"It was an error of judgment, and he hath no doubt bewailed his mistake if it is given us to sorrow in the next world. But come in. And though thou art of the world, worldly, there is much in kindred blood. Come in and take welcome among us."
The keeping room was cheerful with a great fire of logs in the wide stone chimney-place. There was a spicy fragrance of pine knots and hemlock. In one corner Rachel Morgan sat at her spinning wheel, with a woman's cap upon her head, and a bit of thin white muslin crossed inside her frock at the neck; a full-fledged Quaker girl, with certain lines of severity hardly meet for so young a face. Mother Lois sat beside the fire knitting. She had never been quite so strong since her fever, and Faith had a basket of woolen pieces out of which she was patching some shapely blocks for a bed comfort.
She sprang up with a face full of joy. The summers were not so bad, but she dreaded the long, dreary winters when she had to stay indoors and sew and spin, with none of her own years to speak with.
"Oh, Primrose! And is it really thy brother? What a pretty habit thou hast with all the fur, and the hat makes a picture of thee! There is one upstairs of a great-grandmother, and thou lookest like it, but it belongs to Andrew and not to our side, and," lowering her voice, "Uncle Henry thinks it vain. Andrew wanted it in his room, but uncle would not listen. Oh, I am so glad to see thee. I am so lonely," piteously.
The little Quaker girl in her sudden delight had forgotten her superior virtue. Her eyes fairly danced as they devoured Primrose. All the others seemed talking and explaining, so she had dared to step over the traces in the din.
"We have some odd old portraits in Arch Street. If thou couldst visit me, Faith!"
"Faith," said her uncle, "go and call Andrew. I left him threshing in the farther barn."
Faith rose with sober gravity, running her needle through the patch, and walked placidly through the room, though she had telegraphed to Primrose with her eye. And just as she opened the door Primrose gathered up her skirts and, saying, "I will go, too," flashed along before anyone could frame a remonstrance.
"I wish thou wert here—nay, not that, for thou would be kept straitly, and there would be no pleasure. Rachel has grown severe, and works so much at her outfitting, for she means to be married sometime."
"Who will she marry?" There seemed no one besides Andrew, and the child's heart made a sudden fierce protest.