A Little Girl in Old Philadelphia

by Amanda M. Douglas

"Thou art the dearest and sweetest little thing in all the world, and though I may sometimes scold thee for thy naughtiness, I shall always love thee. And now I must sew, for my mother declares I never do anything out here at the farm. And Betty is so industrious, making clothes for the babies."

Then they were still a moment or two while the sunshine rippled all about, for they were sitting out under a tree, and the wind made a pretty dance in the tall grass, and seemed to whisper among the boughs, and push the heads of the shrubs toward each other as if they might be kissing. Overhead the birds sang with wild bursts of melody or went dazzling through the air, cleaving the sunshine with swift wings.

"Perhaps I ought not have told you so soon," said Polly with a sigh. "It was just a word, the sweetest word a man can say, but then I had half guessed it before, and I knew he was waiting to have something to offer me. Mr. Norris does not seem very ready in finding him a place, and old Mr. Northfield takes so much of his time and has to tell him what a fine business man your father was, and how he did this and that, and people entrusted him with their estates and money to buy and sell, and no one ever lost a penny by him. So I suppose we will not be really promised until something is settled, and thou must keep my secret, little Primrose. For I know now that my father would look askance at it. Strange that people years ago could marry without thinking of money, but they are not willing their children shall. And there are men like the great Mr. Franklin, who sometimes hardly knew where to turn for bread, and come up to very luxurious living. But I am young, and Phil is not very old."

"It all seems very strange and sweet," and Primrose threw herself down on the grass and leaned her arms on Polly's knee, while the wind tossed her pretty shining hair about. There was always so much short around the edge of her forehead, and such dainty, mischievous little curls on her white neck when she did it up high on her head. And whatever she did made a picture, she was so full of grace. When Gilbert Stuart painted her as a lovely matron with her baby beside her knee, he said: "What a pity there is no picture of you in your girlhood." He would have been justly proud if he could have painted her in all that grace and loveliness.

"And how can one tell?" she went on dreamily when Polly made no answer. "There are so many things in different ones to like, and you cannot put them all in one man. I love Andrew dearly. He was so good and tender when I first went out to his father's farm, and I was so frightened of Uncle James, and Aunt Lois was so grave and particular. But then Andrew will never dance—fancy the tall soldier! though the great generals do. And he is not over fond of pleasure."

She threw up her pretty head, while a stray sunbeam through the trees danced over it in golden ripples, and her eyes laughed as well as her rosy, dimpled mouth.

There was a sudden start through Polly's nerves, but the gay, light, merry voice went on:

"And he will always be a Quaker, though he went to Christ Church with madam and me. But—don't you know, you can tell with some people, Polly, that things do not quite suit. And he is too grave to frolic, and oh, I do love dancing and frolicking and saucy speeches. A grave life would never suit me. And there is Mr. Hunter with his pink-and-white skin and his ruffles and his velvet clothes, and his clocked silk stockings and shoe buckles that he has polished with a peculiar kind of powder that comes over from France—he told me so," laughing with dainty mirth and mischief. "When he comes to spend the evening I feel as if I should like to tear his finery to pieces as the old strutting cock sometimes gets torn when the others can no longer endure his overbearing ways. And there is Mr. Rittenhouse, who does nothing but talk of the Junta and the learned men of the Philadelphia Society, and the grand new hall they mean to build, and chemistry, as if one was so anxious to know what was in one's body and one's food and the air one breathed. Why, it would make life a burthen. To be sure, Betty says Mr. Franklin's stove is a most excellent thing, ever so much better than a fireplace, and that she will take one to Virginia with her. She had better take Mr. Rittenhouse as well!" and Primrose sent a host of delighted ripples on the sunny air. "Oh, there is Tot!"

Tot was Betty Mason's three-year-old baby boy, and the next instant Primrose had forgotten her admirers and was tumbling in the grass with him.

There were two she had not mentioned: Allin Wharton and Gilbert Vane. But Polly said to her brother shortly after—growing very wise, as young women in love are apt to: