September came in with all the glory of ripening fruit and the late rich-colored flowers, with here and there a yellow leaf on the sycamores, a brown one on the hickories, and a scarlet one on the maples. There were stirring events, too. A French vessel had arrived with stores and four hundred thousand crowns in specie, besides an accession of enthusiastic men to the army. General Washington had determined to attempt the capture of New York, but hearing there were large re-enforcements on the way to Sir Henry Clinton, allowed the British to believe this was his plan and turned his army southward.

A gala time indeed it was for the Quaker city. For the Continentals were no longer ragged, but proudly marched in the glory of new shoes and unpatched breeches and newly burnished accouterments. The French regiment of DeSoissonnais, in rose-color and white, with rose-colored plumes, was especially handsome and quite distanced our own army trappings, that had never been fine. General Washington, Count Rochambeau, and M. de Luzerne, the French minister, with Chief Justice McKean reviewed the troops. The sober citizens were stirred to unwonted enthusiasm. Houses were decorated, windows filled with pretty girls waved handkerchiefs, and the mob shouted itself hoarse with joy; going at night to the residence of the French minister and shouting lustily amid the cheering for the King, Louis XVI.

The hall boy ushered in a fine martial-looking man in officer's dress at Madam Wetherill's. A number of guests were in the parlor, and he hesitated a moment before he said: "Summon Miss Primrose Henry."

"Grand sojer man in buff and blue," he whispered. "'Spect it General Washington hisself."

Primrose flashed out. For a moment she stood amazed. It was not her brother.

"Primrose, hast thou forgotten me?"

"Oh!" with a glad cry of joy. "Oh, Andrew," and she was clasped in the strong arms and greeted with a kiss.

"Yes," joyfully. "All the march I have counted on this moment. I could not wait until to-morrow. Primrose, how are they—my dear mother?"

"She is quite well, but Uncle Henry fails and has grown very deaf. And I think Rachel and Penn do not agree well, and are not happy. But things go on the same."

"And is there—any longing for me?"

Oh, how cruel it was to feel that only the poor mother cared. For Primrose was not old enough nor suspicious enough to imagine the hundred little ways Rachel found to blame Andrew and widen the breach between him and his father.

"Thy mother is always asking for thee. I learn thy infrequent letters by heart, and repeat them to her as I get opportunity."

"Thank thee a thousand times."

"And my brother?"

"Hast thou not heard?"

"Not since the return of Allin Wharton. He is still ill and no one sees him, but Polly tells me now and then. Only he is not allowed to excite himself by talking, and it is such little dribbles that I cannot glean much. And you met face to face?"

"We were both doing our duty like brave men, I trust. I'm not sure but in the mÊlÉe that Allin saved my life, and then——"

"Thou couldst have taken his! Oh, Andrew, thank God it was not so," and her voice was tremulous with the joy of thanksgiving.

"A soldier fired and wounded his right shoulder." Andrew did not say that it was only a hair's-breadth escape of his own life. "Neither knew he should meet the other."

"And what hath happened since?"

"He was paroled and exchanged. Since then I have heard nothing. And now I must go. First to see Allin, and then our Commander. The bulk of the troops are still to follow in the steps of these noble Frenchmen. And to-morrow night I must start south on an important mission. In the morning I shall see thee again. My respects to Madam Wetherill."

Her arms were about his neck. How tall she had grown! He remembered when she had first come to Cherry farm he had carried her about in his arms.

"Dear——" He unclasped the clinging hands softly. And then he turned the door knob and was gone.

She ran to her room, a pretty chamber next to Madam Wetherill's, now, and burying her face in the pillow, cried for ever so many causes, it seemed to her. Sorrow that her brother should not have cared enough to write, grief that they two should have met in strife, thanksgiving that neither should be guilty of the awful weight of the other's blood, joy that she should have seen Andrew, and pain and grief that he could not go home as a brave and well-loved son.

It was quite late when Madam Wetherill came up, when the last guest had gone.

"I thought it was thy cousin, and I knew thou would not feel like further gayety, though all the town seems wild, as if we had gained a victory. These French soldiers in their fine attire have turned everyone's head. After all, methinks gay clothes have their uses and help to preserve the spirits. And Andrew—Major Henry, do we call him?"

Primrose smiled then. "He is my own dear cousin and never forgets me. And he wished his respects to thee, and will come to-morrow morning. And Colonel Nevitt has been paroled and is in New York."

"Go to bed now. It is full midnight. The rest will keep," and she patted the soft cheek, warm with flushes of satisfaction.

Major Henry came the next morning. Madam Wetherill was struck with the likeness he bore his uncle, and certainly be made a grand-looking soldier. Then he had to tell all about the affray, but Primrose came to know afterward that he made light of his part in it, and but for his suspicions and presence of mind there would have been great slaughter.

"I can hardly venture to predict, but it does seem to me that we are nearing the end of the brunt of the fighting. It will be no secret in a few days, but I can trust thee, I know. The French fleet may be in the Chesapeake even now, and though Cornwallis hath fortified Yorktown and Gloucester, we shall have the British between two fires, and all aid cut off, even escape. I think we shall capture them, and if so, it will be a blow they cannot recover from. War is cruel enough. I do not wonder Christian people oppose it. But slavery of the free spirit is worse still, and if one must strike, let it be in earnest. But we have gone against fearful odds."

"Heaven knows how thankful we shall be to see it ended. And yet there are nations that have fought longer still," subjoined Madam Wetherill thoughtfully.

"And I hope, when we are through with the enemy, we shall not quarrel among ourselves as to the making of a great country and nation. It is not given to many men to have breadth and wisdom and foresight."

"And there have been disputes enough here. I sometimes wonder if men have any good sense."

"Thou hast not a wonderfully high opinion of them," and Andrew smiled.

"A party of women could be but little worse, and sometimes I think would do better."

They talked about young Wharton, and Andrew instanced many brave acts on his part.

"If thou hadst seen them patient in hunger and cold, with poor frost-bitten feet, and hardly a place to shelter them from the storm, thou wouldst not rail at them."

"It is the stay-at-home soldiers who fight battles over the council board and always win, and know just what every general and every private could do, that provoke me! I wish sometimes they could be put in the forefront of the battle."

"They would learn wisdom, doubtless. An enemy on paper is easily managed."

Then Andrew had to go. And though he longed to press a kiss on the sweet rosy lips that were fond enough last night, Primrose seemed quite a tall young woman, and a child no longer; so, although the leave-taking was very sincere, it had a delicate formality in it.

They had hardly time to consider anything, for the next day brought a tax on their sympathies. Primrose remembered a long ago winter when Miss Betty Randolph had come from Virginia to get some city accomplishments, and flashed in and out of the great house and gone to parties, and had been the envy of Anabella Morris. She had married shortly after and had two babies. And now her father's farm had been despoiled and he rendered homeless, her husband had been killed in battle, and they had made their way northward, hoping to find a friend in Madam Wetherill.

Nor were they mistaken. There were the two elderly people, Betty and her babies, and a younger sister. The only son was in General Greene's army.

"There is plenty of room at the farm," said Madam Wetherill. "I am not as young as I used to be and it gets a greater care year by year, and I think I grow fonder of the city. It would be well to have someone there all the time, and Cousin Randolph understands farming."

"And this is the shy little yellow-haired Primrose, grown up into a pretty girl," Betty said in surprise. "I remember you were full of those quaint Quaker 'thees and thous.' But certainly you are a Quaker no longer, with that becoming attire? Oh, child, be glad you have not supped sorrow's bitter cup."

There was so much on hand getting them settled that Primrose could not go to Uncle Henry's with her blessed news at once. It was always pain as well as pleasure. Sometimes she could hardly find a free moment with Aunt Lois, so jealously did Rachel watch them. And though Primrose had planned talks with Uncle James they invariably came to nought, for she could never surprise him alone, and he was so hard of hearing she knew there would be listeners.

Faith was upstairs spinning on the big wheel, and her window overlooked the stretch of woods that shut out the road altogether. Aunt Lois sat knitting, Rachel was making some stout homespun shirts for winter wear, and Uncle James was lying on the bed asleep.

"Thou hast something else in thy face," began Aunt Lois presently, when Primrose had recounted the misfortunes of the Randolphs and the shelter that had opened before them. "Hast thou heard from——"

"I have seen him!" Primrose clasped both hands and the knitting fell to the floor.

"Seen him! Oh, child! Hath he been here?"

Her voice quavered and her eyes filled with tears.

Rachel picked up the knitting with a frown. The needle had slipped out half-way.

"Thou mightst have shown a little more care, Primrose," beginning to pick up the stitches.

"Tell me, tell me! Is he here now?"

"He came with the French soldiers. Oh, how fine and gallant they were! He could only stay one night, for the Commander had some special business for him at the seat of war. All the troops are going on, and it is hoped that, when the Continentals win, this will lead to peace."

"When they win," said Rachel with doubtful scorn. "It seems as if they cared for nothing but going on and on like quarrelsome children, and no good comes of it. No good can come of such an evil as war. And if you sell anything, here is all this wretched, worthless money! I had rather have good British gold."

"So Arnold thought." Primrose's mirth-loving eyes danced with a sense of retaliation. "There has been some French gold quite as good, since it has clothed our troops and given them many comforts. And, Aunt Lois, he is well and splendid, the picture of my own father, Aunt Wetherill thinks. He sent so much love, and if the war should end he will come home for good. He is not fond of battle, but you may know how good a soldier he has proved, since he has gone from private to major."

Aunt Lois looked up with tender, longing eyes. "Then I shall see him," she said. "He will not stay away?"

"Oh, surely, surely! If there had been time he would have come now. And oh, Aunt Lois, up there on the Hudson we almost lost him. There was a sudden surprise, and, but for young Allin Wharton, it might have gone hard indeed with him."

She could not confess that it was a kindred hand raised against him, though her quick flush betrayed some deep feeling.

"Heaven be thanked! And the young man?"

"He was wounded then and again later on, but has been brought home and is mending. And surely God was watching over Andrew, for he had no hurt whatever. And I feel sure now he will come back safe to us."

Rachel Morgan's face worked with some deep passion, and grew darker under the sunburn. The young girl's delight angered her. Perhaps, too, the beauty and grace, the cloth habit fitting her slim, elegant figure, the beaver hat that looked so jaunty and had in it some long cock's plumes, quite a new fashion. Then there was the trim foot with its fine shoe and steel buckle, all gauds of worldliness to be sure, but they would attract a man's eye.

Rachel had not been beautiful in her childhood, but the tender grace that softens so many faces had not been allowed its perfect work on hers. She looked older now than her years and there were hard lines that some day would be avarice, uncharity, and other evil traits. Then this girl was an idle butterfly, frisking from one folly to another in a wicked and worldly fashion, even despising the plain faith her father had intended she should follow.

"Oh," exclaimed Aunt Lois, after a blissful communing with her soul in very thankfulness, "thou puttest new life into me. I can feel it run through like the breeze in the grass. Sometimes I think with the wise man that few and evil have been my days, and I would not have them unduly prolonged, but to see my son again, my dear son!"

The smile was so sweet that Primrose, leaning over, kissed into it and then both smiled again, while there were tender tears in the eyes of both.

"And now I must go," Primrose said presently, "but I will try to come sooner again. It is such fine weather that the orchards are full of fruit and the wild grapes and the balsams fill the air with fragrance. Oh, Aunt Lois, God must have made such a beautiful world for us to enjoy. He cannot mean to have us frown on this, and wait until we get to heaven, for then the smiles and joy will not come so readily."

"It is flippant for thee to talk of heaven this way. We do not go dancing into it. We must fashion our lives on more godly things," said Rachel rebukingly.

Primrose made no reply, but drew on her glove.

"Then I shall not see Faith," she said rather disappointedly as she rose.

"Where is Faith?" Aunt Lois looked up.

"She idled so much yesterday that she did not finish her stent, and she has a larger share this afternoon."

Rachel followed the girl out. The horses stood in the shade and Jerry had been lounging on the grass, but he sprang up and doffed his hat to his young mistress.

"I have something to say to thee." Rachel took her arm and turned her away from the house and Jerry as well. "Dost thou truly think Andrew will return?"

"He will return." There was an exultant ring of hope and youth in the sweet voice that smote the listener.

"And then," very deliberately, as if her words meant to cut something, they were so sharp and cold, "then you will marry him."

"Marry him? I?"

There was indignation in every line of the face and Rachel noted it with secret joy, though her countenance remained unmoved.

"Yes," persistently. "Thou hast always been fondling about him and kissing him, and such foolishness wins a man when plain common sense gets flouted."

"I have never thought of such a thing," and her face was full of surprise, though the lovely color kept coming and going, and her eyes flashed a little. "I do not want any lovers, and as for husbands, nothing would tempt me to change with Mistress Anabella. And there is poor Betty Randolph, full of sorrow. No, I mean to be like Madam Wetherill, who can always do as she pleases."

"Silly child! I should be sorry indeed for the man who took thee. But Madam Wetherill was married once."

"And her husband died. No, I cannot bear death and sorrow," and she gave a quick shiver.

"Thou hast made trouble enough for Andrew. First it was getting away and mooning over books and strange things, instead of useful ones. Then it was passing food and clothing out to Valley Forge, and running his neck in a noose. Then it was going to war, for which his father disowned him."

"Nay, not that altogether." She looked steadily at Rachel, whose eyes fell a little.

"Yes, if he had not gone he would not have been disowned. It was through thy preachment. Thou hast cost him trouble everywhere. And now, if he should return, thou canst make or mar again."

"I shall not mar," proudly.

"It stands this way. Thy mother was one of the smiling, tempting, deceitful women, who can twist a man about her finger. She spoiled thy father's life and would have won him from the faith——"

Primrose's slim form trembled with indignation and Rachel cowered beneath the flashing eye.

"That is a falsehood, Mistress Rachel, and God will surely mark thee for it! There is an old journal of my father's that, beside business dates and comments, has bits of sweetness about her, and how he thanks God for her, and that she is the sunshine of his life, and if he were to lose her, all would be darkness. Madam Wetherill is to give it to me when I am quite grown."

"I but repeat what I have heard Uncle James say. And if thou wert to marry Andrew he would forbid him the house as much as he did when Andrew became a soldier. He does not approve of thee nor thy tribe."

The hot blood stained the girl's cheeks. Yes, she had long mistrusted that her uncle did not like her, and that he fancied in some way Madam Wetherill had gotten the better of him.

"I am not going to marry Andrew—nor anyone. I love him very much, but I know it is not in that way. And my own life is growing exceeding sweet, day by day. It is like a garden full of wonderful flowers that no one can guess until they bloom."

"Then thou wilt not hinder him again? His father's heart hath grown tender toward him, and I can persuade if I have this surety to go upon."

"And then—dost thou hope to marry him?"

"I hope for nothing, Miss Impertinence. I only want that Andrew shall be restored."

A willful mood came over Primrose. What if she did not promise?

"There is little dependence on thee, I see. I was a fool to think it. Girls like thee play with men's hearts."

Rachel turned away with a bitter curl of the lip, and held her head up determinedly.

"Oh, Rachel, if that will help, I promise. If thou wilt do thy best to soften Uncle James. I care not so much that he shall regard me with favor. I have many to love me."

Rachel turned back a step, caught the round arm and held it up.

"Promise," she cried, almost fiercely.

"I promise," Primrose said solemnly.

"That is in the sight of God. Thou wilt be a very wicked girl to break it."

"I shall not break it. Oh, Rachel, do thy best to restore peace. For to Andrew it would be great joy."

Then she went over to Jerry, who helped her into the saddle. The girls curiously enough had not said good-by to each other. Rachel had gone into the house.

"I did it for the best," she was thinking to herself. "There should be peace between them, for Uncle James acts strangely sometimes. And then if Andrew hath any gratitude—perhaps soft measures may conquer. His mother wishes for the marriage as well."

Primrose seemed in no haste and the ride was long. She was annoyed that Rachel should talk of her marrying. And her brother, she remembered, had confessed a half-formed plan of wedding her to Gilbert Vane. Why could not everybody let her alone? Madam Wetherill never spoke of it, and she was glad.

Where was Gilbert Vane? And oh, where was her poor brother? The soft wind cooled her cheeks and the longing brought tears to her eyes.

"How late thou hast stayed," said Madam Wetherill with tender chiding. "I hope nothing was amiss?"

"Oh, no, dear madam. The air was so fine that I loitered. And the dark seems to fall suddenly when it does come."

"Thou must change thy habit and come to supper. Put on a jacket and petticoat, and afterward one of thy best gowns, for there is to be some young company. Pamela Trumbull sent word 'That she would come with a host of cousins, and thou must have in thy best singing teeth.' The maid is always full of merry conceits. And over our teacups thou shalt tell me about the Henrys."

Primrose repeated all but her last interview with Rachel. Delicacy forbade that. And then Patty helped her into a furbelowed gown of china silk that had been made from Madam Wetherill's long-ago treasures and had a curious fragrance about it.

The young people came, a merry company, and first they had a game of forfeits and some guessing puzzles. Then Pamela, who had quite bewitched her cousin with tales of Primrose's singing, insisted that she should go to the spinet. She found a song.

"Oh, not that foolish one," cried Primrose, blushing scarlet.

"It is so dainty and no one sings it as you do. And in the print store on Second Street there was a laughable picture of such a pretty, doleful Cupid shut out of doors in the cold, that I said to Harry, 'Mistress Primrose Henry sings the most cunning plaint I know, and you shall hear it.'"

Mr. Henry Beall joined his persuasion and they found the music. Primrose had a lovely voice and sang with a deliciously simple manner.

There was a burst of eager applause.

"It was a quaint old song when I was young," said Madam Wetherill. "Then there are some pretty ones of Will Shakespere's."

"This is what I like," began Primrose.

She sang it with deep and true feeling, Lovelace's immortal song. And she moved them all by her rendering of the last two lines in her proud young voice—

Then Mistress Kent would have them come out for curds and cream and floating islands, and they planned a chestnutting after the first frost came. They were merry and happy, even if the world was full of sorrow.

Yet it seemed so mysterious to Primrose that the songs should be so much about love, and that stories were written and wars made and kingdoms lost for its sake. What was it? No, she did not want to know, either. And just now she felt infinitely sorry for Rachel. Come what might, Andrew would not marry her. How she could tell she did not know, but she felt the certainty.

"Do not sit there by the window, Primrose, or thou wilt get moon-struck and silly. And young girls should get beauty sleep. Come to bed at once," said Madam Wetherill.

But after all she admitted to herself that Primrose was not urgently in need of beauty sleep.