rward, but many
of the soldiers and officers were furloughed, and it was announced that
Washington would be in Philadelphia shortly, so every preparation was
made to receive the great commander.

Primrose had a tardy note from her brother that brought tears to her
eyes and much contrition of spirit.

His wound had been troublesome, but never very serious. Then a fever had
set in. For weeks he could not decide what to do. Being a paroled
prisoner, he had no right to take up arms. He was beginning to be very
much discouraged as to the outcome of the war. Whether to go back to
England or not was the question he studied without arriving at any
decision.

There had been a second heir born to his great-uncle, so there was
little likelihood of his succeeding to the estate. Whether they were of
the true Nevitt blood, considering the low ebb of morals and the many
temptations of court life for a gay young wife, he sometimes doubted,
but he had to accept the fact. His uncle had given him a handsome income
at first, but he could see now that it was paid at longer intervals and
with much pleading of hard times. Indeed, from these very complaints of
exorbitant taxes, he gleaned that the war was becoming more unpopular at
home.

And now had come this crushing defeat. What should he do? A return to
England did not look inviting. The dearest tie on earth was in
Philadelphia. And that was his home, his father's home. Sometimes he
half desired to go there and begin a new life.

"I long for you greatly, little Primrose," he wrote. "I seem like a boat
with no rudder, that is adrift on an ocean. Do you think good Madam
Wetherill, who has been so much to you, would let you ask a guest for a
few days? A Henry who has dared to lift his hand against the country of
his birth, and regrets it now in his better understanding of events?
For, if England had listened to her wisest counselors, the war had never
been. I am ill and discouraged, and have a weak longing for a little
love from my dear rebel sister, a rebel no longer, but a victor. Will
she be generous? And then I will decide upon what I must do, for I
cannot waste any more of life."

"Oh, dear aunt, read it, for I could not without crying. Dear Phil! What
shall I do?" and she raised her tear-wet face.

"Why, ask him here, of course," smilingly. "I am not an ogre, and, being
victors, we can afford to be generous. It will be a new amusement for
thee, and keep thee from getting dull!"