in all her
ways, a gentle desire to please, which was but the innocent coquetry of
a young girl's heart. She stayed a moment as they crossed Walnut Street,
and replying to a question, said: "Yes, that is the jail men called the
Provostry in the war. My grandfather lay in it--oh, very long. We have
his sword in the attic. I would hang it up down-stairs, but Friends
would not approve, thou must know. And that is Independence Hall, but
thou hast seen it."

"Yes. Are you proud of it?"

"Surely. My people shed our blood for what strong men did in that hall.
My uncle and my grandfather came out of the jail to die, oh, both of
them!"

"And of what party are you, Miss Margaret?"

"Of George Washington's," she cried. "But Friends must have no party, or
their women, at least--not even tea-parties," and she laughed.

"I think I am of your party," said De Courval--"George Washington's."

The conventual shelter of the silk bonnet turned toward him as she
said: "Then we agree; but I am not sure that I like people to agree with
me. It spoils talk, Mr. Schmidt says."

"Then I am all for Jefferson," he cried gaily, thinking in his grave way
that this young girl was of a sudden older than her years.

"I am not sure that I like that either," she replied, and so chatting
with easy freedom they came to Miss Wynne's door, opposite the Quakers'
burial-ground, where their dead lay in unmarked graves. A negro servant
in the brown livery of the Wynnes opened the door, and Aunt Gainor
appeared in the hall in more than usual splendor.

"Good day, Vicomte," and to Margaret: "Take off your bonnet, child. How
can any one, man or woman, kiss thee with that thing on thy head? It
might be useful at need, but I do suppose you could take it off on such
occasions."

"For shame, Aunt Gainor!" said the Pearl, flushing and glad of the
bonnet she was in act to remove. Miss Wynne kissed her, whispering,
"Good Lord! you are on the way to be a beauty!"

De Courval, who of course had called long since to thank his hostess,
had so far dined in no one of the more luxuriously appointed homes of
Philadelphia. Here were portraits; much, too much, china, of which he
was no judge; and tables for work that Miss Wynne never did, or for
cards at which she liked high play.

"Mr. Hamilton was to dine here, but was with me just now to be excused."

"He was with my mother an hour this morning," said Margaret, "about
some small affairs we have in New York. He is