the widow, who had kindness for all and respect for what she called
experienced opinion, avoiding to be herself the critic and hiding behind
a quotation, said, "'There be many that say, Who will shew us any
good?'"

"Fine Bible wisdom," said Schmidt.

By and by when she had gone away with Margaret about household matters,
Schmidt said to De Courval: "That is one of the beautiful flowers of the
formal garden of Fox and Penn. The creed suits the temperament--a
garden rose; but my Pearl--_Ach!_ a wild rose, creed and creature not
matched; nor ever will be."

"I have had a delightful afternoon," said Rene, unable or indisposed to
follow the German's lead. "Supper will be late. You promised me the new
book."

"Yes; Smith's 'Wealth of Nations,' not easy reading, but worth while."

Thereafter the busy days ran on into weeks, and in October of this
tragic 1792 came the appalling news of the murdered Swiss,
self-sacrificed for no country and no large principle beyond the pledge
of an oath to a foreign king. More horrible was the massacre of the
priests in the garden of the Carmelites.

To Rene's relief, these unlooked-for riots of murder seemed to affect
his mother less than he had feared might be the case. "My husband's
death was, my son, a prophecy of what was to come." To her it was all
personal. For him it was far more, and the German alone understood the
double anguish of a man in whom contended a puzzled horror at deaths
without apparent reason, of murders of women like the Princesse de
Lamballe,--an orgy of obscene insult,--and a wild anger at the march of
the Duke of Brunswick upon Paris. It was his country, after all, and he
left his mother feeling disappointed that she did not share his hostile
feeling in regard to the _emigres_ in the German army.

The wonderful autumn colors of October and November came and passed, a
new wonder to the young man; his mother, to all seeming contented,
spending her evenings with him over English lessons, or French books out
of Logan's excellent library, or busy with never-finished embroidery. On
Sundays they went to Gloria Dei, the modest little church of the Swedes.
There to-day, amid the roar of trade and shipyards, in the churchyard
the birds sing over the grave of their historian, Wilson, and worn
epitaphs relate the love and griefs of a people whose blood is claimed
with pride by the historic families of Pennsylvania.

During these months, Aunt Gainor was long absent in