"That is a falsehood, Mistress Rachel, and God will surely mark thee for it! There is an old journal of my father's that, beside business dates and comments, has bits of sweetness about her, and how he thanks God for her, and that she is the sunshine of his life, and if he were to lose her, all would be darkness. Madam Wetherill is to give it to me when I am quite grown."
"I but repeat what I have heard Uncle James say. And if thou wert to marry Andrew he would forbid him the house as much as he did when Andrew became a soldier. He does not approve of thee nor thy tribe."
The hot blood stained the girl's cheeks. Yes, she had long mistrusted that her uncle did not like her, and that he fancied in some way Madam Wetherill had gotten the better of him.
"I am not going to marry Andrew—nor anyone. I love him very much, but I know it is not in that way. And my own life is growing exceeding sweet, day by day. It is like a garden full of wonderful flowers that no one can guess until they bloom."
"Then thou wilt not hinder him again? His father's heart hath grown tender toward him, and I can persuade if I have this surety to go upon."
"And then—dost thou hope to marry him?"
"I hope for nothing, Miss Impertinence. I only want that Andrew shall be restored."
A willful mood came over Primrose. What if she did not promise?
"There is little dependence on thee, I see. I was a fool to think it. Girls like thee play with men's hearts."
Rachel turned away with a bitter curl of the lip, and held her head up determinedly.