to see you, since your father
was a good friend of mine. I heard you had come over, I must say on bad
business. Here, this turn cuts off some distance, though we have been
squared according to plummet and line; and then down here. Let me take
the child. Is there no sign of returning animation?"

They reached the Wetherill house, and its mistress caught sight of them
from the window.

"Oh, Dr. Shippen!" she cried in alarm.

"The child has had a fall. Take off her hat and coat. Now let me see!"

He laid her on the settle in the hall and began chafing her hands, and
ordering some restoratives.

"Are you sure there are no bones broken?"

"Not quite. It really was not that kind of a fall. There, she is coming
around. Now, Madam Wetherill, here is a pepper-pot of a young soldier
that you must cool down with some soothing potions, and I will find the
other firebrand. We won't have them shooting each other unless in up and
down warfare."

"I think you will bear witness that I was insulted," declared Nevitt.

"And gave an insult. It is about even. No fighting, therefore. Dueling
for trifles is cold-blooded murder. I ask it for your father's sake. My
little dear, wake up from your nap."

"What is it?" Primrose said in a faint voice. "I feel queer." Then she
lapsed into insensibility again.

"Take her upstairs if you will, please. And, doctor, what mystery is
there about this mishap? How did it occur? Patty, come hither."

The child opened her eyes again and half smiled.

"She will do now, I think; her pulse is stronger. Here is a small
injury; nothing worse than a sprain, I think. She was run down on the
ice. Our town goes crazy over a trifle now. The wrist is bruised and
sprained. Patty, if you are the owner of so useful a name, undress the
child, but I think she hath no broken bones."

The men retired to the adjoining room while Patty alternately scolded
and petted her young charge.

"I hope you will reconsider your threat," said the doctor. "There are
too many good uses for life to throw it away foolishly. If you are a
King's man your life belongs to him, and is not to be wasted in a fit of
temper."

Philemon Nevitt flushed with a sense of shame. He had been hotheaded,
unreasonable.

There was no serious injury, they found. The bruised wrist was to be
bound up with the old-fashioned remedy of wormwood and hot vinegar. And
to-morrow Primrose would be all right again.

"Do you know this Allin Wharton?" Nev