to trouble, and Rachel was very angry. But
on second thought she decided it would be wiser. For by this means she
would still have some hold over them all. On condition that Faith would
come home every fortnight for a little visit she consented, and though
Faith, trained long in repression, said but little, her heart beat with
great joy. Rachel had kept a Swedish woman nearly all summer for
out-of-door work, and now engaged her for the winter. By spring,
certainly, she would know what lay before her.

William Frost, who had once been in the habit of walking home with her,
was married. A well-to-do farmer living up the Wissahickon had called a
number of times, but he had four children, and Rachel had no mind to
give up her home for hard work and little thanks. She was still young,
and with her good marriage portion would not go begging. But the choice
of her heart, the best love of her heart all her life, would be Andrew
Henry, and she felt the child and the girl, Primrose, had always stood
in her way. If she would only marry!

But Primrose was having a lovely winter. True, there were times when
Allin Wharton grew a little too tender, and she would tease him in her
willful fashion, or be very cool to him, or sometimes treat him in an
indifferent and sisterly fashion, so difficult to surmount. There were
so many others, though Primrose adroitly evaded steady admirers. When
they grew too urgent she fled out to the farm and Betty.

There was great fun, too, in planning for wedding gear. Polly's sister,
Margaret, was grown up now, and Polly was to be married in the late
spring, and go out to the farm all summer, as the Randolphs had fully
decided to return to Virginia in April. Mr. Randolph would go a month or
two earlier to see about a home to shelter them. For although the treaty
of peace had not been signed it was an accepted fact, and everybody
settled to it.

Old Philadelphia woke up to the fact that she must make herself nearly
all over. Low places were drained, bridges built, new docks constructed,
and rows of houses went up. The wildernesses about, that had grown to
brushwood, were cleared away. Hills were to be lowered, and there was a
famous one in Arch Street.

"Nay, I should not know the place without it," declared Madam Wetherill.
"It will answer for my time, and after that do as you like."

But she was to go out of Arch Street years before her death, though she
did not live to be one hundred and two.

T