usin who joined the army at Valley Forge, Andrew Henry."

"Yes, I think that is the name. Did he not bring some supplies while we
were in so much want, and come near to getting in trouble? You must be
proud of him indeed, for he was among those who suspected Arnold's
treachery, and were so on the alert that they set some of his plans at
naught, for which we can never be thankful enough. Henry, that is the
name! A tall fine young fellow with a martial bearing, one of the
fighting Quakers, and Philadelphia hath done nobly in raising such men.
The General never forgets good service, and he is marked for promotion."

Primrose courtesied again, her eyes shining with lustrousness that was
near to tears.

"I should almost have danced up and down and clapped my hands, or else
fallen at her feet and kissed her pretty hands if she had said that
about Allin," declared Polly afterward. "Oh, it was soul-stirring, and
the belles stood envying you, but some of them have blown hot and blown
cold, and were ready to dance with Whig and Tory alike. And I wanted to
say that you were too patriotic to go up to New York and be merry with
your brother. Then I bethought me he was on the wrong side. Such a
splendid fellow, too, Primrose; skating like the wind, and such a
dancer, and with so many endearing ways. Child, how can you resist him?"

"I cannot be a turncoat for the dearest love."

"Andrew Henry should have been your brother. He looks more like that
grand old portrait of your father than his own son does," declared
Polly, and some inexplicable feeling sent the scarlet waves to the fair
face of Primrose.

Busy enough the women were, and on many of the shirts was the name of
the maker. Primrose begged that Patty's name might be put on their
dozen, and Janice Kent consented hers should be used.

"For Primrose is such an odd, fanciful name, and it seems as if it
belonged just to my own self and my dear mother," the child said, and
Madam Wetherill respected the delicacy.

Mrs. Bache, Franklin's daughter, wrote to Washington that there were
twenty-five hundred shirts, the result of nimble and patriotic fingers;
and, she added, "we wish them to be worn with as much pleasure as they
were made."

Philemon Nevitt was indeed angry at his sister's refusal, but as he was
in no sense her guardian, he could not compel her. Some weeks elapsed
before he wrote again. It was a hard, cold winter, and if full of
discouragements for the Continental