"I shall never cease to care. If I could change places with Madam Wetherill I would never let thee go. But what folly am I talking! It is the law that thou shalt do so."
"Who makes the law? Put me down, Andrew; I feel as if part of my body would be drawn from the other part. Oh," laughing in a rippling, merry fashion, "if such a thing did happen! If there could be two of me! Rose should be the part with the pink cheeks and the red, red lips, and the bright eyes, and the other, Prim, might stay here."
"Thou naughty little midget! I am glad there cannot be two, if that is thy division. I will take part of the time instead. Little Primrose, it is a sad thing to part with those we love, even for a brief while. The place was not the same when thou went away. And surely, then, thou wert sorry to go."
Primrose was silent so long that he glanced into her eyes. There was such a difference in eyes the young Quaker had learned. The pretty, laughing women on the green at Wetherill farm had said so much with theirs when they had not uttered a word. Rachel's were a dullish-blue, sometimes a kind of lead color, Faith's light, with curious greenish shadows in them. But these were like a bit out of the most beautiful sky.
"It seemed quite terrible to me then," she made answer slowly. "Are people very queer, Andrew? For then I was afraid of Mistress Kent and Aunt Wetherill and everybody, and I wanted to stay here. And now it is so merry and pleasant in Arch Street, and there is the spinet that I sing to, and the lessons I learn, and some books with verses in and tales of strange places and people, and going out to the shops with Patty and watching the boys snowballing, and learning to slide."
"But thou art not in Arch Street, and there is a farm here. Come, let us find the early sweet apples. I think there are some ripe ones, and thou art so fond of them."
They walked along together. "Still, I do not understand why a thing should be so dear and pleasant and then change and look—look hateful to you!"
There was a pang in the great fellow's tender heart.
"Nay, not hateful!" he said pleadingly.
"But I did not want to stay. Aunt Lois looked stern and spoke crossly. And I am not a Quaker any more. I told her so. And I am a—a rebel! I will have no English King."