dreaded the next change. She hated to leave Andrew, the dogs and the
chickens, the cows that she did not fear quite so much, the great
orchard, the long reaches of meadows, and the woods where the birds sang
so enchantingly. But Aunt Lois had not grown into her heart, and she
stood greatly in awe of Uncle James, who had a way of speaking sharply
to her.

But black Cato came with Madam Wetherill in the lumbering chaise, which
was a great rarity at that period. Primrose was dressed in a white
homespun linen frock. At this early stage of the country's industries
they were doing a good deal of weaving at Germantown, though many
people had small looms in their houses. Imported goods were high, and
now that so much of the land was cleared and houses built, they had time
for other things, and were ingenious in discoveries.

Madam Wetherill was very grand in her satin petticoat and brocade gown,
that fell away at the sides and made a train at the back. Her imported
hat of Leghorn, very costly at that period but lasting half a lifetime,
had a big bow of green satin on top, and the high front was filled in
with quilled lace and pink bows. From its side depended a long white
lace veil with a deep worked border of flowers. Her shoes had glittering
buckles, and she wore a great brooch in her stomacher.

Primrose was dreadfully shy, she saw so few strangers. She scarcely
raised her eyes to the rustling dame, and her heart beat with unwonted
agitation.

Madam Wetherill wanted to laugh at the queer little figure, but she was
better bred, and kept a lingering fondness for the child's mother.
Besides, she was one of the possible heirs to her fortune, and some of
the grandnieces and nephews were not altogether to her fancy. And though
she was high-spirited and could both resent and argue fiercely, she had
the Wardour suavity, and some early training abroad in the Court.

"Come hither, little one," and she held out her jeweled hand. "Friend
Henry, I should have called to see my grandniece, but you remember we
thought it best not so to do. You have had the uninterrupted six months,
and I can see you have kept her well. What a clear complexion the child
hath! A little sun-burned, perhaps. Her mother was a fine hearty woman,
and it was a thousand pities she had not been inoculated and cared for
carefully, instead of being attacked in that blind way no one suspected.
She was a sweet thing and I loved her as a daughter of my own, though I