"I think thou wilt lose nothing in the end," she said gravely. For though she was somewhat set against cousins marrying, and Andrew seemed too grave a man for butterfly Primrose, she remembered Bessy Wardour had been very happy.
Allin Wharton could walk out with a cane, and found his way often down to Arch Street. He was sitting there one morning, making Primrose sing no end of dainty songs for him, when a chaise drove up to the door.
"Now there is a caller and I will sing no more for you," she exclaimed with laughing grace. "Some day these things will be worn threadbare with words falling out and leaving holes."
"And you can sing la, la, as you do sometimes when you pretend to forget, and so patch it up."
"Then my voice will get hoarse like a crow. Ah, someone asks for Miss Henry. How queer! I hardly know my own name."
She ran out heedlessly. Allin was no longer pale, and gaining flesh, but this man was ghostly, and for a moment she stared.
"Oh, Phil! Phil!" she cried, and went to his arms with a great throb of sisterly love.
"Oh, Primrose! Surely you have grown beautiful by the hour. And such a tall girl—why, a very woman!"
"But how have you come? We have been waiting and waiting for word. Oh, sit down, for you look as if you would faint."
He took the big splint armchair in the hall, and she stood by him caressing his hand, while tears glittered on her lashes.