"A very plain stiff Quaker downstairs, Primrose, who demands to see thee alone. There is a sharp air about her. I think she must be one of those the madam spoke of who are importuning about repairs and want rents for nothing."

"To see me?" asked Primrose in surprise. "I have nothing to do with the houses."

"She would not allow her business was with anyone else. She does not look like one of the begging women with whom the city is overrun."

Primrose walked slowly down the wide staircase full of curiosity. Polly Wharton asked for her sometimes, and Anabella Morris.

The visitor had on the close hat with the big round crown that but few of the younger women wore, and rarely in black. Her gown was straight and plain, the long sleeves coming down over her ungloved hands, and a square of gray twilled silk crossed over her bosom. She did not stir until Primrose was well into the room and then she turned.

"Oh, Rachel!" was the surprised exclamation.

Rachel Morgan stared at the vision before her. An unwonted envy stirred her. It seemed as if Faith grew plainer every day, and this girl took all the beauty!

"How are they all at the farm?" Primrose inquired with pretty graciousness. "Is Uncle James quite well and strong?"

"How could one be well with such a great sorrow?" the visitor asked sternly, fixing her eyes on Primrose, who shrank from the hard gaze, and felt her heart beat in strange protest.

"But—Andrew is well—is here——"

"We heard a part of the army had been retained, and a neighbor hath seen Andrew Henry in the attire of the sons of cruelty and worldliness, and that bitter spirit toward the law that Mr. Penn besought his brethren not to use. But no one seems to heed duty or obedience any more."

Primrose stood gazing as if the voice held her in a half-frightened thrall.

"He hath been here, in this house?"

"Yes, yesterday," with some hesitation.

"And he will come again?"

"Oh, yes!" There was a confident ring in her voice that angered the other.

"The world and its sins hath grown greatly upon him. I will venture to say he feels more at home amid these gauds and giddy flowered damasks and soft cushions and numerous things the elect would term idols of the carnal sort," glancing around. "And the vain women who frequent houses like these. I see thou art tricked out with much worldly vanity, and thy father was one of the straitest Friends. How canst thou do it?"

Primrose opened her eyes wide at this tirade and shook back the curly, glistening hair that she did not yet wear high on her head, for Madam Wetherill hated to have her leave the cloisters of girlhood. And her frock was white muslin, lengthened down a little and the piece covered with an artful ruffle. There was a silver buckle at her belt, and on each shoulder a knot of blue ribbon.

She hardly knew what to say, but presently she ventured—"Truly, Cousin Rachel, I do not feel vain. I seldom think of my gowns."

"I am in no mood to discuss attire," as if Primrose had begun it. "I come to thee on an urgent errand. Thou knowest, perhaps, that Andrew hath angered his father beyond everything. Instead of heeding the admonition to come out from the world and have no part in its wickedness, he hath all winter been a go-between, encouraging rebellion by carrying supplies to the camp at Valley Forge——"

"It was noble and kindly to take a great danger upon himself, to feed sick and starving men, and to clothe their poor bodies. It surely made one's heart bleed to hear of their sufferings. Nay, thou shalt not say hard and bitter things against him!" cried Primrose spiritedly.

"The truth is wholesome, if it hath a bitter tang. We surmised that he found encouragement in this house, and had beforetime listened to thy childish and unreasoning folly. And he made himself a criminal in the eyes of the law. His father's house was searched, and a man of Belial abode with us to see if he would not come back. And the two fine animals and the market wagon were carried off. If they had found him it would have gone hard with him."

"But they did not," Primrose said triumphantly.

"Thou didst see him then?"

"Yes. And we knew—we saw him safely on the old Perkiomen road. Then someone came the next day to inquire about him, so we know he had eluded them. And now they have marched in and Philadelphia is free!"

"There were anxious days and nights about him until the word came that he had joined the camp of rebels under Washington."

"But long ago he said if the country needed him he would go. And there was Penn to take his place."

"Penn will be a good son to my uncle. But, after all, it is Andrew's place. He is needed. His mother's heart is sore for him, and I can see that Uncle James is not at rest. So I have put my pride in my pocket as a sinful thing, and come to thee. Perhaps thou mayest have some influence over him. Wilt thou try to persuade him?"

Primrose looked down on the floor as she laced her slim hands together.

"I will tell thee the whole story. He was to marry me. Aunt Lois wished it and said I was a daughter after her own heart. I should have cared for them as if I had been an own child. Uncle James had spoken to him and he had promised to consider. At the meeting it had been talked of as most proper and suitable. I had not much money, for our small farm hath to be divided among three. But Uncle James thought a good wife better than wealth."

Primrose stared in blank amazement. Had not Andrew said there was a condition he could not fulfill? Was it this?

"I should have made him a good wife and roused him out of that dreaminess he allowed to hang about him. And because it was to be so, I plead with Uncle James until he relented. He hath promised me to take him back——"

"But he will not leave the army until they have driven the English across the seas again. And if thou couldst see him so straight and tall and proud, holding up his head as he never did before! And all his heart is in it."

"But the Lord made him a son and not a soldier. It is against our belief. We have come out from the world, and are not to fight its sinful battles. He hath a higher duty. Thou hast a smooth and persuasive tongue, and if thou wouldst use it to restore peace between a sad father and wayward son, and assure him he hath only to come back and fulfill his promise and all will be peace—if thou carest to do a good work, this will be one."

Rachel Morgan rose, and looked so steadily, so sternly at Primrose Henry that she felt a shrinking all over her.

"Thou wilt do this," she said. "It seems as if thou hadst cared a little for Aunt Lois and thy dead father's brother, and if thou hast any love thou wilt try to restore peace."

"I will tell him what thou sayest," in a weak tone as if she was hardly persuaded.

Rachel caught her hand, which was soft as a rose leaf, and wrung it in hers until she could have cried with pain.

"Nay, not in that cold way. Thou hast the eyes and the tongue to move whomever thou wilt, and he set strange store by thee. Men often yield to a honeyed voice. Coax him, convince him it is his duty. Otherwise their sorrow and, perhaps, their death may be on his hands, and neither wilt thou be altogether free. That was my errand and the Lord gave me strength to come, though women do not generally plead for their lovers."

"I will try," Primrose said, much moved.

But she sat by herself after Rachel had left her, thinking the matter over with a curious protest that she did not understand. Why should she shrink from his marrying Rachel? She had seen many lovers through the winter, and Anabella had poured into her ears a great deal of foolish-sounding flattery, and delight on her part, that had caused Primrose much wonder. And now her gay captain had followed the fortunes of Sir Henry Clinton, and she was in despair, though he had promised to return.

But she asked Madam Wetherill what she ought to do. The lady gave an odd little smile.

"You must tell him, since you have consented. But it will not change his intentions. His enlisting was no sudden notion, if he was forced into it by circumstances. I wonder at Mistress Rachel making this appeal."

"Do you think he ought to marry her?" Primrose asked timidly.

"That is a question for him to answer, my child."

But Madam Wetherill knew if he had been in love with Rachel he would have made some overtures himself.

Primrose studied the subject within her heart and was quite grave over it. For two days they did not see him and on the third a messenger came with a note.

The permission to join Washington had arrived suddenly and they were to march at once. It was the present plan of the Commander in Chief to invest New York and pen up the British there. "I would rather fight than see the gayety of the last winter repeated," Andrew wrote. "And I am much afraid our officers have not learned wisdom by the experience of their enemies. For surely so much pleasure will demoralize them. And though I am sorry not to see thee, partings are sad at the best, and I have a strong belief that I shall return well and sound. Dear Primrose, if so be thou could get word to my mother without too great an effort, tell her I keep her in my heart day and night. She will know it was not possible for me to accede to my father's request, pleasant as it might have been for others. I send him a son's respect, whether he considers me in the light of a son or no, and am sorry that at the last I should have brought trouble and suspicion upon them. It is my present hope that Penn will be a good son to them. I wish little Faith could have some of thy joy, for I am afraid it is a dreary life for the child. Heaven be watchful of thee, little Primrose."

It was true that several companies were not needed for the city's protection, and were dispatched in the hasty mood that not infrequently ruled General Arnold.

And now new defenses were erected for the city, and there was a general clearing up. The barricade around the old Treaty Elm was taken down, the squares were freed from rubbish and the grass restored, the houses repaired and new ones planned. True, landlords groaned about unpaid rents, and money-lenders almost wept over the sums the British had despoiled them of. The country estates were in a sad plight, many of them, but others had escaped.

Madam Wetherill thanked Heaven that it was no worse with her. Mount Pleasant was a scene of great gayety during the summer, and the Arnolds and the Shippens held grand court, almost like royalty. She had much to do minding her estate and looking out for some of her southern interests, and took less heed to gay parties.

Twice a year the trustees met to consider the estate of Mistress Primrose Henry. Just before this Madam Wetherill took her charge over to the old Quaker farm, that was so peaceful and thrifty one would hardly dream there had been war in the land. Primrose had sent a message to Rachel Morgan to explain why she had not undertaken her trust.

Aunt Lois was rather feeble, but Rachel seemed to carry the house on her shoulders, and was noticeably sharp with the men and Chloe, who was growing old as well as her mistress. Certainly she looked after all things in a thrifty fashion that had already brought a crease between her eyes, young as she was.

Faith was thin and fearful-looking, as if she expected some chiding in nearly everything, and it rarely missed coming. For Rachel had been sorely disappointed in her marriage plans, and liked to make others suffer for her unhappiness.

Primrose was like a butterfly in the plain old house, and seemed to make a swift dazzle. Aunt Lois warmed curiously toward her, feeling as if the sun was shining after a spell of lowering weather.

She rose from her chair and laid aside her knitting.

"Thee used to love the chickens so much," she said gently. "We have some pretty ones. While thy aunt talks business let us get out and see them. I sit in doors so much thinking, and though I try not to question the will of Providence, life does not seem quite as it used. It may be that I am getting old. Poor mother used to sit under the tree yonder, but when it comes my time, Faith will be too womanly and too busy to look after me, and perhaps married."

They walked down the well-trodden path. There were chicken mothers in little coops, and yellow, downy balls, others with tiny wings and patches of feathers here and there.

"Thou didst see Andrew before he went away?"

The mother's eyes had a soft, wistful, far-off look.

"Yes. And a lovely letter that I have read again and again. Oh, why did I not bring it—but indeed I did not know"—pausing in a tone that indicated what might be meant.

"A mother is a mother always. A father may feel hard when his plans are traversed. Tell me about my son; for I cannot shut my heart upon him."

"He makes a handsome soldier and a good one. He will have a large heart and a wise head."

"But a soldier! And to kill his fellow-creatures. We are to live in peace."

"But I was to say when I could, that he kept thee in his heart day and night, and that he would never forget thee. Dear Aunt Lois, he is brave and good and tender of soul, and I know God loves him for his work to the poor and needy last winter."

"I have wondered many times how he escaped. We only knew that he was safe."

"Someone betrayed him. He had taken great care. Wilt thou hear how he left the town?"

"Dost thou know?" raising her soft eyes.

Primrose told gleefully how they had disguised him and seen him safe on the road where he was not likely to meet the soldiery.

"And thou didst do this for him, dear child!"

She took the soft hands in hers, that were soft again now that she did little coarse labor.

"It was not much to do, surely. And it was rare fun when the guards passed us."

"I owe much to thee and Madam Wetherill. And did he speak of any return?"

"Nay, his is a soldier's life."

"I sometimes think it is not wisdom to plan children's lives. Perhaps if we had let him be," and she gave a gentle sigh. "But we had hopes he would fancy Rachel, and she somehow had set her heart upon it. He seemed not inclined to marry, and so we should have waited until the spirit guided him. Child, I thank thee for thy care and interest in him. We should have been glad if thou couldst have kept thy father's faith and been content to stay here, but I can see thou didst need a larger life. Perhaps we narrow ours too much. It may not always be the Lord's will as we think. I have strange ideas as I sit and knit or sew. And I remember that good Mr. Penn and his wife took much pleasure of a kind we hardly approve of now. It is hard to tell which is right."

"Dear Aunt Lois, whatever leads people to be sweet and joyful and thankful and kind to all who suffer cannot be far wrong. And were there no good men before the time of Mr. Fox and Mr. Penn?"

"Thou wert always finding prettiness of speech and ways that have a charm in them. And if thou shouldst send word to Andrew at any time, tell him his mother's heart is tender towards him and that no one can fill his place. Thou hast given me much joy. But I can see thou art not fitted for the grave life here, and if our ancestors crossed the sea that they might have liberty of belief, why should we not grant it to others?"

James Henry no longer insisted upon what he called his rights in his brother's child. She was too gay and worldly for his taste, which, where women were concerned, could have been comprised in the old advice "To avoid Papishers and learn to knit." And when he looked on the industry and thrift of Rachel his heart hardened toward his son for his blindness.

For Primrose went steadily now to Christ Church, but England would not send over a bishop while people were so contumacious, and so some rites were held in abeyance.

But she was very happy and growing tall rapidly, and Friend Henry turned her over altogether to Madam Wetherill, who after all was not forgotten by the fashionables, even if they did run after the Arnolds.

And in the autumn there were some changes, although the Continentals had not swept their enemies across the sea. Society Hill put on a brisk aspect, and gardens opened again where they sold beer and cakes, and young people chatted merrily, while older people gossiped. There were shops trying to turn out much-needed goods that gave the town an aspect of industry. Indeed employment was provided for the poor classes in putting streets in order. All manner of homespun cloth was made. Even Mrs. Washington had ordered that her spinning wheels at Mount Vernon should fly as briskly as if she were there, and sixteen were kept going all the time.

Franklin and John Adams were in France cementing the alliance that was so slow in doing its promised work. At home, political leaders were quarreling fiercely among themselves. Joseph Reed and Arnold were at swords' points. A charge of dishonesty and malpractice in office was preferred against Arnold before the Continental Congress, but, though convicted, he was sentenced to a reprimand only. He had been a brave soldier, and Washington, with a heart full of anxiety for other undertakings, unfortunately dealt leniently with him, but it made no appeal to better feelings or conduct, for he began almost at once his treasonable practices with the British, that were to bring about a lasting shame.

There were other troubles as well. The Quakers could not and would not serve in the army nor pay taxes for its support. Franklin had known how to gain by diplomacy what they would not openly concede, but they were unpopular with those in power, and the mob openly rejoiced when goods were levied upon. Indeed many of the poorer and plainer brethren had little sympathy when such articles as "a looking glass in wide gilt and mahogany frame, with ornamental corners" and "handsome walnut chairs deeply carven and with silken cushions" and "mahogany tea table with carved legs and crow feet" were sold for a quarter of their value. It shows that many of the Friends were not stinted in their household appointments, and must indeed have had sturdy consciences to part with their cherished belongings rather than pay away a little money in what was considered an unjust cause.

New York was full of gayety and dissipation under the British, as Philadelphia had been. And Primrose was sent for by her brother, who was now Colonel Nevitt and in a pleasant position.

"There is much to see and enjoy," he wrote. "And there are fine manners and customs that will fit you for London when we go. For it is most certain, by the looks of things, that the rebellion will soon be brought to an end. The winter in Philadelphia was a great mistake, though pleasant enough to me. And you must be now a pretty young woman that I should be proud to have. If Madam Wetherill feels that she is not young enough for gayety, I have some friends here who will be glad to take charge of a fair young girl, and I shall be most happy with my charming sister. There are parties coming almost every week, and I can find safe escort. Do not disappoint me."

"What wilt thou do?" asked Madam Wetherill. "Thou art no longer a little girl, Primrose, though it grieves me to say it. Patty scolds about lengthening thy gowns all the time, and Anabella is sure I will keep thee an old maid. Though between two stools she is like to come to the floor for aught I see. Her British lover never so much as wrote her a line, and young Matthews, that she made quite certain of, hath married Kitty Strong. She need not worry about thee, since thou hast nearly two years' grace behind her. But her mother was so foolishly hasty to have her married."

"But I want to stay a little girl," cried Primrose eagerly. "I hate a big hoop and a monstrous topknot that pulls my hair, and a bunch of feathers that makes one look like an Indian sachem."

She made such a pretty pouting mouth, like a rose half-blown, that madam laughed.

"And then one can run around with Patty and tease the boys who sell pink calamus buds, and buy 'Peppery pot, smoking hot.'" She was such a good mimic it sounded exactly like the venders.

"I am afraid I have spoiled thee. But it is thy brother whom we must consider. He may have some rights."

"What rights, indeed, to a rebel maiden who would hate the sight of so many red coats together?"

"Still thou dost love him a little. Surely he is thy nearest kin."

"I can never think whether I love him dearly or only a little. When I pull a daisy out it says only a little. And when I blew a puffy dandelion out to tell me where my true love dwelt, it went south instead of north."

"But the great city. I was there once, years ago. It hath many queer things and reminders of the old Dutch people who settled it. And it has a beautiful river and an island south of it, and a short way out to the ocean."

"As if we did not have our fine and noble Delaware that runs on and up past the Jerseys to the State of New York. And there is our Schuylkill with its peaceful shores and green and flowery banks, now that the British are away, and our beautiful Wissahickon. Nay, I want nothing beyond my own home town, and no one but you and the friends that come here. I will write to Phil and tell him that neither his tongue nor his pen can charm me. And he never says 'thou' latterly."

"But the young people here leave it off, I notice. And thou must not write saucily."

Primrose laughed and tossed her golden head.

She wrote to her brother and put in some rhymes, a fashion quite affected then, for many of the young ladies wrote sentimental and would-be satiric verses. Hannah Griffiths, who was cousin to Deborah Logan, had satirized the famous Mischianza, and there were songs for various occasions such as birthdays and weddings.

Primrose wrote also to Andrew Henry. It was difficult to get letters from the Federal soldiers unless some messenger came direct, but she guessed how much pleasure the bit of news would be to him. She rode out to the farm occasionally and took a message from Aunt Lois to Andrew. Uncle James was growing quite deaf and irritable in temper, but Aunt Lois softened perceptibly and was always glad to see Primrose.

Rachel had a new vexation that did not improve her temper. Chloe grumbled at the sharpness, but she was too old to think of another home. Faith was now a tall, thin girl, looking careworn and sallow.

"I must walk a little with thee even if I should get beaten for it afterward," she said in one of the visits, as she intercepted Primrose and Patty at the group of great sycamores that shut off the view of the road. "For I feel sometimes as if the strings of my heart would burst when there is no one to talk to but old Chloe, and Rachel watches us as a cat does a mouse."

"She would not beat thee, surely." Primrose's face was one indignant flame.

"She did when I was smaller, until one day Aunt Lois interfered. Now she slaps, and her hand is hard as a board; or she boxes my ears until bells ring in them. I know not what made her so cross at first, except that she tried to be sweet and pleasant to Andrew, and when he was gone all was different. Now Penn walks home from meeting with Clarissa Lane and finds excuses for going over there. But Rachel says he is needed here on the farm since uncle cannot work as he used, and that he shall neither go away to marry, nor bring a wife home here. They had a bitter quarrel one day. I was gathering sassafras and birch buds for her and they did not know I was there. And Rachel said if he married Clarissa, she would persuade uncle not to leave him any part of the farm. Ought not the farm belong to Andrew?"

Primrose shook her head doubtfully.

"If I were a man I would run away and fight too. I would find Andrew and march and fight beside him. Oh, Primrose, thou canst never know how good and sweet he was to me and what wise counsel he gave. And now I am so wretched!"

"Poor girl, poor Faith!" Primrose cried, deeply moved. "If you could come into town——"

"I can go nowhere, she says, until I am of age; if I did, that the constable could bring me back, or I could be put in jail. And that if I do not please her I shall have none of Uncle James' money."

"It is not honest to count on the money, and James Henry may live many years!" exclaimed Patty sharply.

"If I had it I should give it back to Andrew. I feel as if we had crowded him out of his home. No one speaks of him but Aunt Lois and old Chloe, and Rachel frowns at her. Oh, if I dared come to thee, I would be a servant, or anything! Oh, Primrose, God hast set thee in a blessed garden! Bend over and kiss me. And come again. It is like a bit of heaven to see thee."

Then Faith vanished, and the tears ran down the pink cheeks of the child.

"Oh, what can we do?" she sobbed.

"Nothing, dear," returned Patty, much moved, and feeling that some comfort was needed, even if it was only the sound of a human voice. "Friend Rachel hath grown hard through disappointment. Grace does not always wrap itself in a plain garb, and a red rose is sweet and pretty in its redness. There is much selfishness in the world under all colors, methinks, and when it is gray; it grows grayer by the wearing."