of her--if she
loved Andrew less, or more, when it came to that. What was this romance
and mystery, and incomprehensible thrill! She _did_ experience it for
Allin, and alone by herself her face flushed and every pulse trembled.
His foolish words were so sweet. His kisses--ah, _had_ she any right to
offer the cup of joy and delight to another when someone had drained the
first sweetness?

But if Andrew loved her with the best and holiest love. Could she follow
in her mother's steps? But her mother had singled Philemon Henry out of
a world of lovers.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE OLD AND THE NEW.

Primrose Henry put on her camlet cloak and took several skeins of yarn
to one of the old ladies in the almshouses, to knit some stockings for
some other poor. Afterward she sauntered round with a guilty feeling.
She often ran in to see Phil and Andrew, and the one clerk always stared
at the radiant vision. She hesitated on the broad sill, then she opened
the door. There was a sort of counting room first, and that was vacant
now. Andrew was in the apartment beyond.

There was her promise to Rachel. Oh, what must she do!

"Philemon has gone," and Andrew glanced up with tender gravity as he
espied Primrose.

"Yes. I saw him. How is Aunt Lois, and Faith?"

"Very well." There was a different smile, now, a sense of amusement, and
a peculiar light in the eyes like relief.

"What is it?" Her heart-beat almost strangled her.

"Rachel was in this morning. And you cannot guess--she is to be married
presently."

"Married! And she cared so much for you," cried Primrose in
consternation.

Andrew colored and moved his head with a slow negative.

"No, it could not have been. Andrew--I wonder what kind of a wife you
would like?" turning her eyes away.

He could have reached out his hand and answered her with a clasp. But
there was another who loved her very much, who was young and gay and
full of ardent hopes. That would be better for the child.

"I shall not marry for years to come." His voice was very tranquil.
"There is my mother, and now we are so much to each other."

"And _she_ ought to be a Friend. You would like a Friend best, Andrew?
And no flighty young thing."

Was _she_ thinking of anything? Oh, she was too young and sweet. It
would be putting a butterfly in a cage.

"That would be better, certainly. When two people elect to spend their
lives together, it is best that they should have similar tastes and
desire