With all the disquiet it had been an unusually gay summer for Philadelphia, even after the General and Mrs. Washington had bidden it adieu. For in June there had been a great fÊte given by the French minister in honor of the birth of the Dauphin, the heir to the throne of France. M. de Luzerne's residence was brilliantly illuminated, and a great open-air pavilion, with arches and colonnades, bowers, and halls with nymphs and statues, even Mars leaning on his shield, and Hebe holding Jove's cup. It was seldom indeed that the old Carpenter mansion had seen such a sight.

There were elegant women and brave men, though the Mischianza crowd had been widely scattered. The girls had danced, and chatted in French as far as they knew how, and enjoyed themselves to the full, and the elders had sat down to an almost royal banquet. Polly and Primrose had been among the belles.

Then there had been a grand Fourth of July celebration. A civic banquet, with Morris, Dickinson, Mifflin, and many another. Bells were rung and cannons fired, the Schuylkill was gay with pleasure parties and fluttering flags and picnic dinners along its winding and pleasant banks. And then in August they had most loyally kept the French King's birthday with banquets and balls. And though financial ruin was largely talked of, a writer of the times declares "No other city was so rich, so extravagant, and so fashionable."

And yet withal there was a serious and sensible element. There had before the war been many years of unexampled prosperity; and though there might be a whirl, people soon came back to reasonable living.

Truth to tell, Philemon Henry was becoming quite captivated with the city of his birth and his later adoption. And as he began to understand Madam Wetherill's views for his own future as well as that of his cousin, he was amazed at her generosity. "Nay, it is not simple generosity," she declared with great vigor. "There is no reason why you two should not make a place for yourselves in the new city, such as your father held in the old. Perhaps wider, for your father would have nothing to do with government, and a man ought to take some interest in the civic prosperity of his city as well as money-getting. Mr. Wetherill, whether wisely or not, put much money in property, and it has been a dead weight mostly. But now the time has come to improve it, and with peace there will be many changes and much work to do. I have grown too old, and a woman cannot well attend to it. Younger blood and strength must take it up. Then—if we make some mistakes, there is no one to suffer, though I did not expect to give even two well-trained colts their heads altogether."

He smiled, but there was a soft mistiness in his eyes.

"I can never thank you," he said unsteadily.

"I must trust someone, you see. Mr. Northfield is too old, Mr. Morris has his hands full; indeed, I can think of no one better. I have some of the Wardour willfulness, and take my own way about things. I do not often make mistakes. This is no sudden notion of mine."

"There is one thing, madam, I must explain before we go farther. I am—I have"—he paused and flushed in embarrassment—"there is an understanding between myself and Miss Polly Wharton, not an engagement, for as yet I have had no certainty to offer. But we care very much for each other."

Madam Wetherill gave a quick nod or two and there was a smile in her bright eyes.

"Polly will make a good wife. Thou couldst hardly have chosen better. I would speak to Mr. Wharton and have the matter settled now. If he had not been of a consenting mind, thou wouldst hardly have found a welcome entrance for so long in his home."

"Madam—I never dreamed of being so happy."

"Oh, no doubt thou wilt be much happier on thy wedding day," and she laughed with a bright sparkle of amusement. "I am fond of young people, though they do many foolish things."

"But my sister?" he said suddenly. "We have forgotten about her. All these years of thy kind care——"

"Well—what of her? I loved her mother. I never had a child of my own, though a hen rarely runs after another hen's chicks. The little moppet stole into my heart, and by just raising her eyes inveigled me into fighting for her. Miss Primrose Henry has all the fortune it is good for a girl to have, and she is a gay butterfly to go dancing about for the next few years. Indeed, I believe she has quite made up her mind to stay single, to have many admirers, but no husband. It may not be a good plan, but there have been some famous old maids,—Queen Elizabeth, for instance,—while poor Marie Stuart began with husbands early and lost her head. We can dismiss Miss Primrose to her pleasures."

Then they talked long and earnestly. Andrew Henry was coming home, and the matter would be settled.

And settled it was speedily. Andrew, having been consulted before, was not so much taken by surprise, but his gratitude was none the less fervent. And one Sunday morning Polly walked very proudly up the aisle in Christ Church, with her brother on one side, and her lover on the other, right behind her parents, and when they were seated in Mr. Wharton's pew, Polly was in the middle with her lover beside her, and he found the places in her prayer book and made responses with her and sang joyfully in the hymns. Coming out she took his arm, and blushed a good deal as people smiled at her. It was a fashion then, and everybody knew it was a sign of engagement.

"The young Englishman is very good-looking," said Miss Morris, "but I shall set my cap for the Quaker cousin. What a pity he gives up war and discards soldier clothes, for there is scarcely such a fine-appearing general!"

The young Quaker, mature and manly for his years, took hold of business as if it had been his birthright. Perhaps it had come to him with the resemblance to his uncle. And when Philemon Nevitt decided to take back his father's name, Polly and Primrose rejoiced wildly.

Primrose threw her arms around his neck and gave him many of the kisses she had used to be so chary about.

"Now you are my own dear brother!" she exclaimed, and the satisfaction rang through her voice like a bell. "No king can ever claim you again."

"Unless we have a king."

"But we are not going to have a king. We are all born free and equal."

"Julius and Joe and the old Pepper Pot woman, and the Calamus boys?" with a mischievous smile.

"The slaves are all going to be free. We cannot do everything in a moment. And the equality——" Primrose was rather nonplused.

"Yes, the equality," with a triumphant lifting of the brows.

"I think the equality means this: that everyone shall have a right to try for the best places, and no one shall push him down. To try for education and happiness, and if he is full up to the brim and content, even if he has not as much as the other, isn't there a certain equalization?"

"Primrose, I fear thou wilt be a sophist before thy hundred years are ended," said her brother with a soft pinch of her rosy cheek.

The Randolphs had considered the feasibility of returning south, but Madam Wetherill begged them not to try homelessness with winter coming on. And at Cherry Farm there was one supremely happy woman, Lois Henry.

"Madam Wetherill is more than good to thee," she said to her son with a thankfulness that trembled in her voice. "How one can be mistaken in souls under gay garbs. Indeed it is as the child used to say, 'God made all beautiful things, and nothing is to be called common or unclean, or high and lofty and wasteful.' I am more glad than I can say that thou hast returned to the fashion of the Friends again, but thou art a man to look well in nice attire, and truly one serveth God with the heart and not with the clothes, except that neatness should be observed. The Lord hath given Madam Wetherill a large heart, and she holds no rancor."

"She is one in a thousand," was the fervent reply.

And then Andrew described one of several cottages on Chestnut Street that belonged to the estate of Miss Primrose Henry, and was to rent. There was a small court in front, a grassy space at the side with a cherry tree and a pear tree, and a garden at the back for vegetables.

"For I must have thee in the city near by," he said, "so I can come in to dinner at noon, and spend most of my evenings with thee. Mr. Franklin's old paper, the Gazette, is to be brought out again, and we shall know what is going on. And we will find a meeting house near by, and take great comfort with each other after our seasons of sorrow and separation."

"My son, my dear son! I bless the Lord for thee every day. He hath given me the oil of joy for mourning."

Andrew had greeted Rachel with great cordiality. He was grateful that she had cared so kindly for his mother, though Faith had been the more tender. Penn was settled in part of his new house and very content. Indeed his love for Clarissa was something of a thorn in Rachel's side, but she paid small attention to it outwardly. When Andrew laid his plan before her, however, her very heart sank within her.

"She is to have her living here. I am sure, Andrew, as God is my witness, that I have been like a daughter to her. She hath said so herself. My own mother is dead, let her remain in the place. And thou—thou wilt marry sometime——"

"A long while yet. I am her son and want her, and she is ready and pleased to come. It is but right and natural. As for the living, make no account of that. When we want a holiday it may be pleasant to come out to the farm."

That was a straw and she caught quickly at it. But in any event she saw that she could not help nor hinder.

Primrose took Polly with her to see what should be put in the cottage.

"There are many new things to make work handy, and comforts. Andrew must have a settle here in the living room and it shall be my pleasure to make cushions for it. And oh, Polly, he has learned to smoke while he was soldiering! Of course Aunt Lois will want some of the old things, and she has chests of bed and table linen. But we can buy some plates and cups. Aunt Lois had some pretty Delft ware that I used to dry on nice soft towels when I was a little girl. We will hunt the city over to find Delft."

They were delightfully engrossed with shopping. The stores were displaying tempting aspects again and merchants were considering foreign trade. But it was quite ridiculous, though no one saw it in just that light then, that one should take with them a thousand or so dollars to do a morning's buying. But when a frying pan cost sixty dollars and three cups and saucers one hundred and fifty, and a table two hundred, money soon went. There was plenty of it, to be sure. Congress ordered new issues when it fell short.

People still watched out for Quaker sales: that is, Quakers who refused to pay certain taxes had their belongings seized and sold, and women were as ready for bargains then as now.

Faith took counsel of the trustees who had been appointed for her, and found that she could get away from her sister's home. So she begged Aunt Lois to take her, as they would need some help. Andrew opposed this at first, fearing it would lead to trouble, and Rachel was very angry. But on second thought she decided it would be wiser. For by this means she would still have some hold over them all. On condition that Faith would come home every fortnight for a little visit she consented, and though Faith, trained long in repression, said but little, her heart beat with great joy. Rachel had kept a Swedish woman nearly all summer for out-of-door work, and now engaged her for the winter. By spring, certainly, she would know what lay before her.

William Frost, who had once been in the habit of walking home with her, was married. A well-to-do farmer living up the Wissahickon had called a number of times, but he had four children, and Rachel had no mind to give up her home for hard work and little thanks. She was still young, and with her good marriage portion would not go begging. But the choice of her heart, the best love of her heart all her life, would be Andrew Henry, and she felt the child and the girl, Primrose, had always stood in her way. If she would only marry!

But Primrose was having a lovely winter. True, there were times when Allin Wharton grew a little too tender, and she would tease him in her willful fashion, or be very cool to him, or sometimes treat him in an indifferent and sisterly fashion, so difficult to surmount. There were so many others, though Primrose adroitly evaded steady admirers. When they grew too urgent she fled out to the farm and Betty.

There was great fun, too, in planning for wedding gear. Polly's sister, Margaret, was grown up now, and Polly was to be married in the late spring, and go out to the farm all summer, as the Randolphs had fully decided to return to Virginia in April. Mr. Randolph would go a month or two earlier to see about a home to shelter them. For although the treaty of peace had not been signed it was an accepted fact, and everybody settled to it.

Old Philadelphia woke up to the fact that she must make herself nearly all over. Low places were drained, bridges built, new docks constructed, and rows of houses went up. The wildernesses about, that had grown to brushwood, were cleared away. Hills were to be lowered, and there was a famous one in Arch Street.

"Nay, I should not know the place without it," declared Madam Wetherill. "It will answer for my time, and after that do as you like."

But she was to go out of Arch Street years before her death, though she did not live to be one hundred and two.

The taverns made themselves more decorous and respectable, the coffee houses were really attractive, the theater ventured to offer quite a variety of plays, and the assemblies began in a very select fashion. There was also a more general desire for intelligence, and the days of "avoiding Papishers and learning to knit" as the whole duty of women were at an end.

There were grace and ease and refinement and wit, and a peaceable sort of air since Congress had gone to Princeton.

Midwinter brought out-of-door amusements, though the season seemed short, for spring came early, and in March parties were out hunting for trailing arbutus and hardy spring flowers, exchanging tulip bulbs and dividing rose bushes, as well as putting out trees and fine shrubbery that was to make the city a garden for many a long year.

Primrose danced and was merry, and skated with Allin Wharton when Polly and Phil could go, but she was very wary of confining herself to one. She dropped in and cheered Aunt Lois and fascinated Faith with her bright talk and her bright gowns and the great bow under her chin, for even if it was gray it seemed the softest and most bewildering color that ever was worn. Then she rode out and spent two or three days frolicking with Betty's babies, and came home more utterly fascinating than before.

"Oh, Primrose!" said Madam Wetherill, "I cannot think what to do with thee. Thou wilt presently be the talk of the town."

"Oh, I think I will go to Virginia with Betty and bury myself in a great southern forest where no one can find me. And I will take along pounds of silk and knit some long Quaker stockings for Andrew, with beautiful clocks in them. Hast thou not remarked, dear aunt, that he betrays a tendency toward worldliness?"

"Thou art too naughty, Primrose."

It was fortunate for women's purses that one did not need so many gowns as at the present day, even if they did take out with them marvelous sums. But thinking men were beginning to see the evil of the old Continental money and trying to devise something better, with that able financier, Robert Morris, at their head.

The wedding finery was bought, and the looms at Germantown supplied webs of cloth to be made up in table napery and bedding. There were old laces handed down, and some brocade petticoats, and two trained gowns that had come from England long before. Primrose and Margaret Wharton were bridesmaids, and, oddly enough, Captain Vane, for he had arrived at that dignity, came from Newburgh on a furlough and stood with Margaret, so the foes and the friends were all together. It was a very fine wedding, and at three in the afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Philemon Nevitt Henry were put in a coach, a great luxury then, and went off in splendid state, with a supply of old slippers thrown after them for good luck.

Captain Vane had lost his estate, that was a foregone conclusion. The next of kin had acted and proved the estates forfeited.

"And now I am a true buff-and-blue American," he said proudly to Madam Wetherill. "I shall remain a military man, for the spirit and stir of the life inspire me, and there seems nothing else for me to do. Phil, I think, was only a half-hearted soldier, and business suits him much better. After all, one can see that he is at home among his kinsfolk. Perhaps there was a little of the old Quaker leaven in him that England could not quite work out. He has a charming wife, and a friend such as few men find;" bowing low and kissing the lady's hand.

A party of guests went out to the farm to have a gay time with the young couple. It was Primrose's birthday, but it never rained a drop. And it would have been hard to tell which was the heroine of the occasion, Primrose or Polly. And, oh, the verses that were made! some halting and some having altogether too many feet. There were dancing and jollity and every room was crowded. They had coaxed Betty to stay and she was very charming; quite too young, everybody said, to be a widow with two babies.

Philemon Henry held his pretty sister to his heart and gave her eighteen kisses for her birthday.

"Dear, thou hast so many gifts on all occasions," he said, "that a brother's best love is all I can bestow upon thee now. When I am a rich man it may be otherwise. Polly and thee will always be the dearest of sisters, and I hope to be a faithful son to Madam Wetherill."

Primrose wiped some tears from her lovely eyes.

"That is the best any man can be," she made answer.

It was a very gay fortnight, and Allin Wharton was so angry and so wretched that he scarce knew how to live. Captain Vane was handsome and fascinating, and a hero from having lost his estates, and there were a full hundred reasons why he should be attractive to a woman. He believed Andrew Henry was no sort of rival beside him. Of course Primrose would—what a fool he had been to take Polly's advice and wait!

But Primrose had been very wise and very careful for such a pretty, pleasure-loving girl. There had been something in Gilbert Vane's eyes that told the story, and she understood now what it was: the sweetest and noblest story a man can tell a woman, but a woman may not always be ready to hear it, and now some curious knowledge had come to Primrose—she would never be ready to hear this.

She had threaded her way skillfully through every turning, she had jested and parried until she was amazed at her own resources. The last morning Madam Wetherill was suddenly called down to the office about the transfer of some property, and she had not been gone ten minutes when Captain Vane was announced.

He was very disappointed not to see madam—of course. Primrose was shy and looked like a bird about to fly somewhere, but so utterly bewitching that his whole heart went out to her.

"Oh, you sweetest, dearest Primrose!" he cried, and caught her hand in such a clasp that she could not pull it away. "I love you, love you! and yet I have no business to say it, a soldier of fortune, who has nothing now but his sword, and his patriotism for the country of his adoption—all his fortune yet to make. But it will not hurt you, dear, to know that a man loves you with his whole soul and hopes for—nothing."

But his wistful eyes told another story.

"Oh, why did you say it?" she cried, full of regret.

"Because I could not help it. Oh, I know it is useless, and yet I would give half a lifetime—nay, all of it—for a year or two of such bliss as Phil is having, to hold you in my arms, to call you my wife, my dear wife," and his tone thrilled her with exquisite pain, but something akin to pleasure as well. "Primrose, you are the sweetest flower of the world, but it could never be—never; tell me so, darling. Much as it pains you, say 'no.' For if you do not I shall always dream. And I am a soldier and can meet my fate."

He dropped her hand and stood before her straight, strong, and proud; entreaty written in every line of his face. She covered hers with her hands to shut out the sight and tried vainly to find her voice.

"Nay, dear," he took the hands down tenderly and saw tears and blushes, but not the look he wanted. "That was cruel, unmanly. If it were 'yes' there would be no tears, and so I am answered. It is not your fault. You have a grander, nobler lover than I. But it has been sweet to love you. From almost the first I have loved you, when you were a little girl and I longed to have you for my sister. It will not hurt you, as the years go on, to know you won a soldier for your country and a lifelong patriot. And I know Andrew Henry will not grudge me one kiss. God give thee all happiness. Good-by."

He pressed his lips to her forehead and turned.

"God bless thee," she said, and he bowed reverently as he went out of the room.

She stood quite still, never heeding the tears that dropped on the front of her gown. Andrew Henry! Her dear, dear cousin, who was like a brother. Did he love her that way? Did she love him? And if she did there was her solemn promise to Rachel.

She ran upstairs and had a good cry.

"Whatever is the matter?" asked Patty. "You are fuller of whims than an egg is of meat, for the egg has a breathing space if the chick wants it. Not an hour ago you were laughing like a mocking bird. You had better have a pitcher of sweet balm for your nerves. You have dissipated too much, but thank Heaven there are no more weddings near by."

Primrose dried her eyes and laughed again presently. It was noon when Madam Wetherill returned. Attorney Chew had been in with some new plans that were quite wonderful.

"And Captain Vane to say good-by. What friends he and Phil are! But he is a soldier born, if ever there was one. And he looked so fine and spirited. He said he had been here."

"For a few minutes, yes. And now, dear madam, when you are rested, can we have a better afternoon to ride out to the Pembertons'? I have promised some books to Julia, and that new sleeve pattern, and to-morrow Polly comes in."

"Well, child—yes, after my nap. 'Tis a lovely day, and every day is so busy. Yes, we will go."

She hath escaped that danger, Madam Wetherill thought. And in her heart she honored the brave soldier; how brave, she was never quite to know.

Was there ever a summer without diversions? There was a new interest in plants and flowers. Parties went out to John Bartram's, the quaint old house with its wide doorway and the great vines that had climbed over it for years, until they had grown thick as a man's wrist, almost hiding the names cut in the stone long ago, of John and Elizabeth Bartram. The old garden of flowers and the ferns were worth some study. And there were rambles in the lanes, going after wild strawberries, and even the venturesome ones went on the sly to Dunk's Ferry and had their fortune told by Old Alice. There were many little shrieks and giggles, and joyous or protesting confidences afterward.

And now Primrose thought, as she had years before, that she was quite torn in two. Did she love Andrew Henry with an absorbing love, such as Polly had for her brother? Another face and another voice haunted her. She dreamed of Allin Wharton. This night they were sailing up the lovely Schuylkill and pausing under the overhanging trees to hear the birds who were saying, "Sweet, sweet, I love you," and then Allin would look up at her.

Then they were at the farm. Betty and the babies were gone now, and she missed them sorely. But Allin came out with Phil, and Phil walked off with Polly. Would they never get talked out? Then Allin would draw her out in some fragrant nook and look at her with upbraiding eyes. Or, it was vivacious Peggy who would drag her in to tea, and then some girl would come and she and Allin be left alone again.

Then, by day and in real life, she was cross and tormenting to him. Desperately sorry afterward, for now she had no ambition to be bad-tempered. Everything had come out to her satisfaction. Phil was the dearest of brothers, and prospering, and Madam Wetherill was elated with her successful firm. The prestige of the elder Henry dropped its mantle over them. And as for Polly, there could not be a wiser, sweeter wife. Then Aunt Lois was so tranquilly happy, and Faith growing brighter, yes, prettier, and buying grays with a peachy or lavender tint instead of that snuffy yellow, or dismally cold stone color, and coaxing Andrew, sometimes, to go to Christ Church to hear the singing or the tender prayers where the people could all say "Amen."

Oh, what was the matter that she was not happy and satisfied!

Allin was studying hard and well, and growing more manly every day. And at last he made up his mind there should be no more shilly-shallying. For when Primrose was tender and sweet he knew she loved him. She was—yes, a little bit jealous when he wandered too far in a half angry, half desperate moment.

So one evening he came upon her all alone. Miss Jeffries had begged madam so to come in to a little card party, for now her father was quite lame and could not get out much, and rather deaf, and altogether disheartened about England conquering America. Therefore it was a charity to visit him.

"And lose my money now," she said with a good-natured laugh.

Now Primrose could not shelter herself behind Polly nor Phil. She was sweet and startled, and a dozen things that made her lovelier than ever, with a betraying color coming and going in her charming face. And the lover took sudden heart. How many times he had planned the scene. There was a lover in an old novel that won an obdurate lady, and he had rehearsed the arguments numberless times, they were so fine and convincing. Oh, how did they begin?

He reached over suddenly and took her in his arms and kissed the fragrant lips again and again.

"Primrose," just above his breath, "you know I love you. You must have seen it ages ago, that morning you came,—do you remember,—when I had been wounded, and how we talked and talked, and you sung. I couldn't bear to have you go. You were the sweetest and dearest and most lovely thing in the whole wide world. Polly had talked so much about you. And ever since that you have been a part of my very life. I've been jealous, and angry when you smiled on others, and you do it so much, Primrose; and when that handsome young Vane was here I remembered how you loved soldiers and was—well I could have waylaid him and done anything to him, but that wouldn't have won you. I've waited so long. And now, Primrose, you must give me a little hope. Just say you will love me sometime. Oh, no! I can't wait, either. Primrose, my darling, the sweetness and glory of my life, love me now, now."

The words came out like a torrent and carried her along. The kisses had gone down to her very soul. The clasp of his hands thrilled her.

"Primrose, my sweetest darling——"

It seemed as if she was under a spell. She tried to free herself, but she had no strength. Other men had said silly things, but this was like a swift rush of music, and she was sure no one had ever uttered Primrose in such an exquisitely delicious tone before.

"Oh, Allin!" in a half sigh.

All the answer was kisses.

"Allin, Allin! Oh, let me—yes, let me free. I must tell you——"

"You must tell me nothing, save that you love me. I will listen to nothing else. Primrose, sweetest, dearest——"

"Oh, hush, Allin, let me think——"

If she did not mean to love him he would know it by some sure sign. The hesitation, the half yielding tells its own story.

And the very foolishness of love went to her heart. The vehemence, the ownership in its fearlessness, the persuasive certainty. Of course she had known it all along, she had feared now on the side of distance, now that he might speak too soon, then wondered if he would ever speak at all, while she was all the while putting him off, strange contradiction.

"Say that you love me. Just say it once and I will live on it for weeks."

"Oh, Allin, you would grow thin!" She gave a little half-hysterical laugh. And then something stole over her, an impression vague, inexplicable, that she did not quite belong to herself. Was there someone who had a better right than Allin? Before she gave herself irrevocably to this delightful young lover, she must be sure, quite sure.

"What is it, Primrose?" for he had noted the change, the almost paleness that drowned out the beautiful, radiant flush that was happiness, satisfaction.

"Oh, Primrose, surely you did not, do not love Captain Vane?"

There was a struggle in her soul, in her pulses, an unseen power that grasped her and for a moment almost rendered her breathless.

"No, I did not—love him—but he——"

"Oh, I know. It is hard winning what everyone wants," he answered moodily. "But tell me one good reason why you cannot love me."

As if there was no good reason she was silent.

"I really couldn't stand the uncertainty. I couldn't study. Oh, what would it all be worth—life, fame, fortune, or anything if I did not have you!"

"Do you love me as much as that. Would it make a great difference?"

"It would ruin all my life. It is in your hands. Oh, my darling!" For it was so delightful to be necessary.

It was not foolish to the ears of eighteen when the heart of eighteen had sometimes longed for the words. Good, sound sense is much amiss in lovemaking.

"And you do love me—a little?"

If he could make her admit that he would coax a great deal more.

"I—I can't tell in a moment."

"But you know you do? Will you deny utterly that you do?"

She could evade with pretty turnings and windings, but this, so simple, so to the point.

"Oh, wait," she cried. "I must think. Allin it is a lifelong thing. I want to be sure——"

"And then you will smile on someone else, and walk with someone else and dance and all that, and I shall be utterly miserable and never sure until you do promise."

She put her hand over his, her soft dimpled hand that thrilled and comforted him, and said in a beseeching tone, as if it was his to grant or not:

"Give me a month, Allin. I will not smile on anyone, since you think it so dangerous," with a touch of her old witchery.

"A month! As if you could not tell in a moment whether you loved or hated!"

"But I don't hate. I like you ever so much. I want to think it over. One must consider——"

"A week then. And after that we can be engaged for ever so long. It shall all be as you like then."

It proved very difficult to settle the point. He was so urgent, she so hesitating. The big old English clock in the hall struck ten, and gentlemen expected to keep good hours.

"Do not come in a whole week. No, do not kiss me again," and she held her dainty head up haughtily. "It was all very wrong. I should not have allowed such a thing until I was quite sure. Allin, perhaps I am a coquette."

"You may be anything if you are only mine."

"And then of course I should be steady and devoted, and—like Polly."

That was a maddening picture to hold out. But she would be a hundred times sweeter than Polly, than anyone's sister could possibly be, he thought as he went his way.

Was there a ghost in the room? Primrose shivered as she looked at her bed with the white curtains and her dressing table that all the girls were trimming up now with ruffling and bows. She was so glad to hear the chaise stop and to have the warm, ample presence in the room, to hear the cheerful voice.

"Poor old Mr. Jeffries fails fast," said madam. "It would be a sin to win his money now. And I grew so dull and sleepy that I wished myself home twenty times. Suppose one had an old husband like that? And years ago, about fifteen, I think, Mr. Ralph Jeffries asked for my hand."

She laughed softly and began to take out her pins and stick them carefully in the cushion. Pins were very precious then.

There were two rainy days, an autumnal storm. Then Sunday. Allin Wharton looked at Primrose across the church and spoke coming out. There were laces to mend and gowns to consider and poor to visit. And all the time Primrose Henry was thinking if—if a man who was nobleness and goodness and tenderness itself, loved her, and would never love anyone else, what ought she to do?

Thursday noon Phil came in to dinner. Polly was not very well and he was going out at three. Wouldn't Primrose come with him?

Primrose colored and looked oddly embarrassed, and said, in a confused sort of way, there was something she must do this afternoon, but to-morrow she would come out and spend two or three days with Polly. She sent her best and dearest love.

Yes, she must know once for all. If duty was demanded of her—if she loved Andrew less, or more, when it came to that. What was this romance and mystery, and incomprehensible thrill! She did experience it for Allin, and alone by herself her face flushed and every pulse trembled. His foolish words were so sweet. His kisses—ah, had she any right to offer the cup of joy and delight to another when someone had drained the first sweetness?

But if Andrew loved her with the best and holiest love. Could she follow in her mother's steps? But her mother had singled Philemon Henry out of a world of lovers.