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 Élite 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."