e noisy time
downstairs. I know on which side the madam will be."

"For the King?"

"Not strongly, I think," with an ironical laugh Primrose did not
understand.

"And you, Patty?"

"The King would have poor luck if he depended on me to fight for him.
There, good-night, and good sleep."

CHAPTER VII.

AT SOME CROSSROADS.

There was much confusion in the old house, putting fine things and
ornaments away and packing family heirlooms and silver. There was also
much going to and fro, and after a few days Primrose, with her
attendant, Patty, went out to the farm, then in all its beauty of
greenness, though the fruit blooms were over. But there were countless
roses and garden flowers of all the old-fashioned sorts, and sweet herbs
and herbs for all kinds of medicinal brews. For though Dr. Shippen and
Dr. Rush had begun to protest against "old women's doses," many still
had faith in them and kept to feverfew and dittany and golden rod and
various other simples, and made cough balsams and salves.

The house was large and plain, with uncarpeted floors that were mopped
up in the morning for coolness and cleanliness, quite a Virginian
fashion. The kitchen and dining room were sanded, the chairs were plain
splint or rather coarse rush or willow. There were a wide wooden settle
and some curious old chests used for seats, as well as hiding places for
commoner things.

But it was the garden that attracted Primrose. She had never seen so
many flowers nor such lovely ones, for in the woods there was not this
variety. Life had been too busy, and wants too pressing, to indulge in
much luxury where gardening was concerned. John Bartram had many
remarkable trees and plants, but they were things of families and
pedigrees, and his house was the resort of curious and scientific men.
Although a Friend, he had a tender heart for beauty, as well as many
other things. But in general the Friends cultivated simple and useful
herbs. At the Henry farm there was no pretense of a flower garden.

Primrose ran up and down the wide, smooth walk, made of dirt and small
stones with much labor, where, through the summer at least, not a tuft
of grass was permitted to grow. How lovely it was! The house stood on
quite an elevation. One could see Mount Airy and Clieveden and other
summer homes, and the Schuylkill winding placidly about, peeping through
its embowered banks here and there.

But the quiet, romantic stream was to witness many a