'Twould be a queer world if people were like candles, all run in one mold."

"But there are fat candles and thin candles."

"And they are always round. Folks have corners. They're queer-like and pleasant by spells, and you can't see everything about them at a glance.

We must have candles, but I have a hankering for folks as well."

Primrose laughed and ran to Betty, who was not as philosophical, and was afraid that the day was spoiled.

"The wind is west," said Madam Wetherill.

Sure enough, by nine it was a radiant day. The two girls chattered, for Betty was only three-and-twenty, and the news from Virginia had put new heart in her.

"You must talk to Lieutenant Vane as much as you can. You see, he was there so much longer than Andrew, and knew more about everything. And he is such a splendid American! But he may have to give up Vane Priory, which Phil says was beautiful. Or, rather, it will be confiscated.

General Howe sent over word when he joined our army. It is hard to be called a traitor and a deserter when you are doing a n.o.ble deed. But he doesn't seem very disheartened over it."

"It is very brave of him."

Primrose brought out her pretty frocks and her buckles and some of her mother's trinkets she was allowed to wear, and Betty told over various Virginian gayeties, and the sun went on shining. So, quite early Polly and Allin came. Allin had decided to study law, for his ambition had been roused by the appointment of really learned men to discuss the points of coming peace. And there would always be legal troubles to settle, property boundaries to define, wills to make, and Allin admitted he had seen quite enough of war, though, if the country needed him, he should go again. But Gilbert Vane was a truly enthusiastic soldier.

When Andrew came he announced that the company was to be ready to start next week. General Washington would have his quarters for some time up the Hudson, so as to be ready for a descent on New York if England should start the war afresh on any pretext.

Certainly the afternoon was beautiful. People were beginning with gardens, and climbing roses were showing green stems. And the tall box alleys were full of new sprouts, betraying a great contrast to the deep green that had withstood the frosts of many winters.

There was a ferry over Dock Creek; indeed, there were but few bridges, but being ferried over was more to their taste. Then they walked up Society Hill, where some fine, substantial houses were being put up.

There were the city squares, and, far over, a great ragged waste, with tree stumps everywhere.

"That is what you did in Howe's winter--cut down all the beautiful woods--Governor's woods," Primrose said resentfully. "There are traces of you everywhere. It will take years and years for us to forget it or remedy it."

"But do you not suppose the soldiers around Valley Forge cut down the woods as well? You would not have them freeze. And the poor men here wanted a little warmth," said Phil.

"There was plenty of waste land where you could have gone," in her severest tone.

"I thought myself there were many acts of vandalism," commented Vane.

"But I believe it is the rule of warfare to damage your enemy all you can. Think of the magnificent cities the old Greeks and Romans destroyed utterly."

"They were half savages, idolaters, believing in all sorts of G.o.ds. And you pretended to be Christians!"

"You were so sweet a moment ago, Primrose," said her brother.

"Unalloyed sweetness is cloying. You need salt and spice as well. And I always feel afraid I shall forgive you too easily when I look at those poor stumps and pa.s.s the jail."

"You can remember all one's sins easily," Phil retorted rather gloomily.

"And one's virtues, too, behind one's back. Never fear her loyalty, Mr.

Nevitt." Phil had insisted everyone should drop his military cognomen.

"You should have heard her solicitude when no word came from you, and was there not some joy in her face when you appeared that could not have put itself into words?" cried Allin Wharton eagerly, for he always resented the least suspicion of a non-perfection in Primrose.

"Now I will cross thee off my books," blushing and trying to look stern.

"Allin Wharton! To betray a friend in that manner!"

"To recount her virtues," and Betty Mason laughed over to the pretty child. "She has a right to be like an April day."

"And I found this pretty conceit in some reading," interposed Vane. "We should have tried our pens in your behalf, Mistress Primrose, but I knew nothing of this birthday except just as we met, so I can only offer second-hand, but then 'tis by a famous fellow:

"'May never was the month of love, For May is full of flowers,-- But rather April wet by kind, For love is full of showers.'"

"Am I such a crying girl?" Primrose's face was a study in its struggle not to smile.

"And here is another." Andrew Henry half turned:

"'When April nods, with lightsome smiles And Violets all a-flower; Her willful mood may turn to tears Full twice within an hour.'"

"Then I am very fickle--and bad tempered, and--and----" There was deep despair in the voice.

"And Primrose, an April girl who can have whatever mood she chooses,"

said Wharton. "I wish I had known one was to bring posies of thought and I would have looked up one. How I envy those people who can write acrostics or sudden verses, and all I know seem to have gone from me."

Primrose made a mocking courtesy. "Thank you. We can all go and gather violets. I know a stretch of woods the British left standing, where the gra.s.s is full of them. And a bit of stream that runs into the Schuylkill. Oh, and a clean, well-behaved mead-house where one can get delightful cheesecake. Now that we have reached the summit, look about the town. A square, ugly little town, is it not?"

"It is not ugly," Polly protested resentfully.

The rivers on either side, the angle with docks jutting out, and creeping up along the Delaware, Windmill Island and the Forts; the two long, straight streets crossing at right angles, and even then rows of red-brick cottages, but finer ones as well, with gardens, some seeming set in a veritable park; and Master Shippen's pretty herd of deer had been brought back. There were Christ Church and St. Peter's with their steeples, there were more modest ones, and the Friends' meeting house that had held many a worthy.

"It is well worth seeing," said Betty Mason. "Some of the places about make me think of my own State and the broad, hospitable dwellings."

"Oh, but you should see Stenton and Clieveden! and the Chew House at Germantown is already historical. There is to be a history writ of the town, I believe, and all it has gone through!" exclaimed Polly.

Then they begin to come down in a kind of winding fashion. Women are out making gardens and tying up vines, some of them in the quaint, short gown and petticoat, relegated mostly to servants. Then Friends, in cap and kerchief; children in the fashion of their parents, with an odd made-over appearance.

"It will be a grand city if it stretches out according to Mr. Penn's ideas. And oh, Betty! you must see the old house in Let.i.tia Street, with its dormer windows and odd little front door with its overhanging roof.

And the house on Second Street that is more pretentious, with its slated roof. If the talk is true about peace there are great plans for the advancement of the town. They are going to cut down some of the hills and drain the meadows that the British flooded," and Primrose glanced sidewise at her brother's face with a half-teasing delight. "So, if the dreams of the big men who govern the city come true, there will presently be no old Philadelphia. I hear them talking of it with Aunt Wetherill."

They wander on, now and then changing places and partners, having a little merry badinage. Polly keeps coming to the rescue where Philemon Nevitt is concerned.

There are other gay parties out rambling; some with hands full of wild flowers, laughing and chatting, occasionally bestowing a nod on the Whartons and Primrose, and staring perhaps unduly at the tall fine soldier with his martial air and uniform, hardly suspecting the Quaker heart underneath.

"Now that we have come so near I bethink me of an errand for Mistress Janice Kent," exclaimed Primrose. "And you will like to see the row of small, cheerful houses where some poor women come, some poor married folks when life has gone hard with them. See here is Walnut Street. Let us turn in. It is an old, old place that somebody left some money to build."

"Old John Martin," said Andrew. "Yes, I have been here. It is a snug, pretty place, not an alms-house."

"My old lady is not in this long, plain house, but around in Fourth Street, in her own little cottage. See how quaint they are?"

A narrow pa.s.sage like a green lane ran through the center. Small, one-storied cottages, with a doorway and a white-curtained window; a steep roof with a window in the end to light the garret. There was a garden with each. There were fruit trees ready to burst into bloom, so sheltered were they. There were grape arbors, where old men were smoking and old ladies knitting.

One old lady had half a dozen little children in her room, teaching a school. One was preparing dried herbs in small cardboard boxes. There were sweet flavors as of someone distilling; there was a scent of mola.s.ses candy being made, or a cake baked, even new, warm biscuit.

Everybody seemed happy and well employed.

"It is something like the Church Charities at home," said Vane, "only much more tidy and beautiful."