
reluctantly. She was not over fond of Bella.

A week later they came with a chest of attire that did indeed presage a
good long stay. Bella was glad enough to meet her compeer.

"For it has been utterly wretched since Aunt Matthews went away," she
confessed to Primrose. "We went there so often. And Jonas, the younger
boy, has so much drollness in him and tells about pranks at school. And
one night he crept out of the window on a shed and slid down and went to
a merrymaking at some tavern, where they had rare fun. He did not come
in until nearly morning, and his head ached so he was ill the next day.
Aunt Matthews made him a posset."

"And did he confess this wrong to her?" asked Primrose in grave
solicitude.

"Confess! What a silly you are, Primrose! That would have spoiled all
the fun."

"But it was not right."

"Well--his father would have been severe with him, and when one is sharp
it is a pleasure to outwit him. The boys had carried off some gates
shortly before, and they had changed the sign of the Jolly Fisherman to
Friend Reed's coffin shop, and he never knew it the whole morning and
wondered why people stared. Both boys were soundly caned for it, and
after all it was only a bit of fun. So then they kept their own counsel.
Jonas knows such pages of funny verses, and there are some in Latin."

"How did you come to know?"

"Oh, he told me!" Bella bridled her head and half shut one eye that gave
her an unpleasant look of cunning. "He swore me not to tell and said
little girls were often better than big girls."

"And did you swear?" Primrose was horror-stricken.

"Well, I didn't say any wicked words. Some of the great ladies say, 'I
swear,' and the men often do, but it doesn't really mean anything when
you say it in French."

Primrose asked Patty about it.

"Swearing is swearing, whether you do it in French or Dutch. What put
such nonsense in thy head? I think the French a wicked language anyhow,
and I don't see why madam wants thee to jabber any such gibberish."

"It's very hard and I don't believe I ever shall," said the child with a
sigh.

"The better grace for thee then."

Bella was quite wise and precocious and learning ways of fashion
rapidly. She stood a little in awe of Madam Wetherill and could be very
demure when she saw that it was the part of wisdom. Occasionally she
made Primrose a tacit partner in some reprehensible matter in a way that
the child could not protest against. And then Bella laughed at her love
for birds and flowers and was always talking about finery and repeating
the flattering things that were said to her. And she much preferred
listening to the ladies and the gallants to gathering flowers or hearing
the birds singing in the trees.

One day Andrew came. Everything was better at Cherry Hill, and her uncle
thought now it was time for her to come.

"Why, is your father getting about so soon?" asked Madam Wetherill in
surprise.

"Oh, no, indeed! He mends but slowly. Still he wishes to do his duty,
and I think he broods over it more than is good for him. So my mother
proposed to him that the little maid should be sent for, and he was
eager at once. And he wished me to say if it was not too inconvenient to
thee I would bring her back. I have a pillion."

"Nay, the child knows so little about riding. I meant to have her
instructed this summer. And there would be some garments to take. I
cannot get them ready so soon. And I am afraid she will bother thy
people sadly. Thou hadst better return and explain this. I will drive
over in a few days and bring her. Meanwhile thou art warm and tired.
Rest and refresh thyself a little. I think the children are roaming in
the woods, but, like the chickens, they are sure to come home to
supper."

Andrew Henry washed his face and hands at the rustic out-of-doors
toilette, and little Casper, the black boy, brought him a thick linen
towel, with velvet-like softness and smelling of lavender. Then he must
have some home-brewed beer to refresh himself, and a plate of Janice
Kent's wafers, that were spicy and not over sweet and went excellently
well with the beer.

"Dost thou go often to the city?" Madam Wetherill asked. She was
thinking how finely this young Quaker was filling out in the shoulders,
how well set and soft his brown eyes were, and his cherry lips had fine
curves with resolution, yet a certain winning tenderness.

"I go in on market days, twice a week. These are stirring times. There
are arguments on every corner of the street, and men almost come to
blows."

"The blows may be needed later on. Thou art a peace man, I dare say."

"That is the belief in which I have been brought up," he answered
respectfully.

"And I was brought up to honor the King. But if a king listens to evil
rather than good counselors--kings were cut off in old times for not
dealing justly. I am sure Mr. Pitt hath given excellent advice, but it
has not been followed."

"I know so little about it," Andrew returned. "I went once to John
Bartram's for some rare cuttings my father desired, and met there the
great Franklin, who counseled peace and leniency in England. And they
all think now that nothing can stop the war."

"It hath begun already. We must decide which side we shall be on, even
if we do not fight. But come down here where smiling peace sits
gossiping with fair plenty. I wonder if next summer will give us such a
scene?"

She made a gracious little movement, and she took his arm as they began
to descend the sloping path. She was a very fascinating woman and now
she had resolved to do her best to win over those who stood in
uncertainty if she could not move the uncompromising Friend.

It was a pretty scene. After the slope was a level of beautiful sward,
with a circle of magnificent trees. Then another varying decline that
ended at the river's edge, where rocked two or three gayly painted
boats. There were two young fellows in the attire of the gallant of the
day lolling on the grass, and a young man in Quaker garb of the finest
sort, sporting silver buckles at his knee and on his low shoes.

The ladies were some of the beauties of Philadelphia, to be famous long
afterward. There was the pretty Miss Shippen and Becky Franks, noted for
her wit and vivacity; Miss Wharton and Miss Mifflin and the gay Mrs.
Penn.

"I have brought thee a new recruit, Friend Norris," she began smilingly,
"since thou art of the same faith and texture. Thy father knew Philemon
Henry well, and this is his nephew. Ladies, let me present Friend Henry,
since the Quakers will have no handle to their names. Perhaps many of
you know Cherry Hill, from whence some of our finest fruit is brought."

The ladies courtesied. Mrs. Penn stepped nearer.

"Yes, I knew thy uncle somewhat and had met his lovely wife, who lives
again in the little fairy she left behind. It must have broken her heart
to go."

Young Norris came around. Andrew Henry had blushed furiously under the
scrutiny of so many lovely eyes, and then, recovering, stood his ground
manfully. The scene affected him something as if he had been drinking
wine, and yet the impression was delightful.

"He has come to take our little moppet away. She belongs part of the
time to her uncle."

"Oh, Madam Wetherill," exclaimed Miss Franks, "put her best gown on Miss
Bella and send her by mistake. Wait until dusk and no one will ever
know."

"Not even in the morning?" asked Andrew with a touch of merriment, while
the others laughed.

"Nay, the best gown is not needed if you want to pass off someone in
her stead," said Norris. "That would be suspected at once. Plan again."

"Oh, I forgot! Little Miss Bella hath so much pretty attire. I do
suppose she would be astray in a Quaker frock. Well, what can we do? Mr.
Henry, we shall outwit thee, never fear."

"Madam Wetherill hath refused me already," he answered. "But she was
merciful."

"And I brought him hither for consolation. An old woman's refusal cannot
be so heart-breaking as that of a young lass."

"But we have had no chance to refuse," said saucy Miss Mifflin, raising
her coquettish eyes.

"Cherry hill is a large estate, but somewhat out of the way. I have
ridden by it," said Norris. "We of the town get spoiled by neighbors. It
must be dreary in the winter."

"The evenings are lonesome. In summer, what with being up at sunrise and
busy all day, the nights are welcome, but in winter the city hath a
deeper interest. Although I have so far been content."

"We are in a curious heat now. Our staid town never saw such a ferment.
Every day we wait for news from some of the provinces, north or south. I
suppose thou wilt take little heed to it. Yet we number many of the
Friends on our side."

"I have not paid much attention to what has gone before, I must admit,
but one day I heard some speeches at Carpenter's."

"Nay, you are not to talk war to Friend Henry. He will take us for a
party of savages. Is there no more inviting topic?"

They found one that was full of light, harmless jest, and an hour
passed so quickly that Andrew Henry was startled.

He rode home alone without seeing Primrose, who could not be found in
the nearby haunts. And for the first time strange visions, strange
longings filled his mind, as if he had suddenly come to manhood and
outgrown the bands that had made his way so strait.

Was it some suggestion of the tempter? All the strong virile blood
rushed through his veins, and he only made a feeble fight to subdue it.
He did not really want to put it aside.

It was much later than usual when he reached home. In fact the sun had
gone down, Julius with the great market wagon had been home hours
before.

"Son, what delayed thee so? And the child--where is she?" asked his
mother.

He explained that she had gone off with her companion and that he had
waited; that Madam Wetherill would bring her up in a day or two. Rachel
sat on the doorstep knitting, and some supper was spread in the living
room. But he went in to his father first, and, after a few words about
Primrose, gave an account of his day's doings, except a little loitering
to hear the talk. And he took from his pocket the leathern pouch tied
tightly with a string, pouring the money on the bed and counting it over
for his father. Then he brought out a curious box much ornamented with
copper, now black by age except at the sides where it had been handled,
and, unlocking it, put in the money, giving the key back to his father.

"You think Friend Wetherill is quite honest about the child?" he asked
feverishly.

"She is not one to place a light value on her own word. The child could
hardly have been gotten ready in that brief while."

"There was nothing to get," rather fretfully. "We do not want the vain
clothing of the world. The child will be ruined by vanity."

"She keeps very sweet, methinks."

"How canst thou judge? Thy mother hath more wisdom and may tell another
story. There, get to supper. It is weary lying here, but the Lord's ways
are not as ours."

Andrew ate a little supper in the plain, bare room. On the green where
the ladies had sat was a strong cherry table, containing some plates and
glasses and a great stone pitcher curiously molded. How the trees had
waved overhead and sifted golden gleams and shadows through! There had
been a bit of peerless blue sky, the sweetness of the grass, the soft
lap of the river that one could hear only when the talk stopped. How
beautiful it all was! That was God's world. And the long ride home, the
woods in solemn grandeur, the bits of river now and then. He was stirred
mysteriously. He was a new man.

Rachel still sat on the doorstep. Sometimes he came out, and, though
they said little, there was a pleasure in the nearness.

Penn Morgan returned from the great barn, where he and the hired man had
left things comfortable for the night. Anything was safe enough. No need
to lock or bolt in this Arcadian simplicity, except to keep cattle from
straying.

Penn told over his day's work and the morrow's plans and went to bed.
Rachel had not been knitting for some time, but she folded up her work
and passed in without a word. Friends of the stricter sort were as
careful of vain and idle words as the most rigid Puritan.

He missed something sorely to-night. It was the little girl who had
kissed him.

Two days later Madam Wetherill brought her over in the neatest attire,
with no furbelows or laces. Primrose had demurred somewhat. "Nay," said
Madam Wetherill with a consoling sound in her voice, "they would not
like it, and it is only for a few months. All the articles will be here
on thy return or in the city," smiling. "It will not be long and thou
must be a brave, good girl, and happy, too. Sometime thou wilt choose. A
hundred things may happen."

She ran down the path and said good-by to the nodding flowers. She was
sorry to part with Bella and Patty, and Casper and the great dog, and
the mother cat with the two kittens, and she was loath to leave the gay
chatter and the visions of the radiant young women who petted her now
and then. She was not afraid of Mistress Kent, though her tongue was
still sharp, and she kept her riding whip handy to give Casper and Joe,
the black boys, who were very full of frolic, a cut now and then.

The ride in the clumsy chaise was a silent one. Madam Wetherill was
surprised to find how the little one had crept into her heart. And she
was growing ever so much prettier, more like her mother. It was the
care, no doubt. They would let her get tanned and try to subdue the curl
in her lovely silken hair. The lady smiled oddly to herself, thinking a
mightier power than Quaker rule had put it there. But it would be bad
for the child, this continual changing. However, it could not be helped
now. One consolation was that she was much too young to give anything
but a child's love to her cousin. And he would be married to some
thrifty woman before she was grown up.

It was Rachel who came to take the budget done up in a stout hempen
cloth, and lifted out the little girl, then holding the horse while
Madam descended, and fastening it to the hitching post. The old lady sat
under the same tree, but the little girl was weeding in the garden and
stood up to look, covered with her widebrimmed hat.

"They have been wondering," said Rachel. "Uncle is not so well. The
fever hath been troublesome. Wilt thou come in? And this is the little
cousin? Thou and Faith will make nice companions."

Friend Lois came to the door and received her guest with grave courtesy,
saying to Primrose, "We have been looking for thee, child," as they
walked in.

There was a pitcher of mead standing in a stone jar of cold spring water
and both travelers were thirsty. Friend Lois had the name of making it
in a most excellent fashion.

"I am afraid Primrose will be a care to thee this summer," Madam
Wetherill said with kindly solicitude. "And thy husband is not so well,
the young girl tells me."

"My niece, Rachel Morgan. And though the loss of my sister was great and
unexpected, her health being robust, and it hath added much to my cares,
Rachel is to me as a daughter and a great comfort."

The young girl made a courtesy and stood undecided.

"Does not the broken limb mend?"

"It is doing well. But he hath thought of his duty concerning the child
overmuch. I assured him he might let it go for this summer, but he was
not minded to."

"It would have been quite as well."

"He did not think so. And since it was on his mind I sent." She gave a
soft sigh. "Wilt thou come in and see him? He would rather."

Madam Wetherill walked into the room and greeted the invalid. There was
a flush on his cheek and a brightness in the eye that betokened feverish
disarrangement. He began to explain in a quick, excited tone.

"Of course it is thy time. We shall not dispute about the law's
decision, though Mr. Chew did think it would not be so good for the
child, seeing that our lines are cast in such different places. I hope
all will go well with you and she will not add to your cares. I will
send over to hear now and then."

"Where is she?" in a half-suspicious manner.

"Primrose!" the lady called.

The child came in reluctantly.

"Yes, yes. James Henry has never shirked a duty. And one is entitled to
make a fair fight for the soul that belongs to the faith. It was her
father's wish."

"I hope thou wilt mend rapidly. The warm weather is trying." There was
no use of argument as to faiths.

He nodded languidly.

"And now I will return. I have a long ride before me, and guests at
home. Farewell."

No one made any effort to detain her. There was little persuasion among
the Friends, who despised what they considered the insincere usages of
society.

Primrose caught at Madam Wetherill's gown. Her eyes were lustrous with
tears that now brimmed over, and her slight figure all a-tremble.

"Oh, take me back with you; take me back!" she cried with sudden
passion. "I cannot like it here, I cannot!"

"Child, it is only for a little while. Remember. Be brave. One's word
must always be kept."

"Oh, I cannot!" The small body was in a quiver of anguish, pitiful to
see.

Bessy Wardour had loved, too, and then gone away to the man of her
choice, if not the life of her choice. But she was much moved by the
passionate entreaty, and stooped to kiss her, then put her away, saying,
"It must be, my child. But thou wilt come back to us."




CHAPTER VIII.

A LITTLE REBEL.


As the carriage-wheels rolled away Primrose burst into a violent
paroxysm of weeping. Rachel came forward and took her hand, but it was
jerked away rudely.

"Primrose, this is most unseemly," said Lois Henry, looking at her in
surprise. "If thou art indulged in such tempers at Madam Wetherill's, it
is high time thou went where there is some decent discipline. I am
ashamed of thee. And yet it is more the fault of those who have been set
over thee."

Primrose Henry straightened up and seemed an inch or two taller for the
ebullition of anger. She looked directly at her aunt and the blue eyes
flashed a sort of steely gleam. The mouth took on determined curves.

"There is nothing to put me in tempers at home. I like it. I like
everybody. And it is the being torn away----"

"But wert thou not torn away from this house last year?"

Primrose was silent a moment. "I hate this being tossed to and fro! And
I have learned to love them all at Aunt Wetherill's. I go to Christ
Church. I shall never, never be a Quaker. And I am a--a rebel! If I were
a man I would go and help them fight against the King."

Lois Henry looked horrified.

"Child, thou art silly and ignorant, and wicked, too. What dost thou
know about the King? We do not believe in kings, but we obey those set
over us until it comes to a matter of conscience. We leave all these
turbulent discussions alone and strive to be at peace with all men. Thou
canst not be saucy nor show thy hot temper here."

"Then send me home. Do send me home," said the child with spirited
eagerness.

"This is thy home for six months. Rachel, take the bundle up to the
little chamber next to that of Faith and put away the things in the
cupboard--and take the child with you. Primrose, thou wilt remain there
until thou art in a better frame of mind. I am ashamed of thee."

Primrose did not mind where she went. She knew her way up the winding
stairs put in a corner off the living room. The house had a double pitch
to the roof, the first giving some flat headway to the chambers, the
second a steep slant, though there were many houses with nearly flat
roofs. This was of rough, gray stone, and the windows small. There was
but one, and a somewhat worn chair beside it, the splints sorely needing
replacement. A kind of closet built up against the wall, and a cot bed
with a blue and gray blanket were all the furnishing.

The child glanced at it in dismay, not remembering that she had been
happy here only such a little while ago. But it seemed ages now, just as
she had almost forgotten what had passed before. There had been no one
to talk over the past with her, and she had missed her tender mother
sorely. Children were not considered of much importance then except as
regarded their physical welfare and a certain amount of training to
make them obedient to their elders. That serious, awesome spiritual life
that shadowed so much of childhood under Puritan auspices was not a
feature of the more southern colonies. They were supposed to imbibe
religious impressions from example. Early in the history of the town
there had been some excellent Quaker schools, that of Friend Keith, who
sowed some good seed even if he did afterward become a scorn to the
profane and contentious, because he started to found a sect of
"Christian Quakers," and finally found a home in England and the
Anglican Church. But the school flourished without him, and to the
Friends belongs the credit of the early free schools. The subtle
analysis of later times found no inquiring minds except among a few of
the higher scholars. It was not considered food for babes.

Rachel untied the bundle that had been bound up with a stout cord.

"Thou canst put them in the closet in an orderly manner. Then, if thou
hast returned to thy right mind, come downstairs."

Primrose looked out of the window without stirring. The great walnut
trees were waving their arms and making golden figures on the grass that
ran about everywhere. Patty had told her stories of "little people" who
lived in the north of England and Scotland, but they only came out in
the moonlight. Ah, these were birds or squirrels--oh! there was a
squirrel up in the tree, with his great bushy tail thrown over his back.
And Primrose laughed with tears still shining on her lashes. Over at a
distance was a hen with a brood of chickens, clucking her way along. And
there were two pretty calves in an inclosure.

But then there was everything at Aunt Wetherill's, and such rows and
rows of flowers. Patty brought them into the rooms in bowls, and the
young ladies wore them. What was that? Oh, the little old lady under the
tree was walking away----

"Faith," said the clear, calm voice, "leave off thy gardening.
Grandmother is growing restless."

Primrose watched with strange interest. Presently a girl of about her
own size walked quietly out to the old lady and took her by the arm,
turning her around, and led her back to the house. After that--nothing.
She was almost frightened at the stillness and began to cry again as a
sense of loneliness oppressed her. Oh, she must go back! There was
something in her throat that choked her. Then a tall figure came across
the field in his shirt-sleeves, and with a great swinging stride.

Suddenly her heart bounded within her body. Like a bird she flew down
the stairs, almost running over Chloe, out of the door, skimming along
the grassy way, and never taking breath until two strong arms lifted her
from the ground and kissed her, not once, but dozens of times.

"Child, when did you come?"

"Oh, such a long time ago! It must be years, I think. And I hate it, the
old house and everything! I cannot stay. Andrew, take me back. If you do
not I shall run away. I want Patty and Aunt Wetherill, and little Joe,
who is always doing such funny things, and Mistress Kent whips him, but
he does them over when she is not there, only she comes suddenly--and
the pretty ladies who laugh and talk. It is so dreary here."

She raised her lovely eyes that were to conquer many a heart later on,
and the lips quivered in entreaty like an opening rose in the breeze.

"Nay--I am here," he said. "And I love you. I want you."

She looked as if she was studying. A little crease came between her
eyes, but it seemed to him it made her prettier than before.

"But why must I come? Why must I stay?"

How could he make her understand?

"And there are some other girls--Faith and the big one. I do not like
her."

"But you will. I like her very much."

"Then you shall not like me." She struggled to free herself.

"Thou art a briery little Rose," and he smiled into her eyes and kissed
her. "I shall hold thee here until thou dost repent and want to stay
with me. Faith is not as sweet as thou and Rachel is too old for
caresses. Then I am not sure they are proper."

"When I get as old as Rachel--how old is that? shalt thou cease to care
whether I come or not?"

"I shall never cease to care. If I could change places with Madam
Wetherill I would never let thee go. But what folly am I talking! It is
the law that thou shalt do so."

"Who makes the law? Put me down, Andrew; I feel as if part of my body
would be drawn from the other part. Oh," laughing in a rippling, merry
fashion, "if such a thing _did_ happen! If there could be two of me!
Rose should be the part with the pink cheeks and the red, red lips, and
the bright eyes, and the other, Prim, might stay here."

"Thou naughty little midget! I am glad there cannot be two, if that is
thy division. I will take part of the time instead. Little Primrose, it
is a sad thing to part with those we love, even for a brief while. The
place was not the same when thou went away. And surely, then, thou wert
sorry to go."

Primrose was silent so long that he glanced into her eyes. There was
such a difference in eyes the young Quaker had learned. The pretty,
laughing women on the green at Wetherill farm had said so much with
theirs when they had not uttered a word. Rachel's were a dullish-blue,
sometimes a kind of lead color, Faith's light, with curious greenish
shadows in them. But these were like a bit out of the most beautiful
sky.

"It seemed quite terrible to me then," she made answer slowly. "Are
people very queer, Andrew? For then I was afraid of Mistress Kent and
Aunt Wetherill and everybody, and I wanted to stay here. And now it is
so merry and pleasant in Arch Street, and there is the spinet that I
sing to, and the lessons I learn, and some books with verses in and
tales of strange places and people, and going out to the shops with
Patty and watching the boys snowballing, and learning to slide."

"But thou art not in Arch Street, and there is a farm here. Come, let us
find the early sweet apples. I think there are some ripe ones, and thou
art so fond of them."

They walked along together. "Still, I do not understand why a thing
should be so dear and pleasant and then change and look--look hateful to
you!"

There was a pang in the great fellow's tender heart.

"Nay, not hateful!" he said pleadingly.

"But I did not want to stay. Aunt Lois looked stern and spoke crossly.
And I am not a Quaker any more. I told her so. And I am a--a rebel! I
will have no English King."

Her tone accented it all with capitals.

"Thou art a rebel, sure enough." Yet he smiled tenderly on her. Whatever
she was was sweet.

"And I said I would fight against the King."

"Heaven send there may not be much fighting! Even now it is hoped the
colonists will give way a little and the King yield them some liberties,
and we shall be at peace again."

"But we will have a king of our very own," she said willfully,
forgetting her protest of a moment agone. "The old one in England shall
not rule over us. And why do not the people who like him go back to that
country?"

"They cannot very well. They have their land and their business here."

"Then they should try to agree."

"Dost thou try to agree when things are not to thy liking?"

She glanced up with a beseeching, irresistible softness in her eyes, and
then hung her dainty head.

"But you have the other girl Faith. And Aunt Lois thinks what I learn is
wrong. And--and----"

They paused under the wide-spreading tree. What a fine orchard it was!
Andrew pulled down a branch and felt of several apples, then found one
with a soft side.

"There is a good half to that. I will cut it with my knife and the
chickens may find the rest. There are plenty more."

"Oh, how delicious! I had almost forgotten the apples. Things ought to
be sewn up in one's mind and never drop out. We have had none save some
green ones to be gathered for sauce and pies."

"And there will be many other things. The peaches hang full. And there
are pears, but the cherries are all gone save the bitter wild ones. Then
thou canst find the squirrels again, and there is a pretty, shy little
colt in the west field, with a white star in his forehead."

"Madam Wetherill has three little colts," she returned rather
triumphantly. "And calves, and oh! such a lot of pretty, little
pinky-white pigs."

He cut another apple and fed it to her.

"We shall have walks and thou shalt ride on a pillion. And I have found
some books up in the old garret that have verses in them. Oh, wilt thou
not try to be content?"

She felt it was naughty, yet she cast about her for other protestations.

"But I am not a Quaker. I say the Lord's Prayer aloud when I go to bed,
over and over again."

"I like it myself," he returned reverently. "But one needs to
desire--various matters."

There had been serious questions among the Friends; some insisting all
forms were hampering, and that spiritual life was a law unto itself and
could be moved only by divine guidance, as even the Apostles were
ordered to take no heed as to what they should say. Yet, amid the many
shades of opinion, there had not been much dissension. Of late years not
a few had been scandalized by the defection of the Penns and several
others from the ways of their fathers, and drawn the cords a little
tighter, making the dress plainer and marking a difference between them
and the world's people.

"Thou couldst take me to the farm some day when I have learned to ride
on a pillion--just for a visit."

How coaxing the tone was! How bewitchingly the eyes smiled up into his!

"Thou wilt stay and be content?" he said persuasively.

"I will think. Content? That is a great thing."

"Yes. And now let us return."

"If there were no one but thou I should be quite happy," she said
innocently.

So they walked on. Rachel was standing down at the end of the path with
the horn in her hand.

"It is nigh supper time," she said, "and thy father wishes to see thee.
To-morrow is market day. Primrose, didst thou put away thy things
neatly?"

"I will do it now."

The child ran upstairs.

"A self-willed little thing," commented Rachel, "and she has much
temper."

"But a great deal of sweetness withal. And she hath been much petted.
She will feel strange for a few days. Be kindly affectioned toward her."

Rachel made no reply. She went to the kitchen where Chloe had her
master's supper prepared, a very simple one to-night on account of the
fever, and carried it in. Then she blew a long blast on the horn, which
she had forgotten in her surprise at seeing Primrose clinging to
Andrew's hand.

When Primrose reached the little room her old feelings returned. She
frowned on the parcel lying on the floor, as if it were an alien thing
that she would like to hide away. There were several shelves in the
closet and some hooks at one end. Oh, here were some frocks she had worn
last summer, homespun goods! A pair of clumsy shoes, larger than those
she had on, and she gave them a little kick.

Grandmother was in the living room, sitting by the window. Very pale and
frail she looked.

"Faith," she said. "Faith," in a tremulous voice.

"I am not Faith. My name is Primrose Henry," and the child came nearer
with a vague curiosity.

"No, thou art not a true Henry with that trifling name. The Henrys were
sober, discreet people, fearing the Lord and serving Him. What didst
thou say?" lapsing in memory and looking up with frightened eyes. "Thou
art a strange girl and I want Faith."

She began to cry with a soft, sad whine.

"Grandmother, yes; Faith will be here in a minute. This is Andrew's
cousin, his dead uncle's child, Philemon Henry."

"And she said her name was--a posy of some sort; I forget. They used to
take posies to meetings, sweet marjoram and rosemary. And there was
fennel. It was a long while ago. Why did Philemon Henry die?"

Primrose looked at her curiously.

"That was my own father," she said with a feeling that these people had
no right of real ownership in him, except Andrew.

Aunt Lois came out, and taking her mother's hand, said, "Come and have
some supper." Then, turning to Primrose, "I hope thou art in a better
humor, child. It does not speak well for town training that thou
shouldst fly in such a passion with thy elders."

"Who was in a passion?" repeated grandmother with a parrot-like
intonation. "Not one of the Lord's people I hope?"

"Silence, mother!"

Lois Henry spoke in a low tone but with a certain decision. She was like
a child and had to be governed in that manner. They were all taking
their places at the table, Lois at the head and Rachel next to
grandmother on the other side, then Faith and Primrose. Opposite the
workmen were ranged, Andrew with one on either hand. The colored help
had a table in the kitchen. This was the only distinction the Henrys
made.

Lois Henry accepted the burthen of a half demented mother with a quiet
resignation. In her serene faith she never inquired why a capable and
devoted Christian woman should have her mind darkened and be made
comparatively helpless while physical strength remained, though it was a
matter of some perplexity why her sister should have been taken and her
mother left.

The master's seat at the foot of the table was vacant. Lois would have
it so. It seemed as if they were only waiting for him.

Primrose had turned scarlet at her aunt's rebuke and Faith's scrutiny.
After the silent blessing the supper was eaten quietly, Chloe coming in
now and then to bring some dish or take away an empty one. And when they
rose Faith led her grandmother out under the tree where she spent her
half hour before bedtime, unless it rained. Rachel went in to Uncle
Henry, and Lois took a careful supervision of the kitchen department,
that did miss her steady oversight, though Rachel was very womanly.

Primrose sauntered out and sat down on the doorstep, feeling very
strange and lonely, and resenting a little the knowledge of having been
crowded out. Penn Morgan gave her a sharp look as he went out with the
milking pail. There was still considerable work to do before bedtime.

When Rachel was released she took grandmother to bed. The window had
been made secure with some slats nailed across, for she had been known
to roam about in the night. Her room opened into that of Rachel's
instead of the little hall, and the girl closed the door and put a small
wedge above the latch so that it could not be opened.

James Henry had asked in a vague, feverish way if they had allowed
Primrose to go back with her aunt.

"Why, no," answered Lois. "Wilt thou see her?"

"No, no! I cannot be disturbed. It is but right that she should come.
Thou wilt no doubt find her head full of vagaries and worldliness. What
can one do when the enemy sows tares? I cannot resign myself to letting
them grow together."

"Yet so the Lord has bidden."

"Nay, we are to do our duty in the Lord's vineyard as well as in the
fields. I uproot noxious weeds, or I should have fields overrun. And now
that haying has begun I must lie here like a log and not even look out
to see what is going on," and he groaned.

"But Andrew is almost like thyself, and Penn this two year hath managed
for his mother. We must submit to the Lord's will. Think if I had lost
thee, James, and men have been killed by a less mishap!"

James Henry sighed, unresigned.

Faith came out timidly to the doorstep, and looked askance at Primrose.
She was not robust and ruddy like Penn and Rachel, and yet she did not
look delicate, and though fair by nature was a little tanned by sun and
wind. Not that the Friends were indifferent to the grace of
complexions, but children were often careless. But even among the
straitest there was a vague appreciation of beauty, as if it were a
delusion and a snare. And the Quaker child glanced at the shining hair,
the clear, pearly skin, the large lustrous eyes, the dainty hand, and
the frock that, though plain, had a certain air like Lord's Day attire,
and was not faded as an every-day garb would be. Then she glanced at
hers, where a tuck had been pulled out to lengthen it, and left a band
of much deeper blue, and the new half sleeves shamed the old tops. Her
heart was filled with sudden envy.

"Thou art not to live here always," she began. "It is only for a brief
while. And I am to stay years, until I am married. Mother's bedding and
linen hath been put in two parcels, one for Rachel, who will be married
first, as she is the eldest, and the other will be mine."

Primrose stared. Bella talked of marriage, but it seemed a great mystery
to Primrose. There was no one she liked but Cousin Andrew, but she liked
liberty better, she thought. Why should one want to get married? The
pretty young girls who came out to the farm had no husbands. Patty had
none and she was talking forever about the trouble they were, and
Mistress Janice and Madam Wetherill----

"But if he should be ill in bed and thou had to sit by him like Aunt
Lois----"

"Uncle is not ill. He hath a broken leg, and that will mend," was the
almost rebuking reply.

"I like the town better. I did not want to come nor to stay, and I am
glad I am not to live here always," Primrose said spiritedly. "I like my
Cousin Andrew----"

"How comes it that he is _thy_ cousin? My mother was own sister to Aunt
Lois, and so _we_ are cousins. Had thy mother any sisters?"

Primrose had not thought much about relationships. Now she was puzzled.

"Our names are alike," after some consideration. "And I was here the
first, a long while ago--last summer."

"But I have been here many times. And now I am to live here. Besides
thou--thou art hardly a Friend any more--I heard Chloe tell Rachel. Thou
art with the vain and frivolous world's people, and Andrew cannot like
thee."

That was too much. The dark eyes turned black with indignation and the
cheeks were scarlet.

"He does like me! Thou art a bad, wicked girl and tellest falsehoods!"

Primrose sprang up and the belligerents faced each other. Then Andrew
came up the path, and she flew out with such force that the milk
scattered on the ground, and he had to steady himself.

"Primrose----"

"She said thou didst not like me, and that I am no relation. What didst
thou say down in the orchard? And if no one likes me why can I not go
back to Aunt Wetherill?"

The usually gay voice was full of anger, just as he had heard it before.
Truly the child had a temper, for all her sweetness.

"Children--wait until I carry in the milk, and then I will come out and
hear thee."

Chloe took the pail and Penn followed with his.

Andrew came out, and looked at the girls with grave amusement. Primrose
was the most spirited. Really, was he being caught with the world's
snare, beauty?

"She said you--you did not like me." Primrose's lip quivered in an
appealing fashion, and her bosom swelled with renewed indignation.

"I did not say that," interposed Faith. "Not _just_ that. It was about
vain and frivolous world's people, and Chloe said she was not a Quaker
any more, and I--how canst thou like her, Cousin Andrew?"

"Children, there must be no quarreling. There are many families where
there are friends and members of various beliefs. And if we cannot love
one another, how shall we love God?"

Faith made a sudden dart to Andrew and caught his hand.

"Thou art not her cousin, truly," she exclaimed with triumph.

"As much as I am thine. Our mothers were sisters. Primrose's father and
mine were brothers. That is why our names are alike. And if you are good
I shall like you both, but I cannot like naughty children."

"You see!" Primrose said in high disdain to her crestfallen compeer. "I
was right. If Uncle James had not been my uncle I should not have had to
come here. And I should not care for Andrew."

There was something superb in the defiance visible in every feature and
the proud poise of the shoulders. A woman grown could hardly have done
better. Andrew Henry was curiously amused, and not a little puzzled as
to how he should restore peace between them. Faith's face had settled
into sullen lines.

"I shall love best whichever one is best and readiest in obedience and
kindliness," he said slowly.

"I do not care." Primrose turned away with the air of a small queen. "I
shall go back to town and you may have Faith and--and everybody." But
the voice which began so resolutely in her renunciation broke and ended
with a sob.

"Oh, my dear child!" Andrew's arm was about her and his lips pressed
tenderly to her forehead, and the relenting lines gave him an exquisite
thrill of pleasure he did not understand.

"What is all this discussion and high voices about?" demanded Lois
Henry. "I will not have the night disturbed by brawls. Both children
shall be whipped soundly and sent to bed."

"Nay, mother, listen." Andrew straightened himself up but still kept his
arm protectingly about Primrose, glad that the falling twilight did not
betray the scarlet heat in his face. "It came from a misunderstanding.
Faith did not know we were cousins by the father's side, as she and I
are on the mother's. It is hard for little ones to get all the lines of
relationship, and this being Faith's true home it seemed as if her right
must be best. But now they are at peace and will be pleasant enough on
the morrow. They did nothing worthy of punishment."

Faith was glad enough of the chance to escape, for she had already
smarted from the rod in the resolute hands of her aunt. She came toward
her now and said humbly:

"I did not understand, truly. I will be wiser and never again think it
untrue. And now--shall I go up to bed?"

Lois Henry was not satisfied, but she did not want to have open words
with her son before the children.

"Both go to bed at once," she said sharply. "Rachel?"

"I am here," said the elder girl quietly.

"Take Primrose upstairs and see that she is fixed for the night, though,
hereafter, she will wait upon herself. I like not to have children
brought up helpless."

"Go, my little dear," Andrew whispered caressingly. "To-morrow----"

Primrose was awed by Aunt Lois and followed with no further word or
sign.

Rachel found her nightdress and half envied the daintiness.

"What were thy words with Faith about," she inquired in a somewhat
peremptory tone.

"Thou art Faith's sister, ask her," was the resentful reply. She must
tell the truth if she spoke at all, and she did not want to run another
risk of being blamed. Andrew believed in her, that was the comfort she
held to her throbbing heart.

"Thou art a froward child and hast been overindulged. But, I warn thee,
Aunt Lois will train naughty girls sharply."

Rachel stood in a sort of expectant attitude and Primrose leaned against
the window.

"Get to bed," the elder said quickly.

"Go! go!" Primrose stamped her rosy bare foot on the floor. "I want you
away. I cannot say my prayer with you here."

"Thou needst prayer certainly. Among other things pray for a better
temper."

Rachel went slowly, and shut the door. Primrose threw herself on the bed
and gave way to a paroxysm of sobs and tears. Once she thought she would
creep downstairs and fly to the woods--anywhere to be out of reach of
them all. Oh, how could she endure it! Patty scolded sometimes, and
Madam Wetherill reproved and had on an occasion or two sent her out of
the room, but to be threatened with a whipping was too terrible!




CHAPTER IX.

FATE TO THE FORE.


They were early astir at the farm. Rachel in going downstairs called
Primrose and Faith. The latter rubbed her sleepy eyes--it was always so
hard to get up, but there were many things to do. Grandmother was the
only one allowed to sleep in quiet, and sometimes she would lie as late
as nine o'clock, to the great relief of everyone.

"Come, thou sluggard!" and the child's shoulder was roughly shaken.
"This is twice I have called thee, and what will happen a third time I
cannot undertake to say."

"Patty!" Primrose opened her eyes and then gave a little shriek of
affright. "Oh, where am I?"

She had cried herself to sleep and forgotten all about her prayer.

"I am not Patty, and thou wilt find no servant here to wait upon thee.
We are not fine Arch Street people. Come, if thou dost want any
breakfast."

Slowly memory returned to Primrose. She leaned out of the little window.
Oh, what joyous sound was that! She smiled as the birds caroled in the
trees and followed them with her soft, sweet voice that could not reach
the high notes. Then she began to dress, eager to be out of the small
room that would have seemed a prison to her if she had known anything
about a prison. But the wonderful melody filled her soul and lifted her
up to the very blue heavens. So she loitered sadly about her dressing,
and when she came down the table had been cleared away.

Chloe had received instructions to give her a bite out in the kitchen
presently, but with a sense of injustice, growing stronger every moment,
she almost flew from the house. Rachel was working butter in the milk
room and Faith weeding in the garden. Aunt Lois had had a very disturbed
night and was suffering with a severe headache. Her husband's fever had
abated toward morning, and now he had fallen into a quiet sleep.

Primrose made her way to the old orchard. Ah, how enchantingly the birds
sang! Then there was a long, melodious whistle that she tried to imitate
and failed, and laughed gleefully at her non-success. Where was the old
tree blown almost over by wind and storm that she used to run up, and
fancy herself a squirrel? Ah, here it was! bent over so much more that
its branches touched the ground. She walked up the trunk, holding out
both arms to keep her balance, and then sitting down where three
branches crossed and made a seat. The apples were hard and sour, she
remembered, regular winter apples. She rocked to and fro, singing with
the birds and watching the white boats go sailing across the sky. She
laughed in her lightness of heart, though there was no malice in it. She
did not even give the household a thought.

And then she was suddenly hungry. She sighed a little. Were there any
more ripe, sweet apples, she wondered! Oh, how long would she have to
stay at Uncle Henry's? It was early July now, six months. What a long,
long while as she counted them up! And there would be winter when she
could not run out of doors, and no lessons, no books to pore over, no
music, no great parlor full of strange things that she never tired of
inspecting, no pretty ladies in silk and satin gowns, chattering and
laughing.

What with the soft wind and the swaying motion she began to feel sleepy
again. She crawled down and looked for the tree they had found
yesterday. Alas! its branches were too high for her conquest. She threw
herself down on the grass and leaned against the trunk, and in five
minutes was soundly asleep.

Rachel had gone about her duties in a quiet, rather resentful manner.
Once Chloe had asked about the child.

"I have called her twice," was the brief answer.

Then she heard grandmother stirring and went up to dress her and gave
her some breakfast. She would not even look in the small chamber where
she supposed Primrose was lazily sleeping. Afterward she called in
Faith, who washed her hands and changed her frock, as the dew and dirt
had made it unsightly.

"If thou wouldst only be careful and tuck it up around thy knees," said
Rachel in a fretted tone. "There is no sense in getting so draggled, and
it makes overmuch washing."

"Shall I take the towels out to hem?" asked Faith.

"Yes. Thee should get them done this morning. Aunt Lois spoke of thy
dilatoriness."

Faith longed to ask about the newcomer. It was sinful indulgence for her
to be lying abed. And why was she not sent to weed in the garden or put
at other unpleasant work?

Rachel heard the rap on the tin cup that answered the purpose of a bell
to summon one. Aunt Lois was still in her short bedgown and nightcap.

"Thou must wait upon thy uncle this morning," she began feebly. "I have
tried, but I cannot get about. There is a dizziness in my head every
time I stir, and strange pains go shooting about me. It is an ill time
to be laid by with the summer work pressing, and two people needing
constant care."

She looked very feeble, and there was an unwholesome red spot upon each
cheek. Her usually calm and steady voice was tremulous.

"But I feel better. The fever is gone," said Uncle James. "There will be
only two weeks more and then I can begin to get about. When there is no
head matters go loosely enough."

"But I am sure Andrew is capable. He hath been trained under thine own
eye. And Penn is steady and trusty."

"But a dozen young things cannot supply the master's place," he returned
testily. "And one almost feels as if the evil one hath gotten in his
handiwork as he did on Job."

Lois sighed. Rachel washed her uncle's face and hands and brought him
some breakfast.

"Shall I not bring thee some, too?"

"Nay, the thought goes against me. I will have some boneset tea steeped.
And presently I will get out to the kitchen. Perhaps I shall mend by
stirring about."

Grandmother sat under the tree or wandered about, babbling of old times
and asking questions that she forgot the next moment. There was a ham
boiling in the great kettle over the kitchen fire, and a big basket of
vegetables for the dinner. There were two neighboring men working, who
were to have their midday meal.

James Henry would have enjoyed Job's disputatious friends. There were
several knotty points in doctrine that he had gone over while lying
here, and he longed to argue them with someone. The days were very long
and tedious to him, for he had never been ill a whole week in his life.

Lois crept out to the living room, then to the great shady doorstep. How
fine and fresh and reviving the waft of summer air, with its breath of
new-mown hay, was to her fevered brow.

"Where is the child?" she asked.

"I called her twice. What with packing the butter and various duties she
hath quite gone out of my mind. Surely she sleeps like the young man in
the Apostles' time."

"Go summon her again. She must be broken of such an evil habit."

Rachel primed herself for some well-deserved severity. There was no one
in the room. She searched the closet, the other rooms, then the "tuck
place" as it was called, and went through Chloe's room, over the
kitchen.

"She is not anywhere to be seen. Chloe, hast thou observed her stealing
out?"

"Nay," and the colored servitor shook her head.

"Strange where she can be."

"The child was tractable and well trained through the past summer, but
she hath grown lawless and saucy. When she comes I shall give her a good
switching, if I am able. I will not have these mischievous pranks," said
Aunt Lois feebly.

"She deserves it," rejoined Rachel with unwonted zest. She longed to see
the child conquered.

Still Primrose did not appear. Lois Henry took her herb tea, and after
a severe fit of nausea felt somewhat relieved, but very weak and shaky.
She was just thinking of retiring when Andrew came across the field. But
he was alone.

"Hast thou seen aught of that willful child?" she inquired.

"Primrose? No." He looked from one to the other. "What hast thou been
doing with her?"

Rachel sullenly recapitulated the morning's experience.

"And she had no breakfast? Where can she have gone? Surely she hath not
thought to find her way to Wetherill farm! We should not have insisted
upon her coming at this time. Mother, you look very ill," and the kindly
face was full of solicitude.

"I am, my son. And it was not my will to have her, but your father's
mind was set upon it."

"And then she is so different," began Rachel. "What if we had allowed
Faith in such tantrums!"

"She needs a sharp hand to cure her evil temper."

"Mother," said Andrew with a sense of the injustice, and a rising
tenderness in his heart for Primrose, "we must consider. She is not to
have our lives, nor to be brought up in our way. She hath her own
fortune, and her mother was a lady----"

"There are no ladies, but all are women in the sight of God. And as for
such foolish, sinful lives as the townfolk lead, playing cards and
dancing, and all manner of frivolous conversation, it were a mercy to
snatch one from the burning. She was a nice little child last year. I
must reduce her to obedience again, and some sense of a useful, godly
life."

"To have thy training upset by the next hand! It is neither wise nor
wholesome for the child, and she will come to have ill will towards us.
I can remember how bright and cheerful and easily pleased her mother
was----"

"She was never grounded in the faith. She had a worldly and carnal love
for Philemon Henry, and it was but lip service. If he had lived----"
Lois Henry had interrupted with an energetic protest in her voice, but
now she leaned her head on the door post and looked as if she might
collapse utterly.

"Mother, thou art too ill to be sitting up. Let me help thee to bed, and
then I must go look for the child."

He lifted her in his strong young arms and, carrying her through, laid
her on the bed beside her husband.

"I am very ill," she moaned, and indeed she looked so. All her strength
seemed to have gone out of her.

"I heard high words about the child. Hath she proved refractory? Madam
Wetherill and the houseful of servants have no doubt spoiled her. It is
God's mercy that there may be seasons of bringing her back to reasonable
life."

"Do not trouble about the little girl. To-day I think the doctor will be
here to examine thy leg, and I am sure my mother needs him. I am afraid
it is a grave matter."

"My poor wife! And I am a helpless burden on thee! I am afraid I have
demanded too much."

"The Lord will care for us," she made answer brokenly.

After giving some charges to Rachel, Andrew walked down the path that
led to the road. Was Primrose afraid of punishment, and had Rachel said
more to her than she was willing to own? This was no place for her,
Andrew said to himself manfully. And if his mother was to be ill----

He changed his steps and went to the barn. Would Rover remember the
little girl of last summer? He raised the clumsy wooden latch.

"Come, Rover," he said cheerily. "Come, we must go and find Primrose. I
wonder if thou hast forgotten her?"

Rover sprang out and made a wide, frolicsome detour. Then he came back
to his master and listened attentively, looked puzzled, and started off
again down the road, but returned with a sort of dissatisfaction in his
big brown eyes.

"The orchard, perhaps. We might look there first. She was such a
venturesome, climbing little thing last year."

Rover ran about snuffling, and started off at a rapid rate, giving a
series of short, exultant barks as he bounded to his master.

"Good Rover!" patting the shaggy creature, who sprang up to his shoulder
in joy.

Primrose was still asleep. The winds had kissed with fragrant touches,
the birds had sung to her, the bees had crooned, and the early summer
insects ventured upon faint chirps, as if they hardly knew whether they
might be allowed to mar the radiant summer day. How divinely beautiful
it was!

Her head had fallen on her shoulder and the old tree rose gray and
protecting. The long fringe of lashes swept her cheek, her hair was
tumbled about in shining rings, her dewy lips slightly apart, almost as
if she smiled.

She had been worn out with her crying last night, but now was rested
and fresh. The dog's bark roused her, and she opened her eyes.

"Oh, Andrew! Where have I been? Why----"

"Little runaway!" but his tone was tender, his eyes soft and shining.

"Oh, Andrew!" she exclaimed again. Then she clasped her arms about his
body with a kind of vehemence and buried her face for a moment. "Take me
back, won't you? I can't stay here. I can't! I don't like anyone. Even
Aunt Lois is cross and Rachel hates me."

"Oh, no, no! But thou shalt go back. This is no real home for thee."

"Oh, come, too!" she cried eagerly. "There is a great farm, and Madam
Wetherill will be glad to have thee."

"Nay, my father is ill and I could not leave him. And there is so much
work to do. But I will see thee now and then to freshen thy memory."

"I should not be likely to forget thee."

"Didst thou have any breakfast?"

"No, I didn't. I was very sleepy when Rachel called. I think I must have
run straight to the land of Nod again," laughingly. "And when I came
down the table was cleared. There was someone in the kitchen, but I was
afraid. I do not know why it is," and her p

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