A Little Girl in Old Philadelphia Part 17

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 b.u.t.ter 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 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 G.o.d. 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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, G.o.dly 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 G.o.d'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 s.h.a.ggy 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 s.h.i.+ning.

"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?"