They found one that was full of light, harmless jest, and an hour passed so quickly that Andrew Henry was startled.
He rode home alone without seeing Primrose, who could not be found in the nearby haunts. And for the first time strange visions, strange longings filled his mind, as if he had suddenly come to manhood and outgrown the bands that had made his way so strait.
Was it some suggestion of the tempter? All the strong virile blood rushed through his veins, and he only made a feeble fight to subdue it. He did not really want to put it aside.
It was much later than usual when he reached home. In fact the sun had gone down, Julius with the great market wagon had been home hours before.
"Son, what delayed thee so? And the child—where is she?" asked his mother.
He explained that she had gone off with her companion and that he had waited; that Madam Wetherill would bring her up in a day or two. Rachel sat on the doorstep knitting, and some supper was spread in the living room. But he went in to his father first, and, after a few words about Primrose, gave an account of his day's doings, except a little loitering to hear the talk. And he took from his pocket the leathern pouch tied tightly with a string, pouring the money on the bed and counting it over for his father. Then he brought out a curious box much ornamented with copper, now black by age except at the sides where it had been handled, and, unlocking it, put in the money, giving the key back to his father.
"You think Friend Wetherill is quite honest about the child?" he asked feverishly.
"She is not one to place a light value on her own word. The child could hardly have been gotten ready in that brief while."
"There was nothing to get," rather fretfully. "We do not want the vain clothing of the world. The child will be ruined by vanity."
"She keeps very sweet, methinks."