"And then Cary will come home."

It had been a long while since they had heard. Cary had been transferred from the _United States_, that had lain blockaded in a harbor many weary weeks. But where he was now no one could tell.

People began to take heart though the fighting had not ceased. And it was odd that a dozen years before everybody had looked askance at dancing, and now no one hesitated to give a dancing party. The contra-dance and cotillions were all the rage. Sometimes there was great amusement when it was a draw dance, for then you had to accept your partner whether or no.

Whole families went, grandmothers and grandchildren. There were cards and conversation circles for those who did not care to join the mazy whirls. And the suppers were quite elegant, with brilliant lamps and flowers, plate and glass that had come through generations. Fruits and melons were preserved as long as possible, and a Turkish band in fine Oriental costume was often a feature of the entertainment.

Doris had charming letters from Betty, a little stilted we should call them now, but very interesting. Mr. King was confident of peace. Doris used to read them to Aunt Priscilla, who said Betty was very frivolous, but that she always had a good time, and perhaps good times were not as wicked as people used to think.

Mrs. Leverett went to Salem in November. Her namesake had taken a cold and had some fever, and she asked for grandmother continually. Mercy did finely at housekeeping, and so the weeks ran along, the invalid being better, then worse, and just before Christmas the frail little life floated out to the Land of Rest.

"Oh, poor little Elizabeth!" cried Doris. "If she could have been real happy! But there never seemed any time. Uncle Win, they are not so poor that they have to work so hard, are they?"

"No, dear. Mr. Manning has money out at interest, besides his handsome farm. But a great many people think there is solid virtue in working and saving. I suppose it makes them happy."

Doris was puzzled. She said the same thing to Aunt Priscilla, who took off her glasses, rubbed them with a bit of old silk and wiped the tears out of her eyes.

"I think we haven't had quite the right end of it," she began after a pause. "I was brought up that way. But then people had to spin and weave for themselves, and help the men with the out-of-doors work. The children dropped corn, and potatoes, and there was always weeding. There was so much spring work and fall work, and folks couldn't be comfortable if they saw a child playing 'cat's cradle.' They did think Satan was going about continually to catch up idle hands. Well maybe if I'd had children I'd 'a' done the same way."

"Oh, you wouldn't, Aunt Priscilla, I know," said Doris with the sweetest faith shining in her eyes. "Elizabeth thought you such a comfortable old lady. She said you never worried at anyone."

"That is because I have come to believe the worrying wrong. The Lord didn't worry at people. He told them what to do and then he let them alone. And Foster Leverett was about the best man I ever knew. He didn't even worry when times were so bad. Everybody said his children would be spoiled. They were out sledding and sliding and skating, and playing tag in summer. They've made nice men and women."

"Oh, I remember how friendly he looked that day he came on the vessel.

And how he said to Captain Grier, 'Is there a little girl for me that has come from Old Boston?' He might have said something else, you know.

'A little girl for me' was such a sweet welcome, I have never forgotten it."

"Yes--I was here the night you came. We had been waiting. And the red cloak and big bonnet with the great bow under your chin, and a silk frock----"

"Did I look very queer?" Doris laughed softly.

"You looked like a picture, though that wan't my idea of what children should be."

"Miss Recompense has them put away to keep. I outgrew them, you know.

What would you have done with me?"

Aunt Priscilla's pale face wrinkled up and then smoothed out.

"I've come to the conclusion the Lord knows his business best and is capable of attending to it. When we meddle we make a rather poor fist of it. Betty has a lot of morning-glories out there," nodding her head, "and I said to her 'They're poor frail things: why not put out a hop vine or red beans? They can't stand a bit of sun, like Jonah's gourd.'

But she only laughed--her father had that way when he didn't want to argue. When they came to bloom they were sights to behold, like the early morning when the sun is rising, and you see such beautiful colors.

They used to nod to each other and swing back and forth, like people coming to call, then they said good-by and were off. The Lord meant 'em just to look pretty and they did."

"Uncle Win likes them so much. Miss Recompense had a whole lattice full of them. Oh, did you mean I was like a morning glory? Haven't I some other uses?"

"You're always fresh and blossoming every day. That's a use. You come in with a little greeting that warms one's heart. You were a great delight to Uncle Leverett, and I don't know what Uncle Winthrop would have done without you, Cary being away. And how Solomon took to you, when he was awful shy of strangers! He must have liked you uncommon to be willing to stay in a strange place, for cats cannot bear to be moved about. Maybe 'twould been the same if you had not been so pretty to look at, but the Lord made you the way he wanted you, and you haven't spoiled yourself a bit."

Doris blushed. Compliments were quite a new thing with Aunt Priscilla.

"What would you have done with me?" Doris asked again, after a long pause.

"You won't like to hear it. I ought to confess it because it was a sin, a sort of meddling with the Lord's plans. You see, I'd taken it in my head that someone would have to give you a home. It didn't seem as if that old ma'shland would be good for anything, and I knew your father wasn't rich. Winthrop Adams was one of the finicky kind and quite put about to know what to do with you. So I thought if there didn't any place open, for Elizabeth Leverett was quite wrapped up in her grandchildren, that"--hesitatingly--"when things were straightened out a bit, I'd offer----"

"That would have been good of you----"

"No, it wasn't goodness," interrupted Aunt Priscilla. "I thought I should want someone, with Polly getting old. I'd have expected you to work, though I'd have done the fair thing by you, and left you some money in the end. I was a little jealous when everybody took to you so.

I was sure you'd be spoiled. And, though you've got that music thing and go among the quality, and are pretty as a pink, and Winthrop Adams thinks you a nonesuch, you come in here in plain everyday fashion and talk and read and make it sunshiny for everybody. So, you see, the Lord knew, and it is just as if he said, 'Priscilla Perkins, your way doesn't suit at all. There's something in the world besides work and saving money. There's room enough in the world for a hill of potatoes and a morning-glory made of silk and dew if it doesn't bloom but just one morning. It's a smile, and there are others to follow, and it is a thousand times better than frowns.'"

"And if there had been no money, and I had wanted a home, would you have given me one?" she asked in a soft, tremulous tone.

"Yes, child. And I couldn't have worked you quite like poor little Elizabeth was worked. I didn't think there _was_ so much money, or that that lady in England would have left you a legacy or that Winthrop Adams would come to believing that he couldn't live without you."

"Then you were kind to have a plan about it, and I am glad to know it."

She had been sitting on Aunt Priscilla's footstool, but she rose and twined her arms about the shrunken neck, and kissed the wrinkled forehead. She saw a homeless little girl going to sheltering care, with a kindly remembrance at the last. Someone else might have thought of the exactions.

"You make the thing look better than it was," Aunt Priscilla cried with true humility. "But the Lord put you in the right place."

She saw the mean and selfish desire, the wish to get rid of a faithful old woman who might prove a burden. It was a sin like the finery she had longed for and bought and laid away. She had not worn the finery, she had not sent away the poor black soul, she had not been a hard taskmistress to the child, but early training had added the weight of possible sins to the actual ones.

Christmas morning Doris was surprised by a lovely gift. In a small box by her plate, with best wishes from Uncle Winthrop, lay a watch and chain, a dainty thing with just "Doris" on the plain space in the center that overlay another name that had once been there. It had undergone some renovation at the jeweler's hands, after lying untouched more than twenty years. Winthrop Adams had kept it for a possible granddaughter, but he knew now no one could cherish it more tenderly than Doris.

January, 1815, came in. People counted the days. But it was not until the middle of February that Boston town was one morning electrified by the ringing of bells and the shouts of men and boys, who ran along the streets crying "Peace! Peace! Peace!" Windows were raised; people ran out, so eager were they. Of all glorious words ever uttered none fell with such music on the air. Could it be true?

Uncle Winthrop put on his surtout with the great fur collar. Then he looked at Doris.

"Wrap yourself up and come along," he said huskily.

Already people were hanging flags out of the windows and stringing them across the streets. Every sled and sleigh had some sort of banner, if nothing more than white or brown paper with the five welcome letters, and everybody was shouting. Some men were carrying high banners with the words in blue or red on a white ground. When they came to State Street it was impassable. Cornhill was jammed. The _Evening Gazette_ office had the announcement, thirty-two hours from New York (there was no telegraph or railroad train then):

"Sir: I hasten to acquaint you for the information of the public of the arrival here this afternoon of H. Br. M. sloop of war _Favorite_, in which has come passenger Mr. Carroll, American Messenger, having in his possession A Treaty of Peace."

They passed that word from the nearest, standing by the bulletin, to the farther circles, and in five minutes the crowd knew it by heart. On the Commons the drums were beating, the cannons firing, and people shouting themselves hoarse.

Mr. Adams went around to the Royall house, and that looked like a hotel on a gala day, and was nearly as full of people. The treaty had been signed on Christmas Eve. The President had now to issue a decree suspending hostilities. But one of the most brilliant battles had been fought on the 8th of January at New Orleans, under General Jackson--a farewell shot.

For a week no one could think or talk of anything else. Then the official accounts having been received from Washington, there were plans for a grand procession. An oratorio was given at the Stone Chapel in the morning. Madam Royall had managed to obtain seats for Mr. Winthrop and Doris with her party. The church was crowded. American and British officers in full uniform were side by side,--as happy to be at peace as the rulers themselves,--chatting cordially with each other.

The State House was decorated with transparencies, and there were to be fireworks in the evening. The procession marched around the Common, with the different trades drawn on sleds. Printers struck off hand-bills with the word "Peace!" printed on them and distributed them among the crowd.

The carpenters were erecting a Temple of Peace. The papermakers had long strips of red, white, and blue: every trade had hit upon some signification of the general joy.

Uncle Win sent Cato round for Mercy and Warren Leverett to come to tea, and then they went out to see the illumination and the fireworks. Old Boston had suffered a great deal from the war, and her rejoicing was as broad as her sorrow had been deep.

As if that was not enough, there was to be a grand Peace Ball. The gentry did not so often patronize public balls, but this was an exception. Uncle Winthrop procured a ticket for Warren and his wife.

Mrs. Gilman was shocked, and Mercy like a modern woman declared she had nothing to wear. But Aunt Priscilla brought out her last remnant of gorgeousness, a gray satin that looked very youthful draped with sheer white.

"I feel just as if I was going to be married over again," Mercy declared laughingly; and Warren said she had never looked so beautiful.

Uncle Winthrop left Doris' adornments to Madam Royall and Mrs. Chapman.