Madam Wetherill sat deep in her account books.  Primrose was studying arithmetic, and the tough rules were not at all to her taste.

Janice Kent paused at the door.  “Madam,” she said, “Friend Henry is here on urgent business.  And he begs that he may come up to you.”

Primrose’s pretty face was in a glow, and she sprang from her seat.

“It may not concern thee, moppet.  Go to Patty.  Thou canst not be in everything.”

The child rose reluctantly, but obeyed.

“I am in trouble,” Andrew began briefly.  “We have been informed about how much I know not.  I thought it best to come and warn thee.  Still I do not see how thou can be brought in, and thy shrewd wit will, I think, save thee.  But I must get out of the town some way.  I may be accused of spying about, and I am not over anxious for a hempen necklace, nor lodgings in Walnut Street.  So I have little time to spare.”

With that he related his morning’s adventure and how he had left his team.

“Canst thou send a blind message to the Pewter Platter at once?  Jonas Evans will understand.”

“Yes.  Patty will be best.  We can trust her, and she will hardly be noted.  And thou?”

“I must get out of the town in some sort of disguise.  There is much behind this that I do not know.”

Patty was dispatched on her errand.  “Sit still, child, with thy book, and presently thou shalt know what is meet,” said she.

Andrew Henry went briefly over his inner life for the last two months, his desire to enlist in the Continental army, his shrinking from the pain it would be to his parents.

“But now, madam, it would bring greater trouble on them for me to go home.  The British would likely arrest me.”

“Yes, I see.  And thou hast resolved to be a soldier lad?  Not from the teasing of little Primrose, I hope.”

“No, madam, though I shall be her soldier as well.  But those brave men at Valley Forge have been before my eyes night and day.  I should have done this a little later, anyhow.  My father and mother are in good hands.”

“Heaven keep thee!  But better a hundred times perish on the field of battle than be thrust into that vile den, the Walnut Street Jail, where that fiend in human shape, Cunningham, works his cruel will on helpless men.  Not a day but dead bodies are carried out, some of them bruised and beaten and vermin-covered.  Faugh!  The thought sickens me!  Yes, thou must escape.  Primrose, child, come in.”

She ran eagerly to Andrew, who greeted her with a smile.  Then Patty returned breathless.

“It is all right.  They will find nothing from cellar to the top layer of the chimney.  But Master Evans says get out of the town as fast as you can.”

Madam Wetherill was considering.  “A disguise,” she said.  “A suit of Captain Nevitt’s is here, but thou couldst hardly squeeze into it.  At thirty thou wilt be the counterpart of thy uncle Philemon.  Thou wilt go to Valley Forge?”

“Yes.  After I have struck into the old Perkiomen road no one will look for me.  It is getting through the city.  And the time is brief.  I would not for worlds raise any suspicion for thee.”

“Patty, exercise thy quick wit.  If we could dress him up as a young man of fashion or make him into Ralph Jeffries, who is more barrel-shaped.  But there, the pass!”

“I have it,” cried Patty with a merry laugh.  “Order up gray Bess, and dress him to personate thee.  He can put on a mask and drop his shoulders.  Thy plaided camlet cape will do well.  And put Moppet on a pillion behind.  Someone else must go.  Ah, Madam Kent! who will enjoy it mightily and sit up like a brigadier.  Then, when he is out of harm’s way, she can bring Primrose home.”

“But the mare how shall I get her back?”

“Thou mayst need her; if not, present her to Madam Washington.  Patty, thy brain has served us as well as in the matter of making gowns.  Come, we must make ready.”

Janice Kent was summoned, and ready enough for the adventure; and the horses were ordered up.  Then came a great deal of amusement in attiring Andrew.

“Since it is quite muddy put my linen safeguard petticoat on him, Patty, the better to conceal his long legs, for it will be somewhat awkward riding woman-fashion, but my saddle is broad.  Now my bedgown of paduasoy.  Alack! how short the sleeves are!  Here are the long cuffs.  That will do.  Now the camlet cape and my black beaver hat.  A mercy it is, Andrew, that thou hast no beard.  Patty, tie the bow.  Upon my word, thou art so good-looking, with the coquettish bow under thy chin, that I am half afraid some saucy redcoat may stop thee.  Janice, guard him well.  And you must wear my silken mask.  April wind is bad for complexions and might freckle thee.”

Primrose had been dancing about, not comprehending the gravity of the case.

“Oh, Aunt Wetherill, how queer it all is!  He is like and unlike thee.”

“And if thou shouldst meet a friend, be careful and remember that ’tis thy aunt.  And now, Janice, make thyself ready.  Meanwhile I will go into retirement under Patty’s wing.”

Patty went down to see that all was ready.  Old Cato stood with the horses.  Luckily sharper-eyed Julius had gone to market.

Janice helped her mistress, who was rather awkward, it was true.  The skirts were adjusted, the mask dropped over the face, and then Primrose was put in her seat.

“Not a word out of thee for thy very life,” said Patty.  “Look as demure as if on the road to church.”

Mistress Janice sprang into her saddle.  As they were going out of the courtyard, she exclaimed:  “Let us take Fairemount, Madam Wetherill, and find some wild flowers.  The spring is late, to be sure, but they must be in bloom.”

“There will be no danger, I think,” said Patty softly, as she re-entered the room.

“I will have my netting and sit here by the child’s bed.  What a queer caper, and so quickly managed!  But it is what I thought would come presently.  Not the suspicion, but Andrew Henry’s going over to the rebels.  He is more like his uncle than Phil Nevitt.  Ah, if it could be true that the British would decamp before they have quite ruined our city we should all give thanks.”

There was an imperious knock presently that made the great door rattle.  The small black factotum, in his Barbadoes suit and red turban, opened the top door and glanced at the caller.

“Madam Wetherill ”

“Madam and Missy and Mistress Janice have gone out ridin’ som’er.”

“Out riding, hey! with mud a foot deep!  Tell your mistress that I came to have my revenge for her beating me last night at piquet.  The young people made such a rumpus with their talk I lost my head,” and Ralph Jeffries looked vexed.

The youngster nodded and grinned.  Later on came Polly Wharton and Miss
Stuart, to meet with the same reply.

At the corner of the street they encountered Captain Nevitt and Vane, and an elderly officer.

“It is a fine day save for the mud!” exclaimed Sally.  “Fine overhead, but few are going that way.”

“We did not set out for that,” returned Vane, smiling.

“And if you have set out for Madam Wetherill’s it will be quite as useless.  She and the young one have gone off larking, for wild flowers, I believe.  Mistress Kent went with them for dragon.”

Then the men looked at each other.

“How long have they been gone, I wonder.”

“Oh, since about high noon!”

Patty had looked up from her sewing at the second knock.

“Thy ride will get noised about and throw suspicion off guard, which will be so much the better,” she exclaimed.

They waited impatiently for the return of the guard, laughing over another call or two.  It was almost dusk when Janice and Primrose returned.

“Friend Henry escaped safely, though, madam, if thou shouldst be taxed with rudeness in not bowing at the proper time, pray apologize.  We met some old friends, but he was somewhat stiff.  And the saddle is left with one Master Winter at Fairemount.  I ripped it that he might have the job of sewing and earn a few pence.  Friend Henry was glad enough to doff petticoats and jump on astride; ’tis about the only thing I envy in a man.  And then I put on thy skirt, and we slunk into town quietly.  Quite an adventure, truly!  If one could only hear the end of it!”

James Henry heard the next day that there was a warrant out for his son, who was suspected of carrying messages and other matters to the rebel headquarters at Valley Forge.  He had left his horses and the wagon in the market place, and disappeared.  No one remembered letting him out on his pass.  It might be that he was still hiding in the town.

“There has been too much of this carrying back and forth,” declared the sergeant.  “It is time there was a sterner hand at the helm, and not so much pleasuring.”

There were reasons why Captain Nevitt said nothing to his little sister about the matter, and she was strictly forbidden to suggest it.  The Wetherill household had not seen Andrew, as he had watched his opportunity to slip in unaware; consequently, nothing was gained by questioning them.

“They would certainly have known if he had come in our absence,” said Madam Wetherill with an air of interest.  “Of course we must be sorry to have him in danger, but we will not lay the matter before Primrose.”

There were stirring events on both sides.  On the 7th of May the news reached the Continental army of the recognition of France.  The warmer weather and the replenishment of food and clothing had inspirited the men.  Many new enlistments from the country around had come in.  On this morning they were assembled for prayers and thanksgiving.  General Steuben had drilled them until they presented a really soldierly appearance.  But their enthusiasm broke bounds when the salutes were fired.

“Long live the King of France!” ran through the army with a shout.  Another salute was fired.  “Long live the friendly European powers.”  And the third, “The American States,” was received with the wildest joy.  They all forgot the suffering of the long, dreary winter.

After a discourse by one of the chaplains, there was a collation.  When the General and Mrs. Washington retired the soldiers lined the way with the cry of “Long live General Washington!” “Long live Lady Washington!” a title that seemed to follow her, and that had been given her before by Colonel Hancock.

It was supposed the campaign would open almost at once.  But General Howe’s army had been demoralized more by dissipation than the Continentals by hardships, and weakened by numerous desertions.  The officers had been in one round of gayety, and the city recalled their charms long afterward.  They had made the theater a reputable place of amusement, and the higher-class balls had been well patronized by the Tory ladies.

But the farewell to General Howe was to excel all other gayeties, and to be an event long remembered, including a regatta, a tournament, and a dance.  Decorated barges left Knight’s Wharf in the afternoon, full of handsomely attired guests, who were carried to Old Fort, and escorted by troops to the beautiful and spacious lawn of Walnut Grove.  The English fleet lay at anchor, flying their colors, and the transport ships were crowded with spectators.

The tournament, with its two sets of knights ready to do battle for their favorite ladies, sounds like a chapter out of the Middle Ages.  New York had abounded in gayeties, but this eclipsed anything yet attempted.  The apartment had been decorated by the British officers, foremost among them young Andre, little dreaming then what fate had in store for him, and how his life would end.

After the tournament, with its stilted magnificence, came a dance, a display of fireworks, a supper with twenty-four slaves in Oriental costumes, with silver collars and gilt armlets.  The walls were hung with mirrors, and thousands of wax tapers reflected the brilliance of silken gowns and jewels, of scarlet and gold uniforms, of fair women and brave men that made the Mischianza a glittering page of history.

It was true that many beside the Tory ladies graced the occasion.  There had been an undeniable friendliness between both Americans and British, and many a heart won and lost, as it was said six hundred or more deserters from Clinton’s army found their way back to Philadelphia and made worthy citizens, some of them indeed entering the American army.

Captain Nevitt had importuned Madam Wetherill to attend, for he was resolved Primrose should see the pageant.  Polly Wharton had, as she admitted, nine minds out of the ten to go, as Thomas Wharton, the owner of Walnut Grove, was her uncle.  But her brother was in the American army, and her heart really went with her country.

“As if a little dancing could matter!” said Phil Nevitt.  “Nay, Miss Polly, I doubt not but that some day I shall see you at the court of our King, and perhaps dance with you in a palace.  And I want Primrose to go, but Madam Wetherill will not, though Major Andre himself sent the invitation.  He is such a charming, generous fellow that he can do more with his winning air than many with their swords.  But Primrose I must take.  She is such a pretty, saucy, captivating rebel that it is charming to tease her.  And, if you will go, her aunt will give in, I know.”

“I’m not sure,” Primrose declared with dainty hesitation, “whether I want to go or not.  I am certain, Phil, I shall be a worse rebel than ever, afterward.”

“Nay, Primrose, when you see the gallant gentlemen who have come over to help the King restore peace and order, and punish some of the ringleaders, you will be convinced of the great mistake the Americans have made.  And then we shall be friends again.”

“I wish you were all going back to England with General Howe!”

“And you give me up so easily your own brother?” with a pathetic upbraiding in his tone.

“Only a half-brother!  And the Tory half I can’t like.  The other, the Henry half ”

“Well ” studying her mischievous, dancing eyes.

“I like that a little,” demurely.

“I shall be patient, sweet darling.  I have come to love you dearly your mother’s half, and your father’s half.”

She glanced up with her warm, frank heart shining in her eyes, and he kissed her fondly.

“When thou lovest me well I shall know it by one sign:  thou wilt kiss me of thy own accord.”

She had to steel her heart hard when he adopted the old phraseology, and smiled in that beseeching manner.

“We shall not be converted, little Primrose,” said Polly Wharton.  “I shall think of Allin at Valley Forge, and thou of thy splendid Quaker cousin that so adroitly escaped the snare set for him.  And we shall twist the festivities about.  When they drink to the King and the redcoat army, we shall say to ourselves, ‘Washington and the buff and blue.’  And when we dance, for there will be your brother and young Vane and Captain Fordham, so we are sure of three partners, and as we whirl around we shall say to ourselves ‘Hurrah for the flag of the thirteen colonies!’”

“It looks quite patriotic that way,” answered Primrose archly.

It ended by their going.  Mrs. Stuart and Sally, who were hardly Whig or Tory, promised to keep watch of them.  And though Miss Auchmuty had been crowned Queen of Beauty at the tournament, and there were the fair Shippen women and the Chews, men paused to look at the sweet, golden-haired child who was so simply gowned that her dress did not detract from her beauty.  And long afterward, when she was an old lady, she could recount the famous scene that ended, as one might say, the British possession of Philadelphia.  For even as they danced amid the gleaming lights and fragrant flowers, a premonition of what was to come, although unexpected, and a bloodless victory, occurred.  The redoubts were sharply attacked by a daring body of rebels, but so well protected that surprise was not possible.

Sir Henry Clinton arrived and the accomplished Andre was made his adjutant general.  Then came the news that a French fleet would sail up the Delaware.  Sir Henry prepared to leave at once, and the city was shaken with both joy and alarm.  At midnight, on the 18th of June, the British stole away silently, to the great surprise of the inhabitants, who knew Washington was preparing to descend upon them and feared a bloody battle, for now the Continentals were well equipped, well drilled, and strong in numbers.

Primrose sat poring over a book of verse.  For a wonder there was no one in to play cards.  Madam Wetherill had been a little indisposed for several days.

“Do go to bed, child,” she said rather sharply.  “Thou wilt turn into a book next.”

“I hope it will have a new, bright cover and not this musty, old one.”

“I dare say, Miss Vanity.”

“Good-night,” and she made her pretty courtesy.  Then she stood still at the quick knock.  Barely was the door opened when Captain Nevitt rushed in and caught her to his heart.

“Little Primrose, darling Primrose, for I have learned to love thee dearly, I have come to say good-by.  We are ordered to New York and leave at once.  When I shall see thee again I cannot tell, but I may send, and will write thee letters and letters.  Hast thou one kiss that I may take with me, holding all the sweetness of generous accord?”

“Oh, do not go! do not go!  I have teased thee often!  I have tried not to love thee, but, after all ” And she was sobbing in his arms.

“It is a soldier’s duty, dear.  Wish me well, and I will take it as a guerdon.”

“Oh, I cannot wish thee well to fight against my country.  My heart is torn in two.”

Her cry pierced his inmost soul.  With all his love and persuasion she had kept her loyalty.  Gifts and pleasures had not won her.  There was a great gulf still between them.

“But for love’s sake.”

“If your men win I shall have no country.  If they lose ”

“And if I should be lost ”

“Oh, Heaven bring thee back to me again!”

There were Captain Fordham and the lieutenant thanking Madam Wetherill for her charming hospitality.  But Philemon Henry Nevitt could only wring her hand, as his eyes were full of tears and his voice drowned in the grief of parting.  Then the big door clanged on the night air, and there was a little sobbing heap at the foot of the broad stairway.

“Come, dear,” said Madam Wetherill, much moved.  “Thou shalt sleep in my bed and I will comfort thee.”

It was true enough that the Continentals, marching down, found an empty city.  General Charles Lee had held back some information and acted in an unpatriotic manner when his commander had reposed unlimited trust in him.  And a few days later his indecision was made manifest at the battle of Monmouth, when he was courtmartialed and disgraced.

But another tall soldier came in buff and blue, and so amazed Primrose that she hardly knew him.  With him was Allin Wharton, who had much to say about Andrew’s work through the winter, and that no gift had ever been more timely than Madam Wetherill’s great bag of stockings that was still talked about; and Lady Washington had esteemed it as one of the most providential happenings.

“I have much to tell thee, sometime,” Andrew said.  “There is only a moment now, for we are after the runaways.”  And then he gave her a long, fond kiss.

Madam Wetherill glanced at them.  Would it be the old story over again?

The battle of Monmouth was hard fought, but a victory for neither side, since Sir Henry saved his stores at the sacrifice of many lives, and escaped.  Washington came back to the city for a brief stay and new plans.

Lovely old Philadelphia, that had been William Penn’s dream, was no more.  British occupation had overthrown its quaint charm.  Gardens had been destroyed, houses ruined, streets were a mass of filth and rubbish, the country roads were full of lawless gangs who plundered inoffensive people.

“Oh, how sweet is the quiet of these parts, freed from the anxious and troublesome solicitations, hurries, and perplexities of woeful Europe,” Penn had exclaimed, on his return from his first visit back to England.  But the quiet had disappeared; even the old Quaker homes, that had held out alike from blaming foe and encouraging friend, were full of apprehension.

Washington at once placed General Arnold in command.  His marriage with Mistress Margaret Shippen, and his beautiful home at Mount Pleasant, where elegance and extravagance reigned, had rendered him an object of disapprobation with the sober-thoughted and solid part of the community.  Joseph Ross, the president of the executive council, brought many charges against him, which though angrily repelled at the time were proved sadly true later on.

There were some trials of Tories, and two men were hanged for high treason, both Quakers, one of whom had enlisted in Howe’s army, and the other was accused of numerous crimes.  Many had to choose between exile, or contempt that was ostracism at home.  Dr. Duché had in the darkest period written a letter to General Washington beseeching him to submit to any proffer of peace that England might hold out, having lost his ardent patriotism, and he went to his old home to meet with charges of disloyalty there.

But people began to take heart a little, to clear up their wasted gardens and fields and repair their houses.  Some of the pleasure haunts were opened again, and women ventured on their afternoon walks on the streets, well protected, to be sure.  There was, too, a certain amount of gayety, tea-drinking and cards, and excursions up the river were well patronized.

Andrew Henry, now sergeant, was detailed for a while among the troops to remain in Philadelphia.  Now that he had embarked in the war he preferred a more active life, and it was too near his old home to be satisfactory.  But as soon as possible he reported to Madam Wetherill.

“I can never thank thee sufficiently for thy assistance and quick wit,” he said to her.  “Through it I escaped without harm, but I found afterward they had more proof than I could have safely met.  And when I arrived at camp I dispatched a messenger to my father, telling him of my changed mind and plans for the future.”

“And he was angry enough!” interposed Madam Wetherill.

“It was worse than that.  Mere anger is, perhaps, outlived.  He had some other plans,” and the young Quaker flushed.  “He gave me a fortnight to return, and, if not, would put Penn in my place and I need expect nothing more.”

“See what thy talk hath led to, Primrose!  For I was afraid thy patriotic rebellion was contagious.”

Andrew smiled down on the child.  “She hath been a wise little one, and I am not sorry to be her soldier.  With women like you, madam, to bring up girls, and Lady Washington to care for disheartened soldiers, there will be still greater victories, and there can be but one end.”

Primrose looked up with an enchanting smile.  “I am proud of thee,” she made answer with an exultant ring in her voice.  “And there is Polly Wharton’s brother who ran over me on the ice, and my own brother that I pray may come around.”

“I feel very much as if I had been on both sides of the fence,” remarked Madam Wetherill.  “Still I could not have helped so much if I had been outspoken on the rebel side.  I heard many a little thing that could be passed on, and found how a few supplies could be forwarded without suspicion.  But, Andrew, wilt thou never regret this step?”

“I considered well for many weeks.  There were some other conditions I could not wisely accept.  And Penn will be a good son to my father.  Otherwise I could hardly have left him.  But ’tis done now, and though I shall long many times to see my dear mother’s face, I shall fight none the less bravely for our land.  I hope to follow our intrepid Washington, and may soon be transferred.”

“And leave the city?” cried Primrose in dismay.

“I do not quite like our new general.  I am afraid the coming winter will be like the last, and I, for one, would have no heart for pleasure until we have won our independence.”

Andrew promised to come in again when he was off duty, and Primrose reluctantly let him go.  Yet she watched him with glistening eyes, and could hardly decide how much was glory and how much tears.