estrained her and the words of Rachel, that just now rang in her ears.

How tall and sweet and strange withal she was. He stood for a moment
electrified. She was a child no longer.

Then she found her tongue, though there was a distraught expression in
her face as if she could cry.

"Oh, Andrew, it is a great relief to greet thee, but there is not a
moment to lose. Thy poor father is dying and longs to see thee. And
there is sorrel Jack in the stable, fresh and fleet as the wind. Madam
Wetherill has gone out to a tea-drinking, but she said thou wert to take
him at once, and we were so afraid thou would not come in time. Joe"--to
the black hall boy--"see that Jack is made ready. Meanwhile, wilt thou
have a glass of wine, or ale, or even a cup of tea?"

"Nothing, dear child. When did thou see them last?" His voice sounded
hollow to himself.

"Three days ago."

"And my mother?"

"She is well. She grows sweeter and more angel-like every day."

Then they stood and looked at each other. How fine and brave he was, and
he held his head with such spirit.

"Oh," she could not resist this, "was it not glorious there at
Yorktown?"

"It was worth half a man's life! It gave us a country. And there hath a
friend of thine come up with me, a brave young fellow--one Gilbert
Vane."

"Oh!" was all she answered.

Then the horse came, giving a joyful whinny as he felt the fresh air,
and Andrew Henry went out into the night as if a beautiful vision were
guiding him. Was it Primrose in all that strange, sweet glory?

He had ridden fast and far many a time. Up by the river here, under this
stretch of woods, then a great level of meadows, here and there a tiny
light gleaming in a house, hills, a valley, then more woods, and he drew
a long breath.

Someone came to meet him. He took his mother in his arms and kissed her,
but neither spoke, for the rapture was beyond words.

There was a candle burning on each end of the high mantelshelf. There
was Friend Browne, bent and white-haired, who looked sourly at the
soldier trappings and gave him a nerveless hand. There was Friend
Preston. On the cot lay the tall, wasted frame of James Henry, as if
already prepared for sepulture, so straight and still and composed. His
mother took her seat at the foot of the bed. Andrew knelt down and
prayed.

It was in the gray of the dawning when James Henry stirred and opened
his eyes wide. They seemed at first fixed on vacancy, then they moved
sl