"Let us go round by the creek," pleaded Primrose. "The skaters are so merry."

"If thou wilt not coax to stay more than a moment."

The child promised.

As they were turning a corner a young man eyed them sharply. Primrose did not see him, and Patty hurried on, for he was a stranger.

But he took some long strides and caught up to them.

"It is Mistress Primrose Henry----"

The little girl turned.

"Oh, Patty, it is Miss Polly Wharton's brother," she said, holding out her hand.

"Who runs over thee again," said Patty sharply, for she had heard the story.

"Nay, but it is quite a G.o.dsend, as I have been to thy aunt's to say good-by. In an hour's time I shall be on my way to Valley Forge to cast in my lot with the brave fellows there, and I wanted to take thy G.o.dspeed with me. I have great faith in it."

"Oh!" Primrose gave a little cry.

"I want thee to be both sorrowful and joyful. Glad that thou hast a patriot friend, and sorry that there should be war. I could not wait any longer and wrung my father's consent from him, though he thinks we are right. And I believe we shall have a great and grand country some day that soldiers will be proud of defending. I go this very night with a party of young men who have planned to elude observation. And so--good-by."

"I wish thee--a safe return."

"Thanks. Keep me in mind when thou prayest for soldiers and victory."

Then he was gone like a flash.

"I have no heart for the skaters now," Primrose said with a sigh. "Let us go home."

The Whartons kept the news very quiet, for it would have made them a marked family to have it bruited abroad just now. But Polly was less gay, and Primrose watched her wonderingly.

And now the long cold winter was drawing to a close. In March came gleams of warmth, welcome sunny days that softened the ice and spoiled skating, and the great Delaware sent floating cakes down to the sea.

Buds began to swell and gra.s.s to spring up, and there was a great deal of drilling among the troops, and sickness as well.

England began to think that Howe might have captured Washington, cooped up in a desolate wild as they considered it from their imperfect news.

The capture of Burgoyne had been an unexpected blow and led to eloquent arguments in Parliament. Mr. Pitt's great speech had reached America, and thrilled every patriotic heart. Leaning on his crutches he had denounced the purchase of German hirelings and brutal savages.

"If I were an American, as I am an Englishman, while a foreign troop was landed in my country, I never would lay down my arms, never! never!

never!" he had exclaimed.

Then King Louis of France acceded to the treaty of alliance and informed the American commissioners "that it was decided to acknowledge the independence of the United States."

Howe was to be recalled and succeeded by Sir Henry Clinton. Even this news inspired the camp at Valley Forge, where the word from France had not yet been received.

At the Henry farm there had been an undercurrent of dissatisfaction.

Lois Henry had set her heart on Rachel Morgan as a daughter-in-law, and her husband was nothing loath, since she was a good housekeeper and strong in the faith. It was feared that Andrew was wavering. He never spoke at the meetings, and absented himself from home now and then with no explanations. It was well known that his sympathies were with the army at Valley Forge, and it was surmised in some way that he had a hand in sending supplies. Several of the young men about had joined the army.

"Andrew," his father began one morning when they were sorting seeds of various kinds for planting, "Andrew, I have somewhat to say to thee.

Thou art of age, and a good marriage is the best ballast for the journey of life. I am elderly and shall never entirely recover from my accident, but the farm is large, and some day it will all be thine. A wife that we should agree with would pleasure us both fervently. It is true thou wilt be able to marry well in a worldly point of view, but we do not care so much for that. Thy mother and I have decided it would gratify us greatly in the Lord, if thou shouldst see thy way clear to take thy cousin Rachel."

"Rachel!" He had more than half suspected this and dreaded it. There was also a feeling that Rachel cared for him. He could not imagine himself in love with her. Love was something more than a cool, friendly regard, meals properly cooked, and a house well kept; thriftiness and laying farm to farm.

"Well, does it take thee so by surprise? Moreover, we both know she has a deep regard for thee."

"I have not thought of it in that way. I am in no haste to marry," the young man replied hesitatingly, casting about for a more forcible rejoinder.

"A good wife is a good thing, and thou mayst look far and wide and not find thy cousin's equal. She is well grounded in the faith, and I have observed with sorrow thy tendency to stray from the old landmarks, but youth hath such seasons until the carnal will is subdued. Then it will need to make no change in our living. Thy mother and I can grow old in this, the home of our youth, and see our children, and our children's children, mayhap, growing up, well trained in the faith."

"I will consider it," Andrew said gravely.

"Lay my counsel to heart for thy mother's sake."

Andrew Henry went on with his work, but he knew a crisis had come in his life. Like many another Friend trained in the ways of peace he had a horror of the cruelties of war, of which he had heard and seen much since the battle of Germantown, and shrank from the thought of taking any human life. On the other hand was the brave and boundless aspiration for liberty and a country of one's own, that had thrilled him when he heard the Declaration of Independence read. And now that France had held out a helping hand, and the English Parliament was divided, the aspect looked more hopeful to him. But for his parents he would go at once and cast in his lot with the heroes at Valley Forge, to whom patriotism was as brave a religion as that of Roger Williams.

And Rachel! No, he could not marry her. All his soul rose up in revolt.

Not but what such marriages often occurred among Friends and were reasonably happy. Very few sons or daughters went contrary to the advice of their parents in such matters. And he knew to refuse would be giving up his home.

If Rachel was soft-tongued and attractive like his mother, for Lois Henry was still fair of face, visions of the pretty, graceful maidens in town danced before his eyes. He had seen them on the streets chatting merrily, on the ice flying swiftly like so many gay birds. He had listened to Primrose playing on her spinet and singing pretty old love songs that she did not understand aught of but the rare melody. And he enjoyed Madam Wetherill's house--he had borrowed a few books from the old case, and, plain as he was, he had been charmed by some volumes of verse.

Surely this Master Quarles must have been a man of deep feeling and G.o.dliness. And there was one Ben Jonson, and a Master Suckling, though he was not quite sure about his dainty conceits. Queer old books in stained leather covers and print hard to read. Volumes of one John Milton who, he learned, had stood out bravely for liberty.

Madam Wetherill had come upon him one morning browsing deeply in the case of books. "Take anything that pleaseth thee," she said kindly.

"They are old things in the Wardour family that came to my father, and he knew many of the scholars of his day. They had not such a fear of learning then. And he knew this Mr. Pope and Addison and many another.

And even our master Franklin, with all his many businesses, found time to write verses for his wife, it seems, and with James Logan, has been much in earnest that the town should have some sort of library."

He had carried home a thin, old book and kept it closely in his waistcoat pocket that no one should surprise it, and read it by odd spells. And a volume of John Milton's tracts stirred him mightily.

All these things he would have to give up if he was Rachel Morgan's husband. He felt that he had grown out of the narrow bounds and could never get back into them.

James Henry went into the house. His wife sat alone, knitting.

"I have spoken to Andrew," he said, "and he will take time to consider.

But he did not say aught against Rachel, and he certainly hath no other fancy. I am thankful my brother's daughter is a mere child, since he shows such fondness for her, and thou wert wise, wife, in not having her here. She would have been an unmanageable firebrand, since we could not control her wholly. And I have good hopes for Rachel. We will not delay when the matter is settled, but have them man and wife speedily.

Marriage is a cure for many wayward notions."

Rachel had come downstairs in her list boots, that she was fond of wearing indoors, and could make herself. The door was ajar and she had heard all her uncle said. Her heart beat exultantly, and she crept back again softly, with a flush on her face and a pleased light in her eye.

For she was very much in love with Andrew, though she did not call her preference by that name. She would give him decorous opportunities to speak.

But he went away and left her sitting alone by the fireside, and poured over John Milton in his cold room. And if she went out to the barn at meal time he made some excuse for not walking back with her.

"Dost thou know," she asked of Penn one day, "where Andrew goes in these curious absences? His father is troubled, but he will not say a word."

"He went, one day, across the river to Swede's Ford. It was about some wood," he said. "And he hath a friend on the Lancaster road. Now that I think, I am afraid there is mischief in it. He hath a soft spot for the rebels at Valley Forge. But he always brings home money for what he hath sold."

"Uncle James hath spoken to him about marrying."

"Marrying! Whom, pray?"