, and
he played pretty much as he chose all against the organ and the singing.
He was the only one they let do it, for they was a simple-minded folk.
They used to wash each other's feet up in the attic to keep 'emselves
humble: which Lord knows they didn't need.'

'How very queer,' said Una.

Pharaoh's eyes twinkled. 'I've met many and seen much,' he said; 'but I
haven't yet found any better or quieter or forbearinger people than the
Brethren and Sistern of the Moravian Church in Philadelphia. Nor will I
ever forget my first Sunday--the service was in English that week--with
the smell of the flowers coming in from Pastor Meder's garden where the
big peach tree is, and me looking at all the clean strangeness and
thinking of 'tween decks on the _Embuscade_ only six days ago. Being a
boy, it seemed to me it had lasted for ever, and was going on for ever.
But I didn't know Toby then. As soon as the dancing clock struck
midnight that Sunday--I was lying under the spinet--I heard Toby's
fiddle. He'd just done his supper, which he always took late and heavy.
"Gert," says he, "get the horses. Liberty and Independence for ever! The
flowers appear upon the earth and the time of the singing of birds is
come. We are going to my country seat in Lebanon."

'I rubbed my eyes, and fetched 'em out of the "Buck" stable. Red Jacket
was there saddling his, and when I'd packed the saddle-bags we three
rode up Race Street to the Ferry by starlight. So we went travelling.
It's a kindly, softly country there, back of Philadelphia among the
German towns, Lancaster way. Little houses and bursting big barns, fat
cattle, fat women, and all as peaceful as Heaven might be if they farmed
there. Toby sold medicines out of his saddle-bags, and gave the French
war-news to folk along the roads. Him and his long-hilted umberell was
as well known as the stage coaches. He took orders for that famous
Seneca Oil which he had the secret of from Red Jacket's Indians, and he
slept in friend's farmhouses, but he _would_ shut all the windows; so
Red Jacket and me slept outside. There's nothing to hurt except
snakes--and they slip away quick enough if you thrash in the bushes.'

'I'd have liked that!' said Dan.

'I'd no fault to find with those days. In the cool o' the morning the
cat-bird sings. He's something to listen to. And there's a smell of
wild grape-vine growing in damp hollows which you drop into, after
long rides in the heat, which is beyond compare