chuylkill
seemed a mass of molten crimson and gold commingled. The fresh wind blew
up through the old-fashioned garden of sweet herbs and made the air
about fragrant.

"This is my little grandniece, Primrose Henry," she exclaimed,
presenting the child. "Some of you have seen her mother, no doubt, who
died so sadly at Trenton of that miserable smallpox."

"Oh, and her father, too!" exclaimed Mrs. Pemberton, putting down her
glass and coming forward.

Primrose had made her courtesy and now half buried her face in Madame
Wetherill's voluminous brocade.

"A fine man indeed was Philemon Henry, with the air of good descent, and
the manner of courts. And we always wondered if he would not have come
over to us if his sweetheart had stood firm. Girls do not realize all
their power. But it was a happy marriage, what there was of it. Alas!
that it should have ended so soon! But I think the child favors her
mother."

"And it will not do to say all the sweet things we know about her
mother," laughed pretty Miss Chew. "Sweet diet is bad for infants and
had better be saved for their years of appreciation. You see we may
never reach discretion."

"Come hither, little maid," said a persuasive voice. "I have two at home
not unlike thee, and shall be glad to bring them when Madam comes home
to Arch Street. Primrose! What an odd name, savoring of English
gardens."

Some of the younger women pulled her hither and thither and kissed her,
and one pinned a posy on her shoulder. Then Madam Wetherill led her down
quite to the edge of the porch, where sat a rather thin, fretted-looking
woman, gowned in the latest style, and a girl of ten, much more
furbelowed than was the custom of attiring children.

"This is the child I was telling thee of, Bessy Wardour's little one
that she had to leave with such regrets. This is a relative of thy
mother's, Primrose, and this is Anabella. I hope you two children may be
friends."

There was a certain curious suavity in Madam Wetherill's tone that was
not quite like her every-day utterances.

"A Wardour--yes; was there not something about her marriage----"

"She became a Friend for love's sake," laughed Madam Wetherill. "Others
stood ready to marry her, but she would have none of them--girls are
willful."

The lady rose with a high dignity.

"It grows late," she said, "and if you will keep your promise, dear
aunt, I should like to be sent home, since it is not well for children
to be out in t