would fain not have had her marry Philemon Henry. But la! love rules us
all, at least us worldly people. I am thankful for thy good care of
Primrose. And now, child, put on thy hood or cap or whatever 'tis, and
come to thy new home, where we promise to treat thee well."

"And return her to us," subjoined Lois Henry, almost afraid to let her
go now that the time had come. "Get thy hat, child."

Chloe entered just then with a glass of home-made wine of excellent
flavor and age, and some newly baked cake that was quite enough in its
very appearance to make one long to taste it. And the napkin she spread
on my lady's lap was fine and soft, if it had not been woven in English
air and taken a sea voyage.

Primrose had glanced up at the lady when she began to address her, and
one by one old memories returned. Friend Henry never spoke of her mother
or Madam Wetherill, and in six months a good deal drops out of a child's
mind, but she smiled a little as the stream of remembrance swept over
her, and recalled her pretty mother's kisses and fondness and a
beautiful house that had made this seem like a desert to her. And Madam
Wetherill squeezed the small hand in a friendly manner, then began to
eat her cake and praise it as well, though Friend Henry protested
against that.

"Chloe, bring the child's hat," she said in so calm a tone it hardly
seemed a command.

Then Madam took her by the hand and they walked out together and the
black servant put her in the chaise. Madam Wetherill spread out her fine
gown so that it almost covered the plain garments of the child.

Lois Henry had merely uttered the briefest of good-byes, with no parting
kiss. She had given her some counsel before. Yet when she shut the main
door that opened into the sitting room, for the strictest of Friends
would have no parlor, she sat down suddenly and put both hands to her
face. It would be very hard to part thus every year, to know one's
sincere efforts in training the child to a godly life would be uprooted
by the vain show of the world, so attractive to youth, and the vision of
the two little girls gone out never to return, swept over her with a
pang. Why could she not give them wholly to the Lord, and be glad they
were in His fold, safe from evil? And this little one--Madam Wetherill
was quite at middle life--she herself was surely younger and might
outlive the other. But at eighteen the child could choose, and she would
be likely to choose the ways of