g out on market mornings and mistresses were not above
visiting the long, clean spaces, though there was much fault-finding
about the dearness of things, and Mrs. Adams complained of the
loneliness of Bush Hill, though she was afterward to be comforted by
being the first lady of the land at Washington, the final Capital.

Primrose Wharton was a pretty young wife and the mother of a
golden-haired little girl when she next saw "Lady Washington," as she
was often called. She had settled into a gracious, but still piquant,
matron, and she and Allin enjoyed the theater and still dearly loved a
dance. Madam Wetherill was yet a handsome and stately dame, and "foolish
over the little one," she said.

There were many memories of the dismal winter of Valley Forge renewed
when Mrs. Washington met some of the brave soldiers. And among them all
there was no finer nor more attractive figure than that of Andrew Henry,
now arrived at its full manliness. The Quaker costume became him as no
other would, though the Continental attire was distinctive and well
calculated to show off a man. Fair and fresh and strong, yet with
well-bred gentleness and a cultivated mind, he was often singled out at
the receptions, and more than one admiring girl would have gladly
enacted Bessy Wardour's romance.

Was there any story in the eyes that gave a glimpse of the great heart
back of them? tender, sweet, brave eyes? Sometimes Primrose Wharton
thought so, and all her pulses stood still in awesome silence. She was
very happy. She and Allin had had an April fling and had settled into
May bloom, but--could anything have been different--better? Not for her,
but for him. A little sister! Is she that?

He was very happy, now, in a larger house, with a study and book
shelves, his mother a tender and tranquil woman, Faith a contented
housekeeper with a servant, and hardly knowing which to adore the most,
Polly Henry's merry madcap household, or Primrose Wharton's sunny-haired
daughter.

The only thing Philemon Henry would undo are those years that he was
hardly answerable for.

"Of course it was not your fault," Polly declares in her impetuous,
fond, and justifying way. "I think it really braver, for it requires
more courage to own that a man has been wrong, than to go along in a
straight path already made for him. And I fell in love with you as a
redcoat, I really did, and fought with myself in the nights when I was
alone. For, of course, I couldn't have