It is well for us to follow the fortunes of some of those who were in De Courval's mind as the Marie lost sight of the steeple of Christ Church.

Mrs. Swanwick, born in the creed and customs of the Church of England, was by many ties of kindred allied to the Masters, Willings, Morrises, and to that good Whig rector, the Rev. Richard Peters. She had conformed with some doubts to the creed of John Swanwick, her dead husband, but was of no mind to separate her daughter altogether from the gay cousins whose ways her simpler tastes in no wise always approved.

It was also black Nanny's opinion that the girl should see the gayer world, and she expressed herself on this matter to her mistress with the freedom of an old servant. She could neither read nor even tell the time, and never left the house or garden, except for church or the funeral of some relative. Just now, a week after the vicomte had gone, she was busy in the kitchen when Mrs. Swanwick came in.

"Were there many at thy cousin's burial?" asked the mistress.

"Yes, there was; but this goin' out don't agree with me. I ain't young enough to enjoy it." Then she said abruptly: "Miss Margaret she's pinin' like. She ain't no Quaker—no more than me."

Mrs. Swanwick smiled, and Nanny went on peeling potatoes.

"I don't go with Friends—I'm church people, and I likes the real quality."

"Yes, I know, Nanny." She had heard all this many times.

"I heard the Governor askin' you—"

"Yes, yes. I think she may go, Nanny."

"She'll go, and some time she'll stay," said Nanny.

"Indeed? Well—I shall see," said the mistress.

"Potatoes ain't what they used to be, and neither is folks."

Now and then, with more doubt as Margaret grew and matured, her mother permitted her to stay for a day at Belmont, or at Cliveden with the Chews, but more readily with Darthea Wynne. Just now an occasional visitor, Mr. John Penn, the Proprietary, had come with his wife to ask the girl to dine at Landsdowne. It would be a quiet party. She could come with Mr. Schmidt, who, like Nanny, seeing the girl of late somewhat less gay than usual and indisposed to the young Quaker kinsfolk, with whom she had little in common, urged the mother to consent. She yielded reluctantly. "Ann," said the gentleman in the ruby-colored coat, "would take care of her." This Ann, the daughter of the Chief Justice Allen, was a friend of Mary Swanwick's youth. There was advice given, and some warnings, which the pleased girl, it is to be feared, thought little of as, wrapped in furs, Schmidt drove her in his sleigh over the float bridge at the middle ferry, and at last along the Monument Road from the Lancaster Pike to the front of the Italian villa John Penn built where now in the park stands the Horticultural Hall.

The sky was clear, the sun brilliant. There were far-away glimpses of the river, and on the terrace to meet them, at three o'clock, a group of gay young cousins, who came out with Mrs. Byrd of Westover, the hostess, Ann Penn, very splendid in gown and powder, with Mr. Peters, their neighbor, of late made a judge, and the Governor in purple velvet short-clothes and gold buckles. He put out in welcome a lace-ruffled hand, of which he was said to be proud. A hood, and over it a calash for shelter from cold, had replaced the girl's Quaker bonnet, and now it was cast back, and the frost-red cheeks were kissed, and the profuse compliments of the day paid to the really charming face of Margaret, whom nature had set off with color and whom stern decrees of usage had clad for contrast in relieving gray silks.

There was whispering among those madcap cousins as they hurried her away to Ann Greenleaf's room, a niece of Mrs. Penn, "to set thy hair in order for dinner, thou darling Quaker." She was used to their ways, and went merry with the rest up the great stairway whence William Penn, in the serene beauty of his youth, looked down at the noisy party, now bent upon a prank altogether in the fashion of their day.

As Margaret entered the room, she saw Miss Ann Greenleaf being trussed up in stays by a black maid.

"Why, dear, is the room so dark?" asked Margaret; for the curtains were drawn, and there were candles on the mantel and in sconces.

"The better to see how we shall look—in the evening," replied Miss Willing.

Gowns, silken hose, high, red-heeled shoes, and powder-puffs lay about on bed and chairs.

"We have a little secret," cried Miss Willing, "and we will never tell, dear."

"Never!" cried they.

"We want to dress thee just for to see how thou wouldst look in the gown of decent Christians."

"I could never think of it."

"Come, girls," cried Miss Willing, "let us dress her just once."

"Oh, but just for a half-hour," they said, and gathered around her, laughing, urgent.

Nice Christians these! She would not. Mother would not like it, and—ah, me, she was not unwilling to see herself once in the long cheval-glass. She had had naughty dreams of brocade and powder. Despite her resistance, they had off the prim Quaker dress, and blushing, half-angry, half-pleased, she was in slim attire, saying: "Thou really must not. My stockings, oh, not my stockings! Oh, Molly Greenleaf, how can I? It is dreadful—please not." But the silk stockings were on, and the garters, with compliments my modest pen declines to preserve. There was enough of the maiden neck in view above the undervest, and very splendid length of brocade gown, with lace of the best, and a petticoat, pearl-tinted, "Because, dear, we are all Quakers," they cried. "And do keep still, or the powder will be all over thee. What color, girls! Can it be real? I must kiss thee to see if it be rouge."

"For shame!" cried Margaret, between tears and laughter.

"Now a fan—and patches, Molly Greenleaf! No. The old women wear them; but gloves, crumpled down at the elbow. So!" She had given up at last.

It was only for a frolic half-hour. "Go now and see thyself." Two of the merriest seized lighted candles, for the room was made dark by the drawn curtains, and stood on each side of the long cheval-glass, a pretty picture, with Margaret before the mirror, shy and blushing. "Great heavens! you are a wonder! Isn't she, oh, isn't she, the sweetest thing!"

The Quaker maiden looked down at the rich brocade and then looked up, and knew that she was beautiful. She stood still, amazed at the revelation, and the gods who give us uncalled-for thoughts set in her mind for a moment the figure of the young vicomte. She colored, and cried, laughing, as she turned away from the glass: "You have had your way with me, and now—undress me, girls, please. I should scarce know how."

"Oh, the sweet, innocent thing!" cried they. "But wait a little. Now thy hair—so—and so, and a bit more powder. La, but you are dangerous! Where are thy Quaker gown and stockings? Where can they be! Molly Greenleaf, what have you done with them? And, oh, Cinderella, the slippers fit to a charm." No one knew where had gone the gown, the shoes, the shawl, the rest of the simple garb. "The fairy godmother has done it," cried Miss Cadwalader. "What shall we do?" cried Betty Morris. The gong, a new fashion, rang for dinner. The girl was angry.

"This passes the limit of a jest," she cried. "Go down? I? No. I will die first." They implored, laughing; but she refused, saying, "I sit here till I have my gown," and would speak no more.

At this minute came Mrs. Penn. "What is all this noise, young women? Good Lord! Margaret Swanwick! So this is what these minxes have been at all the morning?"

"I have been tricked," said Margaret, "and—and I will never forgive them—never."

"But come down to dinner, my dear. You will have your revenge when the men see you. There, the Governor dislikes to wait. He has sent up to say dinner is ready."

"I want my gown," said the Pearl, "and I will not go down." Only anger kept her from tears.

"But the Governor must see you. Come, no one will know, and, bless me! but you are a beauty!"

"Isn't she?" they cried in chorus. A glance at the mirror and a triumphant sense of victorious capacities to charm swept over the hesitating girl. Life of late had been as gray as her garb.

"Come, dear. You really must. You are making too much, quite too much, of a bit of innocent fun. If you wait to dress, I shall have to explain it all, and the Governor will say you lack courage; and must I say I left you in tears? And the mutton, my dear child—think of the mutton!"

"I am not in tears, and I hate you all, every one of you; but I will go."

Her head was up, as fan in hand she went down in front of the cousins, now mildly penitent, Mrs. Penn at her side. "Did they think to show off an awkward Quaker cousin, these thoughtless kittens? Give them a lesson, my dear."

"I mean to," said Margaret, her eyes flashing.

The men were about the fire in the great drawing-room, one little girl just slipping out, the future wife of Henry Baring. The party was large—young Mr. Rawle and General Wayne and the Peters from Belmont near by.

The men turned to bow as Mrs. Penn stepped aside, and left to view a startling vision of innocence and youth and loveliness. The girl swept a curtsey, the practice when dreams of the world were teasing her had not been in vain. Then she rose and moved into the room. For a moment there was silence. Except Schmidt, no one knew her. The Governor, bowing, cried, "By George! Margaret, you beat them all! What fairies have metamorphosed you?"

"We, we," cried the chorus. The men paid her compliments after the downright fashion of their set. She was gay, quick to reply, amazingly at ease. Schmidt watched her, comprehending as no one else did the sudden revelation to the young woman of the power and charm of her beauty and the primal joy of unused weapons. To the younger men she was a little reserved and quiet, to the elder men all grace and sweetness, to the trickster cousins, disconcertingly cool.

"Where on earth did she learn it all?" said Mrs. Byrd, as she went out to dinner with Mr. Penn.

"Heaven knows. But it was a saucy trick and she will pay for it, I fear, at home."

"Will she tell?" said Morris, the master of the rolls, as he followed behind them with Mrs. Wayne.

"Yes," said Mrs. Byrd, "she will tell; but whether or not, the town will ring with it, in a day or two. A pity, too, for the child is brought up in the straightest way of Friends. None of Madame Logan's fine gowns and half-way naughtiness for her."

At dinner Margaret quietly amused Mr. Morris with Schmidt's terror of June, the cat, and with Mr. Jefferson's bout with Hamilton, and the tale of the sad lapse of De Forest, which greatly pleased General Wayne, her right-hand neighbor. When they left the men to their Madeira, she insisted on changing her dress. A not duly penitent bevy of maids assisted, and by and by it was a demure Quaker moth who replaced the gay butterfly and in the drawing-room helped Madame Penn to make tea. They paid her fair compliments, and she smiled, saying: "I, dear Mrs. Penn—was I here? Thou must be mistaken. That was Grandmama Plumstead thou didst have here. Oh, a hundred years ago."

"Ask her to come again," said Mrs. Penn.

"And to stay," said Mrs. Wayne; "a charming creature."

"The maid is clever," said Mrs. Masters.

Meanwhile the wine went round on the coasters over the mahogany table in the dining-room, and men talked of France, and grew hot with wine and more politics than pleased their host, who had no definite opinions, or, if any, a sincere doubt as to the quality of a too aged Madeira.

He gave a toast: "The ladies and our Quaker Venus." They drank it standing.

"This wine needs fining," said his reverence, the rector of Christ Church. They discussed it seriously.

Mr. Rawle cried, "A toast: George Washington and the Federal party."

"No politics, gentlemen," said Penn; "but I will drink the first half of it—His Excellency."

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Mr. Langstroth on this day rode to town, and there learned that Margaret was at Landsdowne, and also a surprising piece of news with which he did not regale Mary Swanwick.

Full of what he had heard, Mr. Langstroth, being now on horseback and on his way to Gray Pines, his home, was suddenly minded to see his great-niece. Therefore he rode up the avenue at Landsdowne, and hitching his horse, learned that the men were still over their wine. "I will go in," he said, well pleased.

"Ah," said Penn, rising, "you are just in time for the punch." He hated the man and all his positive ways, but, the more for that, was courteous, if rather formal. "A glass for Mr. Langstroth. Your health, sir; your very good health."

"It is not good," said the new-comer.

"But the wine I trust is," said the Governor.

"It might supply goodness," Langstroth replied, "if it were not a bit pricked." It was a tender subject, and his host, feeling grossly wronged, was silent.

"Any fresh news?" said the attorney-general.

"Yes, sir; yes. The Princeton College lottery was drawn this morning, and guess who drew a prize?"

"Not I"—"Nor I," they cried. "Who was it? Not you?"

"I! No such luck."

"Who, then?"

"Well, I bought ten chances in the fall, and one for my great-niece, Margaret Swanwick. Her mother did not like it. Friends are all for putting an end to lotteries."

"And she won?"

"She did. I chose for luck the number of her age and the last two figures of the year—1792. That took it."

"How much? How much?" they shouted, the wine and rum punch having done their work. "How much?"

"Eight thousand, nine hundred, and thirty-four dollars, as I'm a sinner."

"The girl may have gay gowns now," cried one.

"Let us go out, and tell her," said the Governor, as men still called him; and upon this, having had wine and rum more than was well, they went laughing into the drawing-room.

"Oh, news! news!" cried one and another.

Mrs. Penn looked annoyed. "What is it?" she asked.

"Ho, ho! Fine news!" said Langstroth. "Margaret has the great prize in the Princeton lottery—eight thousand and more. It was drawn this morning."

"What luck!" cried the ladies. "And you are not jesting?"

"No. It is true. I bought it for her," roared Langstroth, triumphant. "Think of that, Margaret—eight thousand and—"

"For me—mine!" said the girl, rising as she spoke. "Don't speak to me, Cousin Penn. I have had too much to-day. I am troubled. I must go." No, she did not want to discuss it. She must go home. "May I not go, Friend Schmidt? If this is a joke, uncle, it is not to my taste. I must go."

"Certainly. The sleigh is at the door."

Langstroth was angry. He had had no thanks, not a word. There was some embarrassment, but the women must need felicitate the unwilling winner. She made short answers.

"The puss has her claws out," murmured Mrs. Byrd, as she heard in reply to her congratulations: "I think it is a misfortune—a—a—what will my mother say? I must go." She was a child again. Mrs. Penn, understanding the girl, went out with her, saying kind things, and helping her to put on her over-wrap.

"Damn the fool!" said her uncle, who had followed her into the hall, and to whom she would not speak.

The gentlemen were silent, not knowing how to sympathize with a misfortune so peculiar. Schmidt, tranquil and undisturbed, made the usual formal adieus and followed her out of the room. He tucked in the furs with kindly care, and through the early evening dusk they drove away across the snow, the girl silent, the man respectful of her mood.

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