There was great fun, too, in planning for wedding gear. Polly's sister, Margaret, was grown up now, and Polly was to be married in the late spring, and go out to the farm all summer, as the Randolphs had fully decided to return to Virginia in April. Mr. Randolph would go a month or two earlier to see about a home to shelter them. For although the treaty of peace had not been signed it was an accepted fact, and everybody settled to it.

Old Philadelphia woke up to the fact that she must make herself nearly all over. Low places were drained, bridges built, new docks constructed, and rows of houses went up. The wildernesses about, that had grown to brushwood, were cleared away. Hills were to be lowered, and there was a famous one in Arch Street.

"Nay, I should not know the place without it," declared Madam Wetherill.

"It will answer for my time, and after that do as you like."

But she was to go out of Arch Street years before her death, though she did not live to be one hundred and two.

The taverns made themselves more decorous and respectable, the coffee houses were really attractive, the theater ventured to offer quite a variety of plays, and the a.s.semblies began in a very select fashion.

There was also a more general desire for intelligence, and the days of "avoiding Papishers and learning to knit" as the whole duty of women were at an end.

There were grace and ease and refinement and wit, and a peaceable sort of air since Congress had gone to Princeton.

Midwinter brought out-of-door amus.e.m.e.nts, though the season seemed short, for spring came early, and in March parties were out hunting for trailing arbutus and hardy spring flowers, exchanging tulip bulbs and dividing rose bushes, as well as putting out trees and fine shrubbery that was to make the city a garden for many a long year.

Primrose danced and was merry, and skated with Allin Wharton when Polly and Phil could go, but she was very wary of confining herself to one.

She dropped in and cheered Aunt Lois and fascinated Faith with her bright talk and her bright gowns and the great bow under her chin, for even if it was gray it seemed the softest and most bewildering color that ever was worn. Then she rode out and spent two or three days frolicking with Betty's babies, and came home more utterly fascinating than before.

"Oh, Primrose!" said Madam Wetherill, "I cannot think what to do with thee. Thou wilt presently be the talk of the town."

"Oh, I think I will go to Virginia with Betty and bury myself in a great southern forest where no one can find me. And I will take along pounds of silk and knit some long Quaker stockings for Andrew, with beautiful clocks in them. Hast thou not remarked, dear aunt, that he betrays a tendency toward worldliness?"

"Thou art too naughty, Primrose."

It was fortunate for women's purses that one did not need so many gowns as at the present day, even if they did take out with them marvelous sums. But thinking men were beginning to see the evil of the old Continental money and trying to devise something better, with that able financier, Robert Morris, at their head.

The wedding finery was bought, and the looms at Germantown supplied webs of cloth to be made up in table napery and bedding. There were old laces handed down, and some brocade petticoats, and two trained gowns that had come from England long before. Primrose and Margaret Wharton were bridesmaids, and, oddly enough, Captain Vane, for he had arrived at that dignity, came from Newburgh on a furlough and stood with Margaret, so the foes and the friends were all together. It was a very fine wedding, and at three in the afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Philemon Nevitt Henry were put in a coach, a great luxury then, and went off in splendid state, with a supply of old slippers thrown after them for good luck.

Captain Vane had lost his estate, that was a foregone conclusion. The next of kin had acted and proved the estates forfeited.

"And now I am a true buff-and-blue American," he said proudly to Madam Wetherill. "I shall remain a military man, for the spirit and stir of the life inspire me, and there seems nothing else for me to do. Phil, I think, was only a half-hearted soldier, and business suits him much better. After all, one can see that he is at home among his kinsfolk.

Perhaps there was a little of the old Quaker leaven in him that England could not quite work out. He has a charming wife, and a friend such as few men find;" bowing low and kissing the lady's hand.

A party of guests went out to the farm to have a gay time with the young couple. It was Primrose's birthday, but it never rained a drop. And it would have been hard to tell which was the heroine of the occasion, Primrose or Polly. And, oh, the verses that were made! some halting and some having altogether too many feet. There were dancing and jollity and every room was crowded. They had coaxed Betty to stay and she was very charming; quite too young, everybody said, to be a widow with two babies.

Philemon Henry held his pretty sister to his heart and gave her eighteen kisses for her birthday.

"Dear, thou hast so many gifts on all occasions," he said, "that a brother's best love is all I can bestow upon thee now. When I am a rich man it may be otherwise. Polly and thee will always be the dearest of sisters, and I hope to be a faithful son to Madam Wetherill."

Primrose wiped some tears from her lovely eyes.

"That is the best any man can be," she made answer.

It was a very gay fortnight, and Allin Wharton was so angry and so wretched that he scarce knew how to live. Captain Vane was handsome and fascinating, and a hero from having lost his estates, and there were a full hundred reasons why he should be attractive to a woman. He believed Andrew Henry was no sort of rival beside him. Of course Primrose would--what a fool he had been to take Polly's advice and wait!

But Primrose had been very wise and very careful for such a pretty, pleasure-loving girl. There had been something in Gilbert Vane's eyes that told the story, and she understood now what it was: the sweetest and n.o.blest story a man can tell a woman, but a woman may not always be ready to hear it, and now some curious knowledge had come to Primrose--she would never be ready to hear this.

She had threaded her way skillfully through every turning, she had jested and parried until she was amazed at her own resources. The last morning Madam Wetherill was suddenly called down to the office about the transfer of some property, and she had not been gone ten minutes when Captain Vane was announced.

He was very disappointed not to see madam--of course. Primrose was shy and looked like a bird about to fly somewhere, but so utterly bewitching that his whole heart went out to her.

"Oh, you sweetest, dearest Primrose!" he cried, and caught her hand in such a clasp that she could not pull it away. "I love you, love you! and yet I have no business to say it, a soldier of fortune, who has nothing now but his sword, and his patriotism for the country of his adoption--all his fortune yet to make. But it will not hurt you, dear, to know that a man loves you with his whole soul and hopes for--nothing."

But his wistful eyes told another story.

"Oh, why did you say it?" she cried, full of regret.

"Because I could not help it. Oh, I know it is useless, and yet I would give half a lifetime--nay, all of it--for a year or two of such bliss as Phil is having, to hold you in my arms, to call you my wife, my dear wife," and his tone thrilled her with exquisite pain, but something akin to pleasure as well. "Primrose, you are the sweetest flower of the world, but it could never be--never; tell me so, darling. Much as it pains you, say 'no.' For if you do not I shall always dream. And I am a soldier and can meet my fate."

He dropped her hand and stood before her straight, strong, and proud; entreaty written in every line of his face. She covered hers with her hands to shut out the sight and tried vainly to find her voice.

"Nay, dear," he took the hands down tenderly and saw tears and blushes, but not the look he wanted. "That was cruel, unmanly. If it were 'yes'

there would be no tears, and so I am answered. It is not your fault. You have a grander, n.o.bler lover than I. But it has been sweet to love you.

From almost the first I have loved you, when you were a little girl and I longed to have you for my sister. It will not hurt you, as the years go on, to know you won a soldier for your country and a lifelong patriot. And I know Andrew Henry will not grudge me one kiss. G.o.d give thee all happiness. Good-by."

He pressed his lips to her forehead and turned.

"G.o.d bless thee," she said, and he bowed reverently as he went out of the room.

She stood quite still, never heeding the tears that dropped on the front of her gown. Andrew Henry! Her dear, dear cousin, who was like a brother. Did he love her that way? Did she love him? And if she did there was her solemn promise to Rachel.

She ran upstairs and had a good cry.

"Whatever is the matter?" asked Patty. "You are fuller of whims than an egg is of meat, for the egg has a breathing s.p.a.ce if the chick wants it.

Not an hour ago you were laughing like a mocking bird. You had better have a pitcher of sweet balm for your nerves. You have dissipated too much, but thank Heaven there are no more weddings near by."

Primrose dried her eyes and laughed again presently. It was noon when Madam Wetherill returned. Attorney Chew had been in with some new plans that were quite wonderful.

"And Captain Vane to say good-by. What friends he and Phil are! But he is a soldier born, if ever there was one. And he looked so fine and spirited. He said he had been here."

"For a few minutes, yes. And now, dear madam, when you are rested, can we have a better afternoon to ride out to the Pembertons'? I have promised some books to Julia, and that new sleeve pattern, and to-morrow Polly comes in."

"Well, child--yes, after my nap. 'Tis a lovely day, and every day is so busy. Yes, we will go."

She hath escaped that danger, Madam Wetherill thought. And in her heart she honored the brave soldier; how brave, she was never quite to know.

Was there ever a summer without diversions? There was a new interest in plants and flowers. Parties went out to John Bartram's, the quaint old house with its wide doorway and the great vines that had climbed over it for years, until they had grown thick as a man's wrist, almost hiding the names cut in the stone long ago, of John and Elizabeth Bartram. The old garden of flowers and the ferns were worth some study. And there were rambles in the lanes, going after wild strawberries, and even the venturesome ones went on the sly to Dunk's Ferry and had their fortune told by Old Alice. There were many little shrieks and giggles, and joyous or protesting confidences afterward.

And now Primrose thought, as she had years before, that she was quite torn in two. Did she love Andrew Henry with an absorbing love, such as Polly had for her brother? Another face and another voice haunted her.

She dreamed of Allin Wharton. This night they were sailing up the lovely Schuylkill and pausing under the overhanging trees to hear the birds who were saying, "Sweet, sweet, I love you," and then Allin would look up at her.

Then they were at the farm. Betty and the babies were gone now, and she missed them sorely. But Allin came out with Phil, and Phil walked off with Polly. Would they never get talked out? Then Allin would draw her out in some fragrant nook and look at her with upbraiding eyes. Or, it was vivacious Peggy who would drag her in to tea, and then some girl would come and she and Allin be left alone again.

Then, by day and in real life, she was cross and tormenting to him.

Desperately sorry afterward, for now she had no ambition to be bad-tempered. Everything had come out to her satisfaction. Phil was the dearest of brothers, and prospering, and Madam Wetherill was elated with her successful firm. The prestige of the elder Henry dropped its mantle over them. And as for Polly, there could not be a wiser, sweeter wife.

Then Aunt Lois was so tranquilly happy, and Faith growing brighter, yes, prettier, and buying grays with a peachy or lavender tint instead of that snuffy yellow, or dismally cold stone color, and coaxing Andrew, sometimes, to go to Christ Church to hear the singing or the tender prayers where the people could all say "Amen."

Oh, what was the matter that she was not happy and satisfied!