A Little Girl in Old Philadelphia - Amanda Minnie Douglas (freda ebook reader TXT) 📗

crestfallen compeer. "I was right. If Uncle James had not been my uncle I should not have had to come here. And I should not care for Andrew."

There was something superb in the defiance visible in every feature and the proud poise of the shoulders. A woman grown could hardly have done better. Andrew Henry was curiously amused, and not a little puzzled as to how he should restore peace between them. Faith's face had settled into sullen lines.

"I shall love best whichever one is best and readiest in obedience and kindliness," he said slowly.

"I do not care." Primrose turned away with the air of a small queen. "I shall go back to town and you may have Faith and--and everybody." But the voice which began so resolutely in her renunciation broke and ended with a sob.

"Oh, my dear child!" Andrew's arm was about her and his lips pressed tenderly to her forehead, and the relenting lines gave him an exquisite thrill of pleasure he did not understand.

"What is all this discussion and high voices about?" demanded Lois Henry. "I will not have the night disturbed by brawls. Both children shall be whipped soundly and sent to bed."

"Nay, mother, listen." Andrew straightened himself up but still kept his arm protectingly about Primrose, glad that the falling twilight did not betray the scarlet heat in his face. "It came from a misunderstanding. Faith did not know we were cousins by the father's side, as she and I are on the mother's. It is hard for little ones to get all the lines of relationship, and this being Faith's true home it seemed as if her right must be best. But now they are at peace and will be pleasant enough on the morrow. They did nothing worthy of punishment."

Faith was glad enough of the chance to escape, for she had already smarted from the rod in the resolute hands of her aunt. She came toward her now and said humbly:

"I did not understand, truly. I will be wiser and never again think it untrue. And now--shall I go up to bed?"

Lois Henry was not satisfied, but she did not want to have open words with her son before the children.

"Both go to bed at once," she said sharply. "Rachel?"

"I am here," said the elder girl quietly.

"Take Primrose upstairs and see that she is fixed for the night, though, hereafter, she will wait upon herself. I like not to have children brought up helpless."

"Go, my little dear," Andrew whispered caressingly. "To-morrow----"

Primrose was awed by Aunt Lois and followed with no further word or sign.

Rachel found her nightdress and half envied the daintiness.

"What were thy words with Faith about," she inquired in a somewhat peremptory tone.

"Thou art Faith's sister, ask her," was the resentful reply. She must tell the truth if she spoke at all, and she did not want to run another risk of being blamed. Andrew believed in her, that was the comfort she held to her throbbing heart.

"Thou art a froward child and hast been overindulged. But, I warn thee, Aunt Lois will train naughty girls sharply."

Rachel stood in a sort of expectant attitude and Primrose leaned against the window.

"Get to bed," the elder said quickly.

"Go! go!" Primrose stamped her rosy bare foot on the floor. "I want you away. I cannot say my prayer with you here."

"Thou needst prayer certainly. Among other things pray for a better temper."

Rachel went slowly, and shut the door. Primrose threw herself on the bed and gave way to a paroxysm of sobs and tears. Once she thought she would creep downstairs and fly to the woods--anywhere to be out of reach of them all. Oh, how could she endure it! Patty scolded sometimes, and Madam Wetherill reproved and had on an occasion or two sent her out of the room, but to be threatened with a whipping was too terrible!


CHAPTER IX.

FATE TO THE FORE.

They were early astir at the farm. Rachel in going downstairs called Primrose and Faith. The latter rubbed her sleepy eyes--it was always so hard to get up, but there were many things to do. Grandmother was the only one allowed to sleep in quiet, and sometimes she would lie as late as nine o'clock, to the great relief of everyone.

"Come, thou sluggard!" and the child's shoulder was roughly shaken. "This is twice I have called thee, and what will happen a third time I cannot undertake to say."

"Patty!" Primrose opened her eyes and then gave a little shriek of affright. "Oh, where am I?"

She had cried herself to sleep and forgotten all about her prayer.

"I am not Patty, and thou wilt find no servant here to wait upon thee. We are not fine Arch Street people. Come, if thou dost want any breakfast."

Slowly memory returned to Primrose. She leaned out of the little window. Oh, what joyous sound was that! She smiled as the birds caroled in the trees and followed them with her soft, sweet voice that could not reach the high notes. Then she began to dress, eager to be out of the small room that would have seemed a prison to her if she had known anything about a prison. But the wonderful melody filled her soul and lifted her up to the very blue heavens. So she loitered sadly about her dressing, and when she came down the table had been cleared away.

Chloe had received instructions to give her a bite out in the kitchen presently, but with a sense of injustice, growing stronger every moment, she almost flew from the house. Rachel was working butter in the milk room and Faith weeding in the garden. Aunt Lois had had a very disturbed night and was suffering with a severe headache. Her husband's fever had abated toward morning, and now he had fallen into a quiet sleep.

Primrose made her way to the old orchard. Ah, how enchantingly the birds sang! Then there was a long, melodious whistle that she tried to imitate and failed, and laughed gleefully at her non-success. Where was the old tree blown almost over by wind and storm that she used to run up, and fancy herself a squirrel? Ah, here it was! bent over so much more that its branches touched the ground. She walked up the trunk, holding out both arms to keep her balance, and then sitting down where three branches crossed and made a seat. The apples were hard and sour, she remembered, regular winter apples. She rocked to and fro, singing with the birds and watching the white boats go sailing across the sky. She laughed in her lightness of heart, though there was no malice in it. She did not even give the household a thought.

And then she was suddenly hungry. She sighed a little. Were there any more ripe, sweet apples, she wondered! Oh, how long would she have to stay at Uncle Henry's? It was early July now, six months. What a long, long while as she counted them up! And there would be winter when she could not run out of doors, and no lessons, no books to pore over, no music, no great parlor full of strange things that she never tired of inspecting, no pretty ladies in silk and satin gowns, chattering and laughing.

What with the soft wind and the swaying motion she began to feel sleepy again. She crawled down and looked for the tree they had found yesterday. Alas! its branches were too high for her conquest. She threw herself down on the grass and leaned against the trunk, and in five minutes was soundly asleep.

Rachel had gone about her duties in a quiet, rather resentful manner. Once Chloe had asked about the child.

"I have called her twice," was the brief answer.

Then she heard grandmother stirring and went up to dress her and gave her some breakfast. She would not even look in the small chamber where she supposed Primrose was lazily sleeping. Afterward she called in Faith, who washed her hands and changed her frock, as the dew and dirt had made it unsightly.

"If thou wouldst only be careful and tuck it up around thy knees," said Rachel in a fretted tone. "There is no sense in getting so draggled, and it makes overmuch washing."

"Shall I take the towels out to hem?" asked Faith.

"Yes. Thee should get them done this morning. Aunt Lois spoke of thy dilatoriness."

Faith longed to ask about the newcomer. It was sinful indulgence for her to be lying abed. And why was she not sent to weed in the garden or put at other unpleasant work?

Rachel heard the rap on the tin cup that answered the purpose of a bell to summon one. Aunt Lois was still in her short bedgown and nightcap.

"Thou must wait upon thy uncle this morning," she began feebly. "I have tried, but I cannot get about. There is a dizziness in my head every time I stir, and strange pains go shooting about me. It is an ill time to be laid by with the summer work pressing, and two people needing constant care."

She looked very feeble, and there was an unwholesome red spot upon each cheek. Her usually calm and steady voice was tremulous.

"But I feel better. The fever is gone," said Uncle James. "There will be only two weeks more and then I can begin to get about. When there is no head matters go loosely enough."

"But I am sure Andrew is capable. He hath been trained under thine own eye. And Penn is steady and trusty."

"But a dozen young things cannot supply the master's place," he returned testily. "And one almost feels as if the evil one hath gotten in his handiwork as he did on Job."

Lois sighed. Rachel washed her uncle's face and hands and brought him some breakfast.

"Shall I not bring thee some, too?"

"Nay, the thought goes against me. I will have some boneset tea steeped. And presently I will get out to the kitchen. Perhaps I shall mend by stirring about."

Grandmother sat under the tree or wandered about, babbling of old times and asking questions that she forgot the next moment. There was a ham boiling in the great kettle over the kitchen fire, and a big basket of vegetables for the dinner. There were two neighboring men working, who were to have their midday meal.

James Henry would have enjoyed Job's disputatious friends. There were several knotty points in doctrine that he had gone over while lying here, and he longed to argue them with someone. The days were very long and tedious to him, for he had never been ill a whole week in his life.

Lois crept out to the living room, then to the great shady doorstep. How fine and fresh and reviving the waft of summer air, with its breath of new-mown hay, was to her fevered brow.

"Where is the child?" she asked.

"I called her twice. What with packing the butter and various duties she hath quite gone out of my mind. Surely she sleeps like the young man in the Apostles' time."

"Go summon her again. She must be broken of such an evil habit."

Rachel primed herself for some well-deserved severity. There was no one in the room. She searched the closet, the other rooms, then the "tuck place" as it was