had been a child, and
now she was finding friends of her own age, with whom it was a pleasure
to chat and to compare needlework and various knowledges.

She sympathized tenderly with Polly Wharton in her sorrow, and began to
go frequently to the house. Next in age to Polly were two boys, and then
a lovely little girl.

Another incident had made the summer quite notable to Primrose. This was
the marriage of Anabella Morris, which took place in Christ Church.
Anabella's husband was a widower with two quite large children, but of
considerable means. Madam Wetherill was very generous with her outfit,
though she began to feel the pinch of straitened means. So much property
was paying very poorly and some not rented at all.

Primrose was one of the maids, and consented to have her hair done high
on her head and wear a train, and to be powdered, though Madam Wetherill
disapproved of it for young people who had pretty natural complexions.
Some young women wore a tiny bit of a black patch near their smiling
lips, or a dimple, as if to call attention to it.

"And, if it grew there, they would move heaven and earth to have it
taken off," said that lady with a little scorn.

The bride's train was held up by a page dressed in blue and silver, and
then followed the pretty maids, and the relatives. It was quite a brave
show, and a proud day for Anabella, who had been dreaming of it since
she was a dozen years old.

Madam Wetherill gave her a wedding dinner, which now would be called a
breakfast, so much have things changed, and then a coach took the newly
married pair to their own home. Though Anabella would rather not have
had another woman's children to manage, she was truly glad that all her
anxieties in husband-hunting were over.

Then Mr. Wharton came home with his son, who was still in a quite
uncertain state, and it had been a question whether his shattered leg
could be saved. But Dr. Benjamin Rush took it in hand and said it would
be a shame indeed if such a fine young fellow would have to stump around
all the rest of his life on a wooden leg.

CHAPTER XVIII.

WHOM SHALL SHE PITY?

September came in with all the glory of ripening fruit and the late
rich-colored flowers, with here and there a yellow leaf on the
sycamores, a brown one on the hickories, and a scarlet one on the
maples. There were stirring events, too. A French vessel had arrived
with stores and four hundred thousand crowns in specie, besides