"Well----" studying her mischievous, dancing eyes.

"I like that--a little," demurely.

"I shall be patient, sweet darling. I have come to love you dearly--your mother's half, and your father's half."

She glanced up with her warm, frank heart shining in her eyes, and he kissed her fondly.

"When thou lovest me well I shall know it by one sign: thou wilt kiss me of thy own accord."

She had to steel her heart hard when he adopted the old phraseology, and smiled in that beseeching manner.

"We shall not be converted, little Primrose," said Polly Wharton. "I shall think of Allin at Valley Forge, and thou of thy splendid Quaker cousin that so adroitly escaped the snare set for him. And we shall twist the festivities about. When they drink to the King and the redcoat army, we shall say to ourselves, 'Washington and the buff and blue.' And when we dance, for there will be your brother and young Vane and Captain Fordham, so we are sure of three partners, and as we whirl around we shall say to ourselves 'Hurrah for the flag of the thirteen colonies!'"

"It looks quite patriotic that way," answered Primrose archly.

It ended by their going. Mrs. Stuart and Sally, who were hardly Whig or Tory, promised to keep watch of them. And though Miss Auchmuty had been crowned Queen of Beauty at the tournament, and there were the fair Shippen women and the Chews, men paused to look at the sweet, golden-haired child who was so simply gowned that her dress did not detract from her beauty. And long afterward, when she was an old lady, she could recount the famous scene that ended, as one might say, the British possession of Philadelphia. For even as they danced amid the gleaming lights and fragrant flowers, a premonition of what was to come, although unexpected, and a bloodless victory, occurred. The redoubts were sharply attacked by a daring body of rebels, but so well protected that surprise was not possible.

Sir Henry Clinton arrived and the accomplished Andre was made his adjutant general. Then came the news that a French fleet would sail up the Delaware. Sir Henry prepared to leave at once, and the city was shaken with both joy and alarm. At midnight, on the 18th of June, the British stole away silently, to the great surprise of the inhabitants, who knew Washington was preparing to descend upon them and feared a b.l.o.o.d.y battle, for now the Continentals were well equipped, well drilled, and strong in numbers.

Primrose sat poring over a book of verse. For a wonder there was no one in to play cards. Madam Wetherill had been a little indisposed for several days.

"Do go to bed, child," she said rather sharply. "Thou wilt turn into a book next."

"I hope it will have a new, bright cover and not this musty, old one."

"I dare say, Miss Vanity."

"Good-night," and she made her pretty courtesy. Then she stood still at the quick knock. Barely was the door opened when Captain Nevitt rushed in and caught her to his heart.

"Little Primrose, darling Primrose, for I have learned to love thee dearly, I have come to say good-by. We are ordered to New York and leave at once. When I shall see thee again I cannot tell, but I may send, and will write thee letters and letters. Hast thou one kiss that I may take with me, holding all the sweetness of generous accord?"

"Oh, do not go! do not go! I have teased thee often! I have tried not to love thee, but, after all----" And she was sobbing in his arms.

"It is a soldier's duty, dear. Wish me well, and I will take it as a guerdon."

"Oh, I cannot wish thee well to fight against my country. My heart is torn in two."

Her cry pierced his inmost soul. With all his love and persuasion she had kept her loyalty. Gifts and pleasures had not won her. There was a great gulf still between them.

"But for love's sake."

"If your men win I shall have no country. If they lose----"

"And if I should be lost----"

"Oh, Heaven bring thee back to me again!"

There were Captain Fordham and the lieutenant thanking Madam Wetherill for her charming hospitality. But Philemon Henry Nevitt could only wring her hand, as his eyes were full of tears and his voice drowned in the grief of parting. Then the big door clanged on the night air, and there was a little sobbing heap at the foot of the broad stairway.

"Come, dear," said Madam Wetherill, much moved. "Thou shalt sleep in my bed and I will comfort thee."

It was true enough that the Continentals, marching down, found an empty city. General Charles Lee had held back some information and acted in an unpatriotic manner when his commander had reposed unlimited trust in him. And a few days later his indecision was made manifest at the battle of Monmouth, when he was courtmartialed and disgraced.

But another tall soldier came in buff and blue, and so amazed Primrose that she hardly knew him. With him was Allin Wharton, who had much to say about Andrew's work through the winter, and that no gift had ever been more timely than Madam Wetherill's great bag of stockings that was still talked about; and Lady Washington had esteemed it as one of the most providential happenings.

"I have much to tell thee, sometime," Andrew said. "There is only a moment now, for we are after the runaways." And then he gave her a long, fond kiss.

Madam Wetherill glanced at them. Would it be the old story over again?

The battle of Monmouth was hard fought, but a victory for neither side, since Sir Henry saved his stores at the sacrifice of many lives, and escaped. Washington came back to the city for a brief stay and new plans.

Lovely old Philadelphia, that had been William Penn's dream, was no more. British occupation had overthrown its quaint charm. Gardens had been destroyed, houses ruined, streets were a ma.s.s of filth and rubbish, the country roads were full of lawless gangs who plundered inoffensive people.

"Oh, how sweet is the quiet of these parts, freed from the anxious and troublesome solicitations, hurries, and perplexities of woeful Europe,"

Penn had exclaimed, on his return from his first visit back to England.

But the quiet had disappeared; even the old Quaker homes, that had held out alike from blaming foe and encouraging friend, were full of apprehension.

Washington at once placed General Arnold in command. His marriage with Mistress Margaret Shippen, and his beautiful home at Mount Pleasant, where elegance and extravagance reigned, had rendered him an object of disapprobation with the sober-thoughted and solid part of the community.

Joseph Ross, the president of the executive council, brought many charges against him, which though angrily repelled at the time were proved sadly true later on.

There were some trials of Tories, and two men were hanged for high treason, both Quakers, one of whom had enlisted in Howe's army, and the other was accused of numerous crimes. Many had to choose between exile, or contempt that was ostracism at home. Dr. d.u.c.h.e had in the darkest period written a letter to General Washington beseeching him to submit to any proffer of peace that England might hold out, having lost his ardent patriotism, and he went to his old home to meet with charges of disloyalty there.

But people began to take heart a little, to clear up their wasted gardens and fields and repair their houses. Some of the pleasure haunts were opened again, and women ventured on their afternoon walks on the streets, well protected, to be sure. There was, too, a certain amount of gayety, tea-drinking and cards, and excursions up the river were well patronized.

Andrew Henry, now sergeant, was detailed for a while among the troops to remain in Philadelphia. Now that he had embarked in the war he preferred a more active life, and it was too near his old home to be satisfactory.

But as soon as possible he reported to Madam Wetherill.

"I can never thank thee sufficiently for thy a.s.sistance and quick wit,"

he said to her. "Through it I escaped without harm, but I found afterward they had more proof than I could have safely met. And when I arrived at camp I dispatched a messenger to my father, telling him of my changed mind and plans for the future."

"And he was angry enough!" interposed Madam Wetherill.

"It was worse than that. Mere anger is, perhaps, outlived. He had some other plans," and the young Quaker flushed. "He gave me a fortnight to return, and, if not, would put Penn in my place and I need expect nothing more."

"See what thy talk hath led to, Primrose! For I was afraid thy patriotic rebellion was contagious."

Andrew smiled down on the child. "She hath been a wise little one, and I am not sorry to be her soldier. With women like you, madam, to bring up girls, and Lady Washington to care for disheartened soldiers, there will be still greater victories, and there can be but one end."

Primrose looked up with an enchanting smile. "I am proud of thee," she made answer with an exultant ring in her voice. "And there is Polly Wharton's brother who ran over me on the ice, and--my own brother that I pray may come around."

"I feel very much as if I had been on both sides of the fence," remarked Madam Wetherill. "Still I could not have helped so much if I had been outspoken on the rebel side. I heard many a little thing that could be pa.s.sed on, and found how a few supplies could be forwarded without suspicion. But, Andrew, wilt thou never regret this step?"

"I considered well for many weeks. There were some other conditions I could not wisely accept. And Penn will be a good son to my father.

Otherwise I could hardly have left him. But 'tis done now, and though I shall long many times to see my dear mother's face, I shall fight none the less bravely for our land. I hope to follow our intrepid Washington, and may soon be transferred."

"And leave the city?" cried Primrose in dismay.

"I do not quite like our new general. I am afraid the coming winter will be like the last, and I, for one, would have no heart for pleasure until we have won our independence."