u must keep my secret, little
Primrose. For I know now that my father would look askance at it.
Strange that people years ago could marry without thinking of money, but
they are not willing their children shall. And there are men like the
great Mr. Franklin, who sometimes hardly knew where to turn for bread,
and come up to very luxurious living. But I am young, and Phil is not
very old."

"It all seems very strange and sweet," and Primrose threw herself down
on the grass and leaned her arms on Polly's knee, while the wind tossed
her pretty shining hair about. There was always so much short around the
edge of her forehead, and such dainty, mischievous little curls on her
white neck when she did it up high on her head. And whatever she did
made a picture, she was so full of grace. When Gilbert Stuart painted
her as a lovely matron with her baby beside her knee, he said: "What a
pity there is no picture of you in your girlhood." He would have been
justly proud if he could have painted her in all that grace and
loveliness.

"And how can one tell?" she went on dreamily when Polly made no answer.
"There are so many things in different ones to like, and you cannot put
them all in one man. I love Andrew dearly. He was so good and tender
when I first went out to his father's farm, and I was so frightened of
Uncle James, and Aunt Lois was so grave and particular. But then Andrew
will never dance--fancy the tall soldier! though the great generals do.
And he is not over fond of pleasure."

She threw up her pretty head, while a stray sunbeam through the trees
danced over it in golden ripples, and her eyes laughed as well as her
rosy, dimpled mouth.

There was a sudden start through Polly's nerves, but the gay, light,
merry voice went on:

"And he will always be a Quaker, though he went to Christ Church with
madam and me. But--don't you know, you can tell with some people, Polly,
that things do not quite suit. And he is too grave to frolic, and oh, I
do love dancing and frolicking and saucy speeches. A grave life would
never suit me. And there is Mr. Hunter with his pink-and-white skin and
his ruffles and his velvet clothes, and his clocked silk stockings and
shoe buckles that he has polished with a peculiar kind of powder that
comes over from France--he told me so," laughing with dainty mirth and
mischief. "When he comes to spend the evening I feel as if I should like
to tear his finery to pieces as the old strutting cock some