"Oh, Primrose--dear child----"

But she did not fly to his arms. Some deep inward consciousness restrained her and the words of Rachel, that just now rang in her ears.

How tall and sweet and strange withal she was. He stood for a moment electrified. She was a child no longer.

Then she found her tongue, though there was a distraught expression in her face as if she could cry.

"Oh, Andrew, it is a great relief to greet thee, but there is not a moment to lose. Thy poor father is dying and longs to see thee. And there is sorrel Jack in the stable, fresh and fleet as the wind. Madam Wetherill has gone out to a tea-drinking, but she said thou wert to take him at once, and we were so afraid thou would not come in time. Joe"--to the black hall boy--"see that Jack is made ready. Meanwhile, wilt thou have a gla.s.s of wine, or ale, or even a cup of tea?"

"Nothing, dear child. When did thou see them last?" His voice sounded hollow to himself.

"Three days ago."

"And my mother?"

"She is well. She grows sweeter and more angel-like every day."

Then they stood and looked at each other. How fine and brave he was, and he held his head with such spirit.

"Oh," she could not resist this, "was it not glorious there at Yorktown?"

"It was worth half a man's life! It gave us a country. And there hath a friend of thine come up with me, a brave young fellow--one Gilbert Vane."

"Oh!" was all she answered.

Then the horse came, giving a joyful whinny as he felt the fresh air, and Andrew Henry went out into the night as if a beautiful vision were guiding him. Was it Primrose in all that strange, sweet glory?

He had ridden fast and far many a time. Up by the river here, under this stretch of woods, then a great level of meadows, here and there a tiny light gleaming in a house, hills, a valley, then more woods, and he drew a long breath.

Someone came to meet him. He took his mother in his arms and kissed her, but neither spoke, for the rapture was beyond words.

There was a candle burning on each end of the high mantelshelf. There was Friend Browne, bent and white-haired, who looked sourly at the soldier trappings and gave him a nerveless hand. There was Friend Preston. On the cot lay the tall, wasted frame of James Henry, as if already prepared for sepulture, so straight and still and composed. His mother took her seat at the foot of the bed. Andrew knelt down and prayed.

It was in the gray of the dawning when James Henry stirred and opened his eyes wide. They seemed at first fixed on vacancy, then they moved slowly around.

"Andrew, my son, my only son," and he stretched out his hands. "Tell Primrose--tell her to burn the unG.o.dly thing. I am glad thou hast come.

Now I shall get strong and well. I was waiting for thee."

Andrew Henry held his father's hand. It was very cool, and the pulse was gone. That was the end of life, of what might have been love.

Rachel met her cousin in the morning with a strange gleam of fear in her eyes. He was very gentle. After breakfast he had to go into town and report, and get leave of absence, and inform some of the friends, Madam Wetherill among the rest.

He had seen much of men and the world in the last few years, and learned many things, among others that a life of repression was not religion.

And he knew now it was the love of G.o.d, and not the estimate of one's fellowmen, that did the great work of the world and smoothed the way of the dying. From henceforth he should live a true man's life. But his mother would be his first care always.

Some days afterward Mr. Chew sent for him and gave him the will.

"I did not make it," he explained. "I refused to write out one that I considered unjust, and later on he brought this to me for safe keeping.

I sincerely hope it is not the same. Take it home and read it, and then come to me."

It was made shortly after Andrew had joined the army, and the reasons were given straightforwardly why he left his son Andrew Henry the sum of only one hundred dollars. In consideration of the sonlike conduct and attention to the farm, and respect shown to himself, and Lois, his wife, the two great barns and one hundred acres of land, meadow and orchard, west of the barns, to Penn Morgan, the son of his wife's sister. To Rachel Morgan, for similar care and respect, the dwelling house and one barn and one hundred acres, and this to be chargable with Lois Henry's home and support. Another hundred and twenty acres to Faith Morgan, and the stock equally divided among the three. The moneys out at interest to be his wife's share.

Lois Henry went to her son.

"I am sorry," she said. "He repented of something, and I think he meant to have the will destroyed. He was very stern after thou didst leave, and sometimes hard to Penn, who had much patience. I think his mind was not quite right, and occasionally it drowsed away strangely."

"He was glad to see me. That was like a blessing. And we came to look at matters in such different lights. He was home here with the few people who could not see or know the events going on in the great world. I do not think Mr. William Penn ever expected that we should narrow our lives so much and take no interest in things outside of our own affairs. And when one has been with General Washington and seen his broad, clear mind, and such men as General Knox, and Greene and Lee and Marion, and our own Robert Morris, the world grows a larger and grander place. I shall be content with that last manifestation, and I have thee and thy love. Sometime later on we will have a home together," and the soldier son kissed his mother tenderly.

Penn stopped him as he was walking by the barns and looking at the crops.

"Andrew," he began huskily, "of a truth I knew nothing about the will. I had no plan of stepping into thy place. I had meant, when I came of age, to take my little money and buy a plot of ground. But thy father made me welcome, and when thou wert gone stood sorely in need of me."

"Yes, yes, thou hadst been faithful to him and it was only just to be rewarded. I have no hard feelings toward thee, Penn, and I acquit thee of any unjust motive."

Penn Morgan winced a little and let his eyes drop down on the path, for an expression in the clear, frank ones bent upon him stung him a little.

How much had the suggestion he had given had to do with his cousin's almost capture and enlistment? He knew his uncle would grudge the service done to the rebels, and he considered it his duty to stop it. He fancied he took this way so as not to make hard feelings between Andrew and his father. He did not exactly wish it undone, but there was a sense of discomfort about it.

"There were many hard times for me thou knowest nothing about," said Penn, with an accent of justification. "He grew very unreasonable and sharp--Aunt Lois thinks his mind was impaired longer than we knew. I worked like a slave and held my peace. It is owing to me that the farm is in so good a condition to-day, while many about us have been suffered to go to waste. I have set out new fruit. I have cared for everything as if it had been mine, not knowing whether I should get any reward in the end. And though Rachel hath grown rather dispirited at times and crossed my wishes, she had much to bear also. I should have some amends besides mere farm wages."

"I find no fault. It must please thee to know thou didst fill a son's place to him. And a life like this is satisfactory to thee." The tone was calm.

"I could not endure soldiering and vain and worldly trappings," casting his eye over his cousin's attire. "And I care not for the world's foolish praise. A short time ago it was Howe and the King, now it is Washington, and Heaven only knows what is to come. I have this two years been spoken to Clarissa Lane and shall take my own little money and build a house for her, and live plainly in G.o.d's sight."

"I wish thee much happiness. And never think I shall grudge thee anything."

"And I suppose thou wilt become a great military man! Thou wert hardly meant for a Quaker."

"I shall serve my country while she needs me," was the grave reply.

As for Rachel, she had no mind to give up all for lost. Even now she could depend upon Primrose to keep her promise. She had the old house that was dear to Andrew, and she had his mother in her care. When the war was really ended and the soldiers disbanded, he must settle somewhere, and so she took new courage. If she did not marry him there were others who would consider her a prize. But she knew she should never love any man as she could love Andrew Henry.

There were times when she hated herself for it. And now that he had come, gracious, tender, and with that air of strength and authority that always wins a woman, fine-looking withal, and clinging to some Quaker ways and speech, her heart went out to him again in a burst of fondness.

CHAPTER XX.

WHEN THE WORLD WENT WELL.

About the country farms, with their narrow ways, opinion was divided.

Andrew had shocked the Friends by wearing his uniform to his father's burial, but he felt he was the son of his country, as well, and had her dignity to uphold. Penn Morgan was very much respected and certainly had done his duty to his dead uncle.

But at Arch Street indignation ran high, and the Whartons were also very outspoken. Primrose was lovelier than ever in her vehemence, and Polly declared it was the greatest shame she had ever known. Even Mr. Chew said it was an unjust will, and he thought something might be done in the end with Primrose Henry's testimony.

"But for my sake thou wilt not give it. Family quarrels are sore and disgraceful things, and it is true Penn was a good son to him. My mother is well provided for, and I shall find something to do when peace is declared, for it is said when Lord North heard of the surrender, he beat his breast and paced the floor, crying out: 'Oh, G.o.d, it is all over, it is all over, and we have lost the colonies!' So that means the end of the war."

"And will you not stay a soldier? You are so brave and handsome, Andrew."