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

called, and went through Chloe's room, over the kitchen.

"She is not anywhere to be seen. Chloe, hast thou observed her stealing out?"

"Nay," and the colored servitor shook her head.

"Strange where she can be."

"The child was tractable and well trained through the past summer, but she hath grown lawless and saucy. When she comes I shall give her a good switching, if I am able. I will not have these mischievous pranks," said Aunt Lois feebly.

"She deserves it," rejoined Rachel with unwonted zest. She longed to see the child conquered.

Still Primrose did not appear. Lois Henry took her herb tea, and after a severe fit of nausea felt somewhat relieved, but very weak and shaky. She was just thinking of retiring when Andrew came across the field. But he was alone.

"Hast thou seen aught of that willful child?" she inquired.

"Primrose? No." He looked from one to the other. "What hast thou been doing with her?"

Rachel sullenly recapitulated the morning's experience.

"And she had no breakfast? Where can she have gone? Surely she hath not thought to find her way to Wetherill farm! We should not have insisted upon her coming at this time. Mother, you look very ill," and the kindly face was full of solicitude.

"I am, my son. And it was not my will to have her, but your father's mind was set upon it."

"And then she is so different," began Rachel. "What if we had allowed Faith in such tantrums!"

"She needs a sharp hand to cure her evil temper."

"Mother," said Andrew with a sense of the injustice, and a rising tenderness in his heart for Primrose, "we must consider. She is not to have our lives, nor to be brought up in our way. She hath her own fortune, and her mother was a lady----"

"There are no ladies, but all are women in the sight of God. And as for such foolish, sinful lives as the townfolk lead, playing cards and dancing, and all manner of frivolous conversation, it were a mercy to snatch one from the burning. She was a nice little child last year. I must reduce her to obedience again, and some sense of a useful, godly life."

"To have thy training upset by the next hand! It is neither wise nor wholesome for the child, and she will come to have ill will towards us. I can remember how bright and cheerful and easily pleased her mother was----"

"She was never grounded in the faith. She had a worldly and carnal love for Philemon Henry, and it was but lip service. If he had lived----" Lois Henry had interrupted with an energetic protest in her voice, but now she leaned her head on the door post and looked as if she might collapse utterly.

"Mother, thou art too ill to be sitting up. Let me help thee to bed, and then I must go look for the child."

He lifted her in his strong young arms and, carrying her through, laid her on the bed beside her husband.

"I am very ill," she moaned, and indeed she looked so. All her strength seemed to have gone out of her.

"I heard high words about the child. Hath she proved refractory? Madam Wetherill and the houseful of servants have no doubt spoiled her. It is God's mercy that there may be seasons of bringing her back to reasonable life."

"Do not trouble about the little girl. To-day I think the doctor will be here to examine thy leg, and I am sure my mother needs him. I am afraid it is a grave matter."

"My poor wife! And I am a helpless burden on thee! I am afraid I have demanded too much."

"The Lord will care for us," she made answer brokenly.

After giving some charges to Rachel, Andrew walked down the path that led to the road. Was Primrose afraid of punishment, and had Rachel said more to her than she was willing to own? This was no place for her, Andrew said to himself manfully. And if his mother was to be ill----

He changed his steps and went to the barn. Would Rover remember the little girl of last summer? He raised the clumsy wooden latch.

"Come, Rover," he said cheerily. "Come, we must go and find Primrose. I wonder if thou hast forgotten her?"

Rover sprang out and made a wide, frolicsome detour. Then he came back to his master and listened attentively, looked puzzled, and started off again down the road, but returned with a sort of dissatisfaction in his big brown eyes.

"The orchard, perhaps. We might look there first. She was such a venturesome, climbing little thing last year."

Rover ran about snuffling, and started off at a rapid rate, giving a series of short, exultant barks as he bounded to his master.

"Good Rover!" patting the shaggy creature, who sprang up to his shoulder in joy.

Primrose was still asleep. The winds had kissed with fragrant touches, the birds had sung to her, the bees had crooned, and the early summer insects ventured upon faint chirps, as if they hardly knew whether they might be allowed to mar the radiant summer day. How divinely beautiful it was!

Her head had fallen on her shoulder and the old tree rose gray and protecting. The long fringe of lashes swept her cheek, her hair was tumbled about in shining rings, her dewy lips slightly apart, almost as if she smiled.

She had been worn out with her crying last night, but now was rested and fresh. The dog's bark roused her, and she opened her eyes.

"Oh, Andrew! Where have I been? Why----"

"Little runaway!" but his tone was tender, his eyes soft and shining.

"Oh, Andrew!" she exclaimed again. Then she clasped her arms about his body with a kind of vehemence and buried her face for a moment. "Take me back, won't you? I can't stay here. I can't! I don't like anyone. Even Aunt Lois is cross and Rachel hates me."

"Oh, no, no! But thou shalt go back. This is no real home for thee."

"Oh, come, too!" she cried eagerly. "There is a great farm, and Madam Wetherill will be glad to have thee."

"Nay, my father is ill and I could not leave him. And there is so much work to do. But I will see thee now and then to freshen thy memory."

"I should not be likely to forget thee."

"Didst thou have any breakfast?"

"No, I didn't. I was very sleepy when Rachel called. I think I must have run straight to the land of Nod again," laughingly. "And when I came down the table was cleared. There was someone in the kitchen, but I was afraid. I do not know why it is," and her plaintive voice touched him, "only now I am afraid of everybody--oh, no! not afraid of you, for I like you so much. And then I wanted to run away, but I did not know how to go. I climbed the crooked apple tree and swung to and fro until I was sleepy and afraid I might fall out. Then I came down here. Oh, can I go back? Truly, truly?"

"Truly." Yet he said it with a pang. How sweet and dainty she was! He would not have used the words, they were strange to him, but they sent a thrill through his body, as music sometimes does.

"Come, dinner will be ready."

"Will anyone scold me?" fearfully.

"No one shall scold thee."

They walked together to the house. Rachel was just blowing the horn. Faith looked curiously at her and rather exulted in the punishment she would get.

Andrew went straight to the sick room.

"I am afraid thy mother is ill beyond the power of herb teas," said James Henry. "What a godsend that we should have Rachel! And oh, Heaven grant that it may not be as it was before! the strong and helpful one taken, and the helpless left."

Lois Henry was deeply flushed now and lay with her eyes half open, muttering to herself.

"Mother?" he said, but she did not notice him.

He went out to dinner in a thoughtful mood, but he had no appetite. Primrose was hungry enough, but looked up smilingly now and then. Dr. Reed came in earlier than his wont and accepted the invitation to dine, asking questions occasionally as to how Friend Lois had been last week, and if she had shown any tendency to be flurried.

"She hath not been quite herself, now that I come to recall it," answered Rachel, "and complaining of being tired and not sleeping well. Oh, I hope----" She was about to add, "it will not be with her as it was with my poor mother," but tears stopped her.

It was a fever sure enough. It would be better to have her in a separate chamber, and if some old nurse would come in. "There was Mistress Fanshaw, only come home last week."

"I will go for her," responded Andrew.

"I shall be in on the second day," the doctor announced, as he mounted his horse and settled his saddlebags.

"A sad thing for all of us." Rachel wiped her eyes with the end of her stout linen apron.

"I shall take Primrose back to Wetherill farm."

"Oh, that will indeed be a relief. She and Faith, I foresee, would not get along together, and I could not manage such a froward child."

Andrew made no reply. There was a little more work devolving upon him, and he deputed the rest of the day's management to Penn.

He had fortified himself with many arguments as to why Primrose should return to her great aunt, but to his surprise, his father assented at once. He was much worried about his wife, who had never been ill before.

Primrose was glad with a great delight. She sat under the tree with Faith and roused the child's envy with accounts of her life in town, and the time for pleasure.

"But dost thou not sew or knit?"

"Nay, except lacework and hemstitching, but I shall as I grow older. There is Patty to sew, and as for stockings, I do not know how they come, for no one knits them, and they are fine and nice, with gay clocks in them, and oftentimes silken. I like the pretty things. But all Friends are not so plain. Some come to us with silken petticoats and such gay, pretty aprons, just like a garden bed."

Faith sighed. And now she wished Primrose might say, there was such witchery in her words.

Madam Wetherill was much surprised to have Primrose return so soon, but not sorry, she frankly admitted. She was greatly concerned about Friend Henry and hoped the fever would not be over troublesome.

"Good-by, little one," Andrew said, holding her hand. "I hope thou wilt be very happy; and I shall come to hear how it fares with thee."

Did she pull the stalwart figure down with her small hands? He bent over and kissed her and then blushed like a girl.

"Fie, Primrose! Thou art a little coquette, and learning thy lesson young!"

"But I like him very much," she replied with brave seriousness. "Only--it's pleasanter to live with thee," and she hid her face in Madam Wetherill's gown.


CHAPTER X.

TO TURN AND FIGHT.

James Henry mended slowly,