"Thou dost make cunning wishes, Primrose," and in spite of her sorrow, Polly Wharton smiled.

Madam Wetherill came home from her marketing, which was no light undertaking with all the trouble about paper money, and gold and silver so scarce. She still rode her horse well, and time dealt very leniently with her.

"I heard some strange news in the market place," she began, and then she caught sight of Polly. "Oh, dear child! is it true that some of the flower of our town have perished? It was a great surprise, to capture some deserters, it was said, and went hard with our brave men."

"Nay, Lieutenant Henry won in the end, and our loss was nothing compared to the enemy. But poor Allin----"

"He is not dead," added Primrose, when Polly's voice failed. "And, madam, Cousin Andrew hath taken our heroic Colonel Nevitt a prisoner in his first battle. I know not whether to rejoice or cry."

"Primrose, thou art a naughty girl!"

"If it had been the other way, I should have had no difficulty. Yes, I am a hard-hearted little wretch and do not deserve any brother! But Andrew will see that he is not treated as the poor fellows were in the Walnut Street Jail; and if he should lose an arm or a leg I will devote my life to him. Oh!" with a sudden burst of tenderness, "I hope it is nothing serious. The mortification will be hard enough."

There were numbers of the wounded sent as soon as possible to the larger cities where they could be cared for. Rough journeying it was, with none of the modern appliances of travel, and many a poor fellow died on the way.

For various reasons Madam Wetherill had not gone out to the farm as usual. The news was troublesome from Virginia and Maryland, where Arnold was destroying stores and laying waste plantations. The seat of war seemed to be changing in this direction, and some of the most famous battles were to be fought here. Cornwallis was fortifying, and everybody dreaded the news.

Pleasure in town had slipped back to a more decorous aspect. There were simple tea-drinkings and parties of young people going out on the river in the early evening singing pretty songs. Or there were afternoon rambles to the charming green nook called Bethsheba's Bath and Bower, where wild flowers bloomed in profusion, and the copses were fragrant with sweet herbs, growing wild; or the newly cut hay in the fields still about. Sometimes they took along a luncheon and some sewing. There were still windmills to grind the grain, and Windmill Island had been repaired and was busy again.

Primrose seemed just beginning life. Hitherto she had been a child, and now she was finding friends of her own age, with whom it was a pleasure to chat and to compare needlework and various knowledges.

She sympathized tenderly with Polly Wharton in her sorrow, and began to go frequently to the house. Next in age to Polly were two boys, and then a lovely little girl.

Another incident had made the summer quite notable to Primrose. This was the marriage of Anabella Morris, which took place in Christ Church.

Anabella's husband was a widower with two quite large children, but of considerable means. Madam Wetherill was very generous with her outfit, though she began to feel the pinch of straitened means. So much property was paying very poorly and some not rented at all.

Primrose was one of the maids, and consented to have her hair done high on her head and wear a train, and to be powdered, though Madam Wetherill disapproved of it for young people who had pretty natural complexions.

Some young women wore a tiny bit of a black patch near their smiling lips, or a dimple, as if to call attention to it.

"And, if it grew there, they would move heaven and earth to have it taken off," said that lady with a little scorn.

The bride's train was held up by a page dressed in blue and silver, and then followed the pretty maids, and the relatives. It was quite a brave show, and a proud day for Anabella, who had been dreaming of it since she was a dozen years old.

Madam Wetherill gave her a wedding dinner, which now would be called a breakfast, so much have things changed, and then a coach took the newly married pair to their own home. Though Anabella would rather not have had another woman's children to manage, she was truly glad that all her anxieties in husband-hunting were over.

Then Mr. Wharton came home with his son, who was still in a quite uncertain state, and it had been a question whether his shattered leg could be saved. But Dr. Benjamin Rush took it in hand and said it would be a shame indeed if such a fine young fellow would have to stump around all the rest of his life on a wooden leg.

CHAPTER XVIII.

WHOM SHALL SHE PITY?

September came in with all the glory of ripening fruit and the late rich-colored flowers, with here and there a yellow leaf on the sycamores, a brown one on the hickories, and a scarlet one on the maples. There were stirring events, too. A French vessel had arrived with stores and four hundred thousand crowns in specie, besides an accession of enthusiastic men to the army. General Washington had determined to attempt the capture of New York, but hearing there were large re-enforcements on the way to Sir Henry Clinton, allowed the British to believe this was his plan and turned his army southward.

A gala time indeed it was for the Quaker city. For the Continentals were no longer ragged, but proudly marched in the glory of new shoes and unpatched breeches and newly burnished accouterments. The French regiment of DeSoissonnais, in rose-color and white, with rose-colored plumes, was especially handsome and quite distanced our own army trappings, that had never been fine. General Washington, Count Rochambeau, and M. de Luzerne, the French minister, with Chief Justice McKean reviewed the troops. The sober citizens were stirred to unwonted enthusiasm. Houses were decorated, windows filled with pretty girls waved handkerchiefs, and the mob shouted itself hoa.r.s.e with joy; going at night to the residence of the French minister and shouting l.u.s.tily amid the cheering for the King, Louis XVI.

The hall boy ushered in a fine martial-looking man in officer's dress at Madam Wetherill's. A number of guests were in the parlor, and he hesitated a moment before he said: "Summon Miss Primrose Henry."

"Grand sojer man in buff and blue," he whispered. "'Spect it General Washington hisself."

Primrose flashed out. For a moment she stood amazed. It was not her brother.

"Primrose, hast thou forgotten me?"

"Oh!" with a glad cry of joy. "Oh, Andrew," and she was clasped in the strong arms and greeted with a kiss.

"Yes," joyfully. "All the march I have counted on this moment. I could not wait until to-morrow. Primrose, how are they--my dear mother?"

"She is quite well, but Uncle Henry fails and has grown very deaf. And I think Rachel and Penn do not agree well, and are not happy. But things go on the same."

"And is there--any longing for me?"

Oh, how cruel it was to feel that only the poor mother cared. For Primrose was not old enough nor suspicious enough to imagine the hundred little ways Rachel found to blame Andrew and widen the breach between him and his father.

"Thy mother is always asking for thee. I learn thy infrequent letters by heart, and repeat them to her as I get opportunity."

"Thank thee a thousand times."

"And my brother?"

"Hast thou not heard?"

"Not since the return of Allin Wharton. He is still ill and no one sees him, but Polly tells me now and then. Only he is not allowed to excite himself by talking, and it is such little dribbles that I cannot glean much. And you met face to face?"

"We were both doing our duty like brave men, I trust. I'm not sure but in the melee that Allin saved my life, and then----"

"Thou couldst have taken his! Oh, Andrew, thank G.o.d it was not so," and her voice was tremulous with the joy of thanksgiving.

"A soldier fired and wounded his right shoulder." Andrew did not say that it was only a hair's-breadth escape of his own life. "Neither knew he should meet the other."

"And what hath happened since?"

"He was paroled and exchanged. Since then I have heard nothing. And now I must go. First to see Allin, and then our Commander. The bulk of the troops are still to follow in the steps of these n.o.ble Frenchmen. And to-morrow night I must start south on an important mission. In the morning I shall see thee again. My respects to Madam Wetherill."

Her arms were about his neck. How tall she had grown! He remembered when she had first come to Cherry farm he had carried her about in his arms.

"Dear----" He unclasped the clinging hands softly. And then he turned the door k.n.o.b and was gone.

She ran to her room, a pretty chamber next to Madam Wetherill's, now, and burying her face in the pillow, cried for ever so many causes, it seemed to her. Sorrow that her brother should not have cared enough to write, grief that they two should have met in strife, thanksgiving that neither should be guilty of the awful weight of the other's blood, joy that she should have seen Andrew, and pain and grief that he could not go home as a brave and well-loved son.

It was quite late when Madam Wetherill came up, when the last guest had gone.

"I thought it was thy cousin, and I knew thou would not feel like further gayety, though all the town seems wild, as if we had gained a victory. These French soldiers in their fine attire have turned everyone's head. After all, methinks gay clothes have their uses and help to preserve the spirits. And Andrew--Major Henry, do we call him?"

Primrose smiled then. "He is my own dear cousin and never forgets me.