"It isn't very long since this was only a frontier fort and the Indians came floating in canoes from far away to barter furs for flintlocks and powder, and for mirrors and baubles for their squaws. Sometime we'll go across the river and get a view of the city and the mountains."
"Shall we really come again?" asked Ellen.
When they went indoors, she had nothing whatever to say. The rotunda was at first simply bewildering, its pictured dome was so far above her, its walls were so white, the angels who held glittering lamps on high were so majestic. Led from place to place she saw interpreted for her the history of her State. William Penn stood, an austere young figure, before an angry father, waited in audience before stern magistrates, or faced westward high on the prow of a boat against a stormy sky. Her eyes dwelt with delight upon each detail; here a blue sky mirrored in a tiny pool, here bright grass, here velvets and laces, here a lean greyhound's body, here leaping flames and young scholars casting their books upon the fire.
There were other pictures; the cold, miserable, intrepid troopers of Valley Forge; William Penn and a magnificent Indian under a yellow tree; the reading of the Declaration of Independence; and last of all, a glorious tableau in which a hundred heroes figured. There was no doubt in Ellen's mind that she had seen the most magnificent edifice in the wide world.
But there were new joys to follow. At sunset the two walked hand in hand upon the long street by the river, keeping on a path close to the brink. When Ellen's eyes left the golden surface of the water, they saw old houses firmly built, stately and well kept. After a while the houses were newer and farther apart. Far across the river trains thundered.
When they retraced their steps the glow had faded and lights sparkled in interminable lines and were reflected in the dark, velvety water. Ellen was young and eager, a warm hand held hers, she could not help dancing by her father's side.
"I'm choosing a house," she said. "There was one gray stone house on a corner—I'm watching for it. It is where I should like to live. I see it now, people are going in!"
Halted by the tightening of her hand, Levis looked across at the gray house. An automobile drove away, another was drawing up to the curb. Wrapped in furs, a lady waited on the pavement for her friends from the second car. The door of the house was open and a maid stood on the upper step.
"Is that a party, Father?"
Levis did not answer. When the door closed he crossed the street. The house fronted both on the river and on the side street, and in the wing there was apparently a suite of offices. He went closer and read the gilt name on a small black sign—"Stephen Lanfair, M.D." Then he took Ellen's hand and walked on. So this was where Stephen lived when he was not traveling about the world! He smiled without bitterness, remembering Stephen's vows of friendship.