ust 6 of this fatal year '93, Uncle Josiah came to fetch the Pearl
away for a visit, and, glad as usual to be the bearer of bad news, told
Schmidt that a malignant fever had killed a child of Dr. Hodge and three
more. It had come from the _Sans Culottes_, privateer, or because of
damaged coffee fetched from he knew not where.

The day after, Dr. Redman, President of the College of Physicians, was
of opinion that this was the old disease of 1762--the yellow plague.
Schmidt listened in alarm. Before the end of August three hundred were
dead, almost every new case being fatal. On August 20, Schmidt was gone
for a day. On his return at evening he said: "I have rented a house on
the hill above the Falls of Schuylkill. We move out to-morrow. I know
this plague. _El vomito_ they call it in the West Indies."

Mrs. Swanwick protested.

"No," he said; "I must have my way. You have cared for me in sickness
and health these five years. Now it is my turn. This disease will pass
along the water-front. You are not safe an hour." She gave way to his
wishes as usual, and next day they were pleasantly housed in the
country.

Business ceased as if by agreement, and the richer families, if not
already in the country, began to flee. The doom of a vast desertion and
of multiplying deaths fell on the gay and prosperous city. By September
10 every country farm was crowded with fugitives, and tents received
thousands along the Schuylkill and beyond it. Sooner or later some
twenty-three thousand escaped, and whole families camped in the open air
and in all weather. More would have gone from the city, but the shops
were shut, money ceased to circulate, and even the middle class lacked
means to flee. Moreover, there was no refuge open, since all the towns
near by refused to receive even those who could afford to leave. Hence
many stayed who would gladly have gone.

Madame de Courval was at Merion, and Margaret had now rejoined her
mother, brought over by her uncle. He had ventured into the city and
seen Matthew Clarkson, the mayor, on business. He would talk no
business. "Terrible time," said Josiah--"terrible! Not a man will do
business." Did he feel for these dying and the dead? Schmidt doubted it,
and questioned him quietly. The doctors were not agreed, and Rush bled
every one. He, Josiah, was not going back. Half a dozen notes he held
had been protested; a terrible calamity, but fine for debtors; a neat
excuse.

Mr. Wynne had closed his