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 loiteredsadly 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, nomusic, 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 tookher 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! Itis 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 saidmore 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 plaintive voice touched him, "only now I am afraid of everybody—oh, no! not afraid of you, for I like you so much. And then I wanted to run away, but I did not know how to go. I climbed the crooked apple tree and swung to and fro until I was sleepy and afraid I might fall out. Then I came down here. Oh, can I go back? Truly, truly?"
"Truly." Yet he said it with a pang. How sweetand dainty she was! He would not have used the words, they were strange to him, but they sent a thrill through his body, as music sometimes does.
"Come, dinner will be ready."
"Will anyone scold me?" fearfully.
"No one shall scold thee."
They walked together to the house. Rachel was just blowing the horn. Faith looked curiously at her and rather exulted in the punishment she would get.
Andrew went straight to the sick room.
"I am afraid thy mother is ill beyond the power of herb teas," said James Henry. "What a godsend that we should have Rachel! And oh, Heaven grant that it may not be as it was before! the strong and helpful one taken, and the helpless left."
Lois Henry was deeply flushed now and lay with her eyes half open, muttering to herself.
"Mother?" he said, but she did not notice him.
He went out to dinner in a thoughtful mood, but he had no appetite. Primrose was hungry enough, but looked up smilingly now and then. Dr. Reed came in earlier than his wont and accepted the invitation to dine, asking questions occasionally as to how Friend Lois had been last week, and if she had shown any tendency to be flurried.
"She hath not been quite herself, now that I come to recall it," answered Rachel, "and complaining of being tired and not sleeping well. Oh, I hope——" She was about to add, "it will not be with her as it was with my poor mother," but tears stopped her.
It was a fever sure enough. It would be better to have her in a separate chamber, and if some old nurse would come in. "There was Mistress Fanshaw, only come home last week."
"I will go for her," responded Andrew.
"I shall be in on the second day," the doctor announced, as he mounted his horse and settled his saddlebags.
"A sad thing for all of us." Rachel wiped her eyes with the end of her stout linen apron.
"I shall take Primrose back to Wetherill farm."
"Oh, that will indeed be a relief. She and Faith, I foresee, would not get along together, and I could not manage such a froward child."
Andrew made no reply. There was a little more work devolving upon him, and he deputed the rest of the day's management to Penn.
He had fortified himself with many arguments as to why Primrose should return to her great aunt, but to his surprise, his father assented at once. He was much worried about his wife, who had never been ill before.
Primrose was glad with a great delight. She sat under the tree with Faith and roused the child's envy with accounts of her life in town, and the time for pleasure.
"But dost thou not sew or knit?"
"Nay, except lacework and hemstitching, but I shall as I grow older. There is Patty to sew, and as for stockings, I do not know how they come, for no one knits them, and they are fine and nice, with gay clocks in them, and oftentimes silken. I like the pretty things. But all Friends are not so plain. Some come to us with silken petticoats and such gay, pretty aprons, just like a garden bed."
Faith sighed. And now she wished Primrose might say, there was such witchery in her words.
Madam Wetherill was much surprised to havePrimrose return so soon, but not sorry, she frankly admitted. She was greatly concerned about Friend Henry and hoped the fever would not be over troublesome.
"Good-by, little one," Andrew said, holding her hand. "I hope thou wilt be very happy; and I shall come to hear how it fares with thee."
Did she pull the stalwart figure down with her small hands? He bent over and kissed her and then blushed like a girl.
"Fie, Primrose! Thou art a little coquette, and learning thy lesson young!"
"But I like him very much," she replied with brave seriousness. "Only—it's pleasanter to live with thee," and she hid her face in Madam Wetherill's gown.
James Henry mended slowly, and Lois' fever lasted a month before she could leave her bed, and then she could only totter about. Rachel had proved herself a daughter of the house, efficient, thoughtful, and capable, and although a few weak protests had been made, it was an undeniable relief not to have Primrose to consider.
The town had been stirred to the utmost by conflicting views and parties. Washington had gone to Boston to take command of the troops, and now sent for his family from their quiet retreat at Mount Vernon.
Most of the people had shut up their country houses and come into town, and now that it was announced that Mrs. Washington would make a brief stop on her way to Cambridge, there was a curious feeling pervading the community in spite of a very pardonable interest. What if the war should be a failure?
"But we have committed ourselves too deeply to draw back now," said some of the loyal women. "Let us pay her all courtesy."
The rebel party resolved to give a ball in her honor at New Tavern. Mrs. Hancock was also in the city, and some fine preparations were made. There was a heated discussion. Some of the more sedate people, who never took part in gayeties, represented that this would be a most inopportune time for such a revelwhen the country was in the throes of a mighty struggle.
Christopher Marshall, who was a Quaker by birth, but had espoused the side of the colonies warmly, went to John Hancock, who was then President of the Congress, and requested him to lay the matter seriously before Mrs. Washington and beg her to decline the invitation, "while her brave husband was exposed in the field of battle." She assented most cheerfully, and was in no wise offended.
There was a bevy of women discussing this at Madam Wetherill's; the young ones loud in their disappointment, as gayeties had not been very frequent so far.
"And I like Colonel Harrison's spunk in chiding Mr. Samuel Adams," said someone. "He agreed there would be no impropriety in it, but rather an honor. And we should all have seen Lady Washington."
"Ladyforsooth! I did not know the widow Custis had put on such airs with her second marriage. Presently we shall hear of Mount Vernon palace if Dunmore does not make short work of it. And some of the rebels sneer at good English titles, or think it heroic to drop them."
Mrs. Ferguson was well known for her Tory proclivities. She ran her cards over as she held her hand up, and the excellence of it pleased her.
"But I am desperately disappointed," declared Kitty Ross. "And if we are to go in sackcloth all winter I shall die of the megrims. There is my new petticoat of brocaded satin, and my blue gown worked with white and silver roses down the sides, and across the bosom, with such realness you would declare theywere fresh picked. And lace in the sleeves that my great-grandmother wore at the French Court. And surely there would be many gallants ready to dance. I am just dying for some merriment."
"Not much will you see until this folly is over."
"It does not seem to end rapidly. I hear the men at Boston are very stanch and in earnest since the murder of their brethren."
"Murder indeed! Truly we have grown very fine and sensitive. They had no more than they deserved. And Massachusetts hath ever been one of the most turbulent provinces."
"And Virginia a firebrand! As for us, we have the Congress, and I hear they are talking of putting some sort of declaration in shape. And it is said General Washington hath a very soldierly and honorable mind. He will do nothing for pay, it seems, and only agreed that his expenses should be met. At this rate he will not beggar the country."
"And you will see how General Howe will make mincemeat of his straggling army. Madam Washington will hardly be recompensed for her journey, methinks," said Mrs. Ferguson.
"Yet it would be good to have a sight of her," cried Sally Stuart. "And it is said she dances elegantly, as do all Virginians. Like Kitty, I am out of conceit with the wisdom of these fearsome men who want to suit everybody and end by suiting none. And it seems there hath been a division of opinion about calling. Who hath gone?" and Sally glanced at Mrs. Ferguson with a merry sort of malice in her laughing eyes.
"Not I, indeed, you may be certain, but I will not be backward on her return, I assure you."
"I have been," announced Madam Wetherill quietly. "I thought it but a duty, having met Colonel Hancock and wishing to be presented to his wife."
"Oh, tell us!" cried half a dozen voices. "What is she like—very grand? For he is fine and commanding."
"We shall never finish our game with so much talk about everybody," declared one of the Tory ladies in vexation.
"She is not commanding." Madam Wetherill laid down her card as she smiled, and trumped her adversary. "But she hath a certain dignity and intelligence that makes up for inches, and a face that is winning and expressive, with fine, dark eyes and fair skin showing just a natural blossom on her cheek. And her manners are most agreeable. I am sorry we could not have given her some sort of welcome. Well, moppet?" as Primrose entered shyly with a written message to her great aunt, "make your best courtesy, child, and tell the ladies how you liked Madam Washington."
Primrose obeyed with a pretty flush on her cheek, and an irresistibly shy manner.
"I liked her very much. And she said she once had a little girl of her own, and then her eyes looked almost as if they had tears in them, they were so soft and sweet. Her face was beautiful."
"Well, well, we all feel disposed to envy thee," said Sally. "Some of us should have the courtesy to go to-morrow."
Mrs. Ferguson rapped on the table. "If no one means to pay attention to the game we may as well give up and devote ourselves to laudation," she said shortly.
Madam Wetherill looked at the note and said, "Yes," and Primrose, courtesying, stole out softly. But afterwards the game was ended with a good deal of curtness on Mrs. Ferguson's part, who had lost; for, while people were strenuous enough on some points, no one disdained to play for money.
The girls stopped for a cup of chocolate that Mistress Janice sent in, and renewed the talk of their disappointment, bewailing the prospect of a dull enough season.
But there were much excitement and high and bitter discussions to mark the winter. The breach between the war party and the peace party of Quakers widened greatly, and the outcome was the Free Quakers, or Fighting Quakers, as they came to be called. The departure of the British from Boston was hailed as a sign of hope. Thomas Paine's "Common Sense" was widely read, and disputed the palm with Dickinson's "Farmer's Letters" that had been so popular. Adams and James Allen, who disagreed with Paine, issued pamphlets, and many writers aired their opinions under various assumed names.
Andrew Henry came in regularly to market. His father had not regained his full strength, and his leg was rather untrustworthy in slippery weather. Now and then he paused at some tavern, as they were considered respectable meeting places, to hear the discussions, for he was much perturbed in these days. He was made a welcome guest at Madam Wetherill's also, and met from time to time some notable person, and became much interested in Mr. Benjamin Franklin.
Very little had been said about Primrose at home. Rachel was growing into daughterhood, and thoughLois Henry would have denied the slightest suggestion of matchmaking, she saw with no disfavor that Rachel was much drawn toward Andrew.
When spring opened grandmother failed rapidly and took to her bed a great part of the time, so that it was necessary to bring her downstairs for convenience' sake. It would be rather troublesome to have a discordant element, and the Henrys felt that Primrose was more firmly established in her willful ways, no doubt, and they did not care for a continual struggle like that which had begun and ended so disastrously the preceding summer.
The spirit of revolt had gained ground in all the Colonies; still it had been hard work to persuade them to act together. But, in May, Congress passed resolutions leading to the better equipment of the Colonies for the struggle. At dinners—the only sources of amusement now—the King's health was no longer drunk, but "The free and independent States of America" were toasted with acclaim. With the old Assembly the political power of the Friends waned, and Philadelphia was taking upon herself a great and serious change. If Bunker Hill had electrified the country, the Declaration of Independence, read to the few people who gathered to hear it at the State House, was to be the imperishable crown of the city, although it was not signed until August.
The King's arms were taken down and burned, the church bells rang, and the young people caught the enthusiasm from a few bonfires on the square and lighted them elsewhere, little thinking they were kindling a flame in men's souls that was to be handed down to posterity for ages. A very small beginning then, but among the hearers was Andrew Henry, whowondered mightily at the boldness of such a step, though the glory of it thrilled every pulse, and he was amazed at the fighting blood within him.
At the yearly meeting he and his father had attended, the Friends had counseled against open rebellion and shown each other the futility of such a step. All acts of violence and bloodshed were deprecated, and Lexington and Concord pronounced a useless sacrifice, and displeasing to God. But in the little knots that had gathered afterward there had been more than one low, dissentient voice concerning a man's duty, and the impossibility of a government so far away knowing what was best for the Colonies.
He was to meet Madam Wetherill, who had come in to her city home on some business.
"I am glad thy father agrees about Primrose," she began in her cordial tone, that invariably charmed the young Quaker. "Her attire, too, had an appropriate aspect in his eyes, as it gave her a fine dignity. He was secretly pleased that she was not of his persuasion. The changes are hard on the child even if all other matters were in accord. I think she will never be of her father's faith, but she is sweet and attractive and good at heart. I am afraid we sometimes lay too much stress on outward appearances. Is thy mother well this summer?"
"She is not as strong as she was, and we should not know how to manage without my cousin Rachel. Poor grandmother is nearing the close of her earthly pilgrimage. She may go at any time. Dr. Reed hath given us notice, and death is a sad and awesome matter even for little ones. So mother said she would rather have no added cares, though she would not shirk any duty."
"Set her heart quite at rest. Tell her for me that the duties of God's sending are first. I have been consulting the other trustees, and they think the child is as well with me."
"I think, now, better," returned Andrew gravely. "She is fitted for a wider life and knowledge than my father thinks necessary. And we have two girls now to comfort my mother, and they are of the same faith. But I find there is a wide line of opinion even among Friends. And the coming struggle will make it greater still. The town hath done a daring thing to-day. Will the great and wise men sign the document?"
"I think all but a few. They are not certain of Mr. Dickinson, although he hath been writing so boldly. But Mr. Richard Penn advises that they all hang together, lest they may have to hang separately!" and she smiled.
Andrew Henry drew a long breath.
"But it hardly seems possible they can win. England can put such armies in the field."
"Yet I think we have shown that patriotism can make good soldiers. There will be much suffering and Heaven only can foresee the end. Still it is a glorious thing, and we shall strive hard for freedom."
"Thou art a patriot surely. The little girl must inherit some of thy blood, for she boldly declared herself a rebel."
"She is an odd, spirited child, with a good deal of her mother's charming manner. I have grown very fond of her, though I thought myself too old to take up new loves. Thou must come down to the farm sometime and see her."
"That I will gladly," was the quick reply.
"And thou must study this matter thou hast heard to-day. It is a great thing to make a country, and a trust above all others to keep it intact. And, though thy people are averse to fighting, I see some of them have ranged themselves already on the side of liberty and the colonies."
"I have a great interest——" Then he paused and flushed. "But it grows late, and I must bid thee farewell. Give my respects to the little girl and say I do not forget her."
Every effort was now made to strengthen the defenses, and a bounty was issued for volunteers. Gun-boats were ordered for the river front and the manufacture of gunpowder was hurried along. There was much watchfulness over those suspected of Toryism, or caught carrying away stores. Occasionally one saw a cart packed with Tories, seated backward and being driven along to the tune of the Rogue's March, and jeered by the populace.
Late in the autumn they buried Lois Henry's mother. James Henry gave up more of the severe work and going about to the young men. Penn Morgan was large and strong, and grown very fond of his uncle in an admiring fashion. Andrew puzzled him oftentimes.
Pinches were beginning to be felt and a great part of the commerce languished. Salt, one of the importations, became very scarce. Stores and shops were dull enough, and men hung about the streets with nothing to do.
In November came the news of Howe's successful march and the taking of Fort Washington. Then he swept onward, dismaying the towns, and when he reached Trenton he issued a proclamation that wonover many who still hoped in their hearts that by some miracle the colonists would win.
But Philadelphia celebrated the anniversary of her heroic Declaration of Independence with much firing of guns all day and a great civic banquet in the evening. The streets wore quite a holiday aspect. Many people came in from the farms and residences at a distance, and flags, made after the pattern that Betsy Ross had designed for the army when General Washington went to Boston, were shown in some houses.
There was also a smashing of Quaker windows, and much hooting at the peace men, who were bidden to come out of the shelter of their broadbrims.
A new oath of allegiance had been exacted from the citizens of the whole State that created great consternation among the Friends. Many now openly espoused the cause of freedom, being convinced it was a duty, and their expulsion from the ranks followed. Even among the women there were enthusiastic souls who gave aid and comfort in the years of trial that were to follow.
James Henry had ranged himself strongly on the peace side. Indeed the household were a unit with the exception of Andrew, who held his temper bravely when the talk was of the condemnatory order.
There had been no open rupture on the little girl's account. In a way James Henry resigned some of his powers, though he kept the trusteeship, and was sharp to see to the accounting of money matters. Madam Wetherill and Primrose made journeys to the Quaker farmhouse, and the Henrys were cordially invited to the city to test the Wetherill hospitality.
Primrose had listened to Andrew's persuasion, and in the summer gone for several days. How queer itall seemed to her! The plain, homely rooms, the absence of the many little courtesies to which she had become accustomed, the routine of work that left no leisure for reading or enjoyment. For already in the city there was a great deal of intelligence.
She had grown tall, but was very slim and full of grace in every movement. Her hair still held its sunny tint, and even if combed as straight as possible, soon fell into waves and curling tendrils, and her complexion was radiant in pearl and rose.
Rachel was quite a young woman, with a thin, muslin Quaker cap over her brown hair, and not the slightest attempt at ornament; a great worker and very thrifty in her methods. In her opinion idleness was a sin. Faith had grown tall, but was not as robust.
Primrose was like a sudden sunbeam in the old house. Her merry laugh rippled everywhere. As of old, every animal on the place made friends with her. And though Uncle James looked stern and sour at times, she would not heed his frowns.
Not only Andrew, but Penn, acknowledged her witching sway. She could ride finely now on horseback or with a pillion, and the cunning little beauty persuaded one or the other to take her out on numerous excursions.
"One could envy thee heartily," declared Faith. "For when Rachel and I desire any recreation or to go of some errand, there are a thousand excuses. What coaxing art hast thou? And how dost thou come by so much prettiness? Was it on thy mother's side?"
"Am I so pretty?" She laughed in a gay, amused fashion. "Sometimes Patty says I shall grow old and yellow and wrinkled, but though Aunt Wetherill's hairis snowy-white, and there are tiny marks and creases in her skin, she is not yellow nor cross, and looks like the most beautiful of queens in her brocades and satins."
"But what is a queen if there are no thrones here in America?"
"Oh, how dull thou art! It is because we call anyone a queen who is a beautiful and dignified woman, and can receive with graciousness, and hold a little court about her."
"But the fine clothes are vain and wicked. And—and plaiting of the hair, and the much pleasuring—and the giddy talk——"
The small Quakeress paused with a sort of longing and envy that she could think of no more sins.
"But my hair is not plaited. I think the good God curled it just as he makes the pretty vine creep up and twine about. And He makes a gay, beautiful world, where birds go flying and dazzle the air with their bright colors. Dost thou know the firebird, with his coat of red, and the yellow finches and the bluebirds? The little brown wren greets them in her pert way, and I dare say takes pleasure in them. And how many flowers you find in the woods and the meadows."
"I never go for flowers. It is a sinful waste of time, and we have no use for them, since they do but litter everything. And thou wilt some day be called to account for these idle, frivolous moments."
"I do not know. I think God means us to be happy. And I cannot help being gay and pleased with all the things He has made. It is very naughty and unkind to despise them."
Faith knew in her heart there were many things shewould be glad to have, and that she hated to sit in the house and spin and sew, when Primrose was roaming around with Penn and Andrew, and riding on the hay cart amid the fragrant dried grass.
"Andrew, wilt thou always be a Quaker?" Primrose asked one evening when she found him sitting under the tree where poor old grandmother had spent so many of her days.
"Always? Why, I suppose so. Children generally follow in the footsteps of their fathers."
"Is that because you are a man?"
"I likethoubetter," smiling and putting his arm about her.
"But I am only half a Quaker. Do you think my father truly meant me to be? There is a fine picture of him at Mr. Northfield's that is said to be worth a great deal of money, and was made in England by a great man, and is sometime to go over again. Did you know I had a brother, Andrew?"
"Yes."
"It seems very unreal. A letter came one day from him, and he asked if there were any other children alive. A brother! How strange it sounds! Why, it would be like Penn and Faith."
"I hope he may never want thee," with a little hug that made her head droop on his shoulder.
"Oh, no; and if he does, he must come here. I should be afraid of the great ocean that it takes days and days to cross. And I might be drowned," plaintively.
"Then thou shalt never cross it."
"Thou wilt not let him take me away? Though I think Aunt Wetherill would not consent."
"Nay, I would fight for thee."
"Then thou must fight for the country. It ismycountry."
"If any need comes in thy behalf I will fight," he returned solemnly.
"And thou wilt put on some fine soldier clothes. The men all look so handsome in their blue coats and buff breeches, and the hats turned up in a three-cornered way."
She only saw the glory in it. He hoped she might never know the other side.
"What art thou studying about so gravely?" when Primrose lapsed into silence and let her small white hand lie in his brown one.
"I was thinking. Penn is here, and does your father need two sons? Aunt Wetherill said, one day, that you were wasted on the farm, and that some of the generals ought to have you for your cool clear head, and your strength, and oh! I do not remember what else. And if you would come into town——"
"If thou were older, Primrose, thou couldst tempt a man to his undoing. But thou art a sweet, simple child. And when my country needs me she will not ask about my faith. Already there is more than one Quaker soldier in her ranks."
"Primrose!" Rachel had been sitting on the old stone step until there seemed a curious fire kindled all through her body at the sight of the golden head on the broad shoulder. "Primrose, come in. The dew is falling."
"There is no dew here under the tree," returned Andrew.
"It is high bedtime. Faith is going. Come!"—peremptorily.
There were times when Primrose was fond ofteasing Rachel, but she rose now. When she had gone a step or two she turned around for a kiss.
"I am ashamed of thee!" Rachel said sharply. "Thou art a bold child to hang around after men. Didst thou kiss him? That was shameful."
"It was not shameful. I will ask him——"
Rachel caught her arm. "Aunt Lois will be shocked! No nice little girl does such a thing! Faith would be whipped for it. Go straight along."
She blocked the way, and Primrose, in her sweet hopefulness, thought of to-morrow.
Aunt Lois had overheard the talk. When Rachel had mixed the bread, for Chloe had a sore finger, the elder said gravely:
"Thy uncle goes over to Chew House to morrow, and I think Primrose had better return home. She is too forward and light to have with Faith. I like not city manners and freedoms. Her mother was not to my fancy. Men are weak sometimes, but I hope ere long, Rachel, my son's fancy will be fixed where it will afford me great satisfaction."
Rachel colored with a secret joy. She could have clasped the mother to her heart for the admission, but she would not spoil the commendation by any lack of discretion.
While Primrose was waiting for Uncle James in the morning she ran out to the barn.
"Andrew, I am going. It hath been very pleasant, and I hoped thou would have taken me. Andrew"—with a strange, new hesitation—"is it—is it wrong to kiss thee?"
She looked up out of such clear honest eyes in all their sweet guilelessness that he took the fair face between his hands and kissed it again.
"Nay, there could never be a wrong thought in thy sweet young heart. And thou art my cousin."
She wondered, as she was retracing her steps, if he kissed Faith and Rachel, since they were cousins.
Lois Henry had no especial fear of any serious matter with such a mere child as Primrose, as she was far too young. But she had been trained in a repressed, decorous fashion, and many of the Friends were as rigorous as the Puritans. Young men were better off without caresses, even from mother or sister. And she was compelled to acknowledge within herself that Primrose had a large share of what she set down as carnal beauty, the loveliness of physical coloring and symmetry. Neither of the Morgan girls would ever be temptingly pretty, and she gave thanks for it. Rachel would make a thrifty and admirable housewife. She could not wish her son a better mate. Andrew would be needed on the farm, which would be his eventually, and she would have no difficulty in living with such a daughter-in-law.
But she resolved that the old arrangement, whereby Philemon Henry's daughter was to spend the summers with them, should remain no longer in force. She did not ask that her husband should view the matter at once through her eyes; she knew a quiet, steady influence would better gain her point than an outspoken opposition.
James Henry was rather surprised when she proposed that he should take Primrose home, as they had begun to call Madam Wetherill's.
"There is no great haste," he replied.
"But thou art going at least half-way there, and it was to be merely a visit. Thou must see, James, that all her ways and habits are very different, and our good seed would be sown on sandy ground. When the child comes to be a year or so older we may have more influence, and presently, I think, Madam Wetherill may tire of her. She distracts Faith with her idle habits and light talk, and just now we are very busy with the drying of fruit and preserving, the spinning, and the bleaching of white cloth, as well as the dyeing of the other. It takes too much of my time to look after her. And, since my illness, I have not felt equal to the care of doing my duty to her."
"Certainly; as thou wilt, wife. I foresee that we shall gain no great influence over her, since every season our work must be undone. And I will discuss the matter with Friend Chew. If he considers that some part of the duty may be abrogated, we will not push our claim at present."
Friend Chew thought there was nothing really binding in the agreement. Philemon had requested that his wife and daughter should spend a part of the year with his brother, but here had been the mother's fortune and the appointment of a new guardian. And since Madam Wetherill had a fortune and so few relatives, perhaps it would be as well to allow her some leeway.
The good lady was surprised at the speedy return. She ordered some refreshments for James Henry and begged that the horses might have a rest. Then they talked of farming matters and the state of the country, hoping hostilities might be confined where they had their first outbreak, mostly to the Eastern Colonies and New York.
"Thou dost know that I am bitterly opposed to war," he said. "It is unchristian, inhuman, and we cannot think to conquer the British armies, therefore it is folly. I was sorry enough to see the town William Penn reared on peaceful foundations with the service of God, turn traitor and range herself on the side of the King's enemies. Many a Friend, I hear, had his windows destroyed in that ungodly rejoicing a short time ago, and men of peace have been persecuted and ridiculed. We know little of it on our far-away farm, but Friend Chew hath kept account of both sides. And the rebel lines seem to have fallen in hard places."
"We must give thanks that it hath come no nearer." She would not argue nor offend him, for the sake of Primrose.
"There is another matter," he began, after a few moments of silence, occupied in sipping his ale and munching some particularly nice wafer biscuits that Janice Kent had made quite famous around the country side, and though she willingly gave the recipe, no one could imitate them exactly. "It is about the child. It hath been a matter of conscience with me whether I ought to expose her to the temptations of the world, but since I cannot by law keep her altogether——" And he hesitated a moment.
"We have not quarreled about her since the judges made the decision, though thou knowest I would like to have her altogether," and Madam Wetherill smiled amicably, sipping her ale to keep him company. "It seems folly, like the man's two wives who plucked at his hair, the first to take out the white ones and the other the black."
"There was the illness last summer, and I thinkmy wife hath not been so strong since, and we have two girls——"
"And since good fortune brought them to thee and I have none, I shall beseech thee to waive thy claim, and let me keep the child. I know our ways are different, but if presently she should choose thy faith,—and we have many of thy persuasion dropping in,—and desire to return to thee, I will be quite as generous and kindly as thou hast been, and not oppose her."
"That is as fair as one can expect," the man said with a sigh. "I would my brother had lived and managed the matter. Friend Chew thinks there will be hard times before us all, especially those who have laid up treasure in perishable money."
"But, whatever comes, I shall care for her to my last penny."
"And if thou shouldst die, as we are but mortal, the best of us, wilt thou transfer her back to us?"
"Her guardians will do that. I promise no will of mine shall be left to oppose it."
"And that she shall visit us now and then."
"I agree to that."
"We are busy now—thou knowest the many things that press in the summer—and two children of an age are troublesome unless brought up together. So we thought it best to return her just now."
"And I am glad to have her. There is so much help here that a child's trouble is scarcely noted."
But on his way home James Henry wondered if he had not given in too easily to the worldly and pleasing way of Madam Wetherill.
She smiled a little to herself as she called Primrose from the summer house to say good-by, and to receive some sage advice.
"Thou naughty little moppet," she said when the stout Quaker had ridden away, as she caught the little girl's hand in hers and gave her a swing, "what didst thou do that thou wert sent home in disgrace?"
"Was it disgrace?" The color deepened on the rose-leaf cheek. "Aunt Lois found no fault, only to call me an idle girl. Faith is busy from morning to night and cannot even take a walk nor haunt the woods for flowers. Rachel is very stern and hath sharp eyes——"
Should she confess last night's misdemeanor? But what right had Rachel to condemn it? Cousin Andrew had kissed her in this house. Oh, was so sweet a thing as a kiss wrong?
"Truly thou must be set about some task. I think I will have thee taught to work flowers in thy new silk petticoat, for we shall have no more fine things from England in a long while. And that would be vanity in the eyes of thy Uncle James."
"I should not like to work every moment."
"Thou art a spoiled and lazy little girl. Does Faith read and spell and repeat Latin verses, and write a fair hand?"
Primrose laughed. "She reads in the Bible slowly. And the Latin Uncle James thinks wicked. I have half a mind to think so myself, it is so bothersome. And the French——"
"Thou mayst marry a great man some time and go to the French Court. Perhaps thou wouldst rather spin and churn, and make cheese and soap. But when there are so many glad to live by doing these things it seems kindness to pay them money for it. And so thy Aunt Lois did not really take thee to task?"
"She did not set me about anything. And Rachelwould not let me go to feed the chickens, nor gather up eggs, which is such fun."
"And what didst thou do?"
"Nothing but sit under the tree as the old grandmother used. It was very tiresome. And a walk in the orchard. Then I found a cornfield where Penn was plowing, and I waited to see him come out of the rows and get lost in them again."
"And did you like this Master Penn?"
"He was very pleasant. He showed me a nest with tiny birds in it that were naked and ugly, but they grow beautiful presently. And he picked a great dock leaf of berries, so that I should not get my hands scratched, and we sat down on a stone to eat them. But I like my own cousin Andrew better. Penn is not my cousin—Rachel said so."
Madam Wetherill nodded with piquant amusement. Perhaps there had been a little jealousy.
"Well, I am glad to get thee back. I am afraid I spoil thee; Mistress Kent insists that I do. But there will be time enough to learn to work. And if this dreadful war should sweep away all our fortunes, we shall have to buckle to, and, maybe, plant our own corn and husk it, and dig our potatoes as our fore-mothers helped to when they lived in the cave houses by the river's edge, before they built the real ones."
"Caves by the river's edge? Did the river never overflow them? And is that where the Penny Pot stands——"
"Who told thee about that?"
"I walked there once with Patty. She knows a great many things about the town. And she said I ought to learn them as I was born here, lest the British come and destroy them."
Madam Wetherill smiled at the sweet, earnest face.
"They did not destroy New York, but I should be sorry to see them here. And I will tell thee: in that cave was born the first child to the colonists. He was named John Key, and good Master Penn presented him with a lot of ground. But I think he should have been called William Penn Key, to perpetuate the incident and the great founder. There are many queer old landmarks fading away."
"And where were you born?" asked Primrose, deeply interested.
"Not here at all, but in England. And I grew up and was married there. Then my husband put a good deal of money in the new colony and came over, not meaning to stay. But I had some relatives here, and no near ones at home, being an only child. The Wardours did not run to large families. My husband was much older than I, and when his health began to fail, instructed me in many things about the estate. So, when I lost him, I was interested to go on and see what a woman could do. There was a cousin who was a sea captain and had been to strange places, the Indies it was called then, and the curious ports on the Mediterranean, and brought home many queer things."
"Oh, that is the portrait hanging in the big room at Arch Street, and is Captain Wardour?" exclaimed Primrose. "And where did he go at last?"
"To a very far country, across the great sky. He was lost at sea."
Madam Wetherill sighed a little. How long ago it seemed, and yet, strange contradiction, it might have been not more than a month since Captain Wardour bade her good-by with the promise that it should be hislast voyage and then he would come home for good and they would marry. This love and waiting had bound her to the New World. She had made many friends and prospered, and there had been a sweet, merry young girl growing up under her eye, which had been a rather indulgent one, and who had fallen in love with Philemon Henry, and perhaps coquetted a little until she had the Quaker heart in her net he did not care to break if she could come over to his faith. It had disappointed Madam Wetherill at first, but having had business dealings with him, she had learned to respect his integrity.
But as if there seemed a cruel fate following her loves, just as it was settled for Bessy to come back with her little Primrose, death claimed her. And Madam Wetherill had tried to keep a fair indifference toward the child since she could not have her altogether, but the little one had somehow crept into her heart. And now that there were two girls at James Henry's farm, the wife's own nieces, she could see they would the more readily relinquish her. The sending back of the child seemed to indicate that, though she had only gone for a visit.
"Art thou sad about Captain Wardour?" And the little maid looked up with lustrous and sympathetic eyes, wondering at the long silence. "And do you think he could find my mother and my father? It must be a beautiful world, that heaven, if it is so much finer and better than this, and flowers bloom all the time and the trees never get stripped by the cruel autumn winds and the birds go on singing. I shall love to listen to them. But, aunt, what will people do who are like Rachel and think listening idle and sinful, and that flowers are fripperies that spoil thehay and prevent the grass from growing in that space?"
"I am not sure myself." Madam Wetherill laughed at the quaint conceit.
There were many gay Friends in town whose consciences were not so exigent, who believed in education and leisure and certainly wore fine clothes, if one can trust the old diaries of the time. But the other branch, the people who thought society worldly and carnal, reduced life to the plainest of needs, except where eating was concerned. There they could not rail at their brethren.
"Do not bother thy small brain about this," the elder went on after a pause. "It is better to learn kindness to one's neighbor, and truth-telling that is not made a cloak for malicious temper. I am glad to have thee back, little one, and they will not be likely to need thee at the farm, nor perhaps care so much about thy faith."
The whole household rejoiced. They had grown very fond of Primrose. Often now in the late afternoon Madam Wetherill would mount her horse with the pillion securely fastened at the back, and Primrose quite as secure, and with a black attendant go cantering over the country roads, rough as they were, to Belmont Mansion with its long avenue of great branching hemlocks; or to Mount Pleasant, embedded in trees, that was to be famous many a long year for the tragedy that befell its young wife; and Fairhill, with English graveled walks and curious exotics brought from foreign lands where Debby Norris planted the willow wand given her by Franklin, from which sprang a numerous progeny before that unknown in the New World.
They would stop and take a cup of tea on the tables set under a tree. Or there would be ale or mead, or a kind of fragrant posset, with cloves and raisins and coriander seed, with enough brandy to flavor it, and a peculiar kind of little cakes to be eaten with it. Discussions ran high at times, and there was card-playing, or, if water was near, the young people went out rowing with songs and laughter. A lovely summer, and no one dreamed, amid the half fears, that from the town to Valley Forge was always to be historic ground.
"Madam Wetherill has grown wonderfully fond of that child," said Miss Logan. "And what eyes she hath! They begin to look at you in a shy way, as if begging your pardon for looking at all; then they go on like a sunrise until you are quite amazed, when the lids droop down like a network and veil the sweetness. And a skin like a rose leaf. It is said her mother had many charms."
"And her father looked courtly enough for a cavalier. There is a portrait of him that Mr. Northfield hath stored away, that is to be sent to England to the son by a former wife. Though I believe the great hall the boy was to inherit hath a new heir, the old lord having married a young wife, 'tis said. The lad sent word that he would come over, but nothing hath been heard, and now there are such troublous times upon the ocean."
"Nay, England is mistress of the seas. And a new recruit of troops is being sent over. Some think Virginia will be the point of attack."
There was but little news except that by private hands. No telegram could warn of an approaching foe. In July Washington, leaving a body of troopson the Hudson, pushed forward to Philadelphia, where he met, for the first time, the young Marquis Lafayette, who had been so fired with admiration at an account of the daring and intrepidity of the Americans in confronting a foe like England, and declaring for freedom, that he crossed the ocean to offer his services to the Continental Congress.
The British fleet under Sir William Howe did not ascend the Delaware, as was anticipated, but landed at the Chesapeake Bay and were met by Washington on their march up, and after a day's hard fighting, at Chad's Ford, Washington was compelled to retreat with many killed and wounded, among the latter the brave young Frenchman. And then the city had its first bitter taste of war, and all was consternation. Many packed up their valuables and fled, others shut up their country houses and came into town. General Howe crossed the Schuylkill, intending to winter at Germantown, but, after the battle there, in which he was victorious, resolved to place his army in winter quarters at Philadelphia.
Promise was given that all neutrals should be respected in property and person. The advent of the English was regarded with conflicting emotions. There were stately Tories, who held out a hand of welcome; there was a large and influential body of Friends who had resolutely kept to business, having, perhaps, little faith in the ultimate triumph of the colonists.
And now the aspect of the town was changed, in a night, it seemed. Officers were sent to the wealthier households, and General Howe finally established himself in the house of Richard Penn. Barracks were hastily thrown up for the soldiers who could not find refuge elsewhere.
Madam Wetherill was summoned to her parlor one morning, though, thus far, she had not been molested.
"There are two redcoats, full of gold lace and frippery," said Janice Kent severely. "In God's mercy they have let us alone, but such fortune cannot last forever. Still they are more mannerly than those who invaded Mrs. Wray's, for one of them, a very good-looking officer, asked to see you with an air of seeking a favor. But we have hardly chambers enough to accommodate even a company, so heaven send they do not billet a whole regiment upon us!"
Madam Wetherill gave a little frown.
"No, we cannot hope to be let entirely alone. Let me see thy work, child," to Primrose. "Yes, do this part of the rose; it requires less shading, and keep at it industriously."
Then she went down the broad staircase in stately dignity. The wide door space made her visible to the young man, who had been examining the Chinese pagoda standing on a table in the corner.
"I must beg your pardon for coming unceremoniously upon you," he began in a well-trained voice that showed his breeding. "I reached the city only yesterday after a variety of adventures, and as it would have taken a long epistle to explain my history, I resolved to come in person. There was a connection of yours who married a Mr. Philemon Henry. I bethink me that the Quakers disapprove of any title beyond mere names," and he smiled.
"Yes," the lady answered gravely, eying the young man with a peculiar impression of having seen him before. "I knew Friend Henry very well."
"And you have quite forgotten me? I hoped there would be some resemblance. I have been in this house as a little lad with my stepmother——"
"It is not—oh, yes! it must be Philemon Henry's son!"
"That was my father, truly. I had thought some day to come over, when I heard there was a little girl still living, my half-sister. And I remember I was very much in love with my pretty, winsome stepmother. I took it rather hard that I should be sent to England. And, as events turned out, I might have been as well off here in the city of my birth."
"Pray be seated," rejoined Madam Wetherill. "This is singular indeed."
"Allow me to present to you my friend, Lieutenant Vane, who is in General Howe's army, where I expect soon to have a position myself. I hope, madam, you are not too bitter against us?"
"There will be time to discuss that later on," she answered in a guarded tone. "Yet I am almost surprised to find thee in arms against thy father's country."
"I suppose he would have been a peace man. I have memories of a tall, rather austere person, yet of great kindliness, but it was the pretty, playful stepmother that made the most vivid impression. And now tell me of the little girl. Where is she?"
"In this house. In my care partly. She has two trustees, or guardians, besides. One is your father's brother, James Henry, who lives not far from Germantown. But I forget—you know nothing of our localities."
"An uncle! Really that had slipped my mind. And has he any family?"
"One son of his own. A youth and two girls, orphans, whose mother was his wife's sister, have a home there. They are Friends of the quite strict order."
"I must find them. My remembrance of him had faded, but I think I do recall his coming in to dinner at my father's. So my little sister is here? I have said the name over many times. Primrose. Is she as pleasing as the name? If she favors her mother she must be pretty enough."
"She is very well looking," was the quiet answer.
"And somewhat of an heiress."
"No one can tell about property in such times as these. I am sorry thou shouldst have been disappointed in this respect."
The young fellow shrugged his shoulders and smiled with a kind of gay indifference.
"A young woman when Sir Wyndham was up at London captured him. He had gone many a time and had his yearly carouse with no danger, but she made him fast before he could fairly escape. She pays him much outward devotion. There was a great family of girls and they were glad to get homes, having little fortune, but being well connected. Then her child, being a boy, knocked me out altogether; the estate and title going in the male line. Still, he was generous to me. And being of a somewhat adventurous disposition I thought to enlist in the King's Guard, but there being a call for men to subdue the rebelling colonies, I decided to come hither."
"Thy philosophic acceptance speaks well for thee. Few young men could take a disappointment so calmly."
"I raved a little at first," laughingly. "But I wasgiven a journey on the Continent, and there are chances still. It is said old men's children are seldom robust, while I can frolic for a week and remain sound as a nut."
Now that she saw more of him he did resemble his father somewhat, though not so tall and of a more slender build.
"Well," he said presently, veiling his impatience, "am I to see the little girl?"
"Julius," to the hall boy, who was shooting up into a tall lad, "go upstairs and ask Mistress Primrose to come down to me."
The child entered shyly, Julius having announced "two Britisher redcoats" with bated breath and wide-open eyes. She walked swiftly to Madam Wetherill's side.
"This is little Mistress Henry. Primrose, thou hast inquired about thy brother. This is he. Hast thou taken thy father's name?"
"I have added Nevitt to it. In a certain way I am still an appanage of Nevitt Grange—next of kin and in the succession. My sweet little maiden, I am your half-brother from England, and I knew and loved your mother."