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resolved that the old arrangement, whereby Philemon Henry's daughter was to spend the summers with them, should remain no longer in force.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 think my 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 Rachel would 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 his last 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 the hay 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 troops on 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 was given 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."

He crossed over to Primrose and would have taken her hand, but she clung closer to Madam Wetherill, looking at him with half-frightened eyes.

"Nay, do not be so doubtful, my pretty child. If I have convinced your protectress, and I think General Howe has sufficient credentials to vouch for me, you may safely acknowledge me. At least, shake hands. I will prove the kindest of brothers if you do but give me a chance."

She glanced questioningly at her aunt and then ventured one small hand, while her cheeks flushed in a delicate pink.

He bent over and carried the hand to his lips.

"We must be friends, little Primrose, for now we shall see a good deal of each other, I hope. Will you not give me one smile? As I remember your mother, she was most generous of her sweetness."

"The child is strange of course. And she hath not heard much about you."

"Is it truly my brother?" She glanced up at Madam Wetherill as if not convinced.

"I have no doubt. I think I had an impression at once," smiling. "And when she is better acquainted——"

"But I do not like General Howe to take possession of our city. Patty says the streets are full of redcoats and I cannot go out."

She stiffened herself with great dignity, and now she looked squarely at him out of beautiful eyes.

"Who may Patty be? And you will see that General Howe has a right to be here. He will soon settle the rebels if he keeps on as he has begun."

"I am a rebel. And your general shall not conquer me. He is cruel and wicked!"

"Primrose!" said her aunt, though much amused.

"You have found a foe already," laughed Gilbert Vane. "One you cannot fight, but must persuade."

"But my Cousin Andrew has promised to fight for me. He is larger than you, and I like him very much."

She looked so spirited and daring that he wanted to clasp her in his arms and conquer her with kisses. He would soon oust this Cousin Andrew in her affections.

"Little girls must not be so fierce," reproved Madam Wetherill. "We have talked on all sides and the child hears it. Then some of my old servants are strong patriots, rebels I suppose they will be called. Your friend is right—a little patience is best for conviction."

"At least you will let me try to win your regard?" and he glanced steadily at his little sister, but she kept silent.

"It is best that girls should not be too forward, or too easily won. We shall hope to see thee often. Thou wilt meet people of many beliefs here; some ardent Tories, some as ardent rebels, perhaps. I place no restrictions on the beliefs of my friends. Now, Primrose, run away to thy work. I have still a few matters I wish to talk about."

"Surely you will wish me a farewell in a kindly fashion?" exclaimed her brother.

Primrose had walked across the room with great dignity. At the door she paused to bestow a smile and courtesy on her aunt, then a very dignified one on each of the gentlemen, holding up one side of her skirt daintily.