M. de Ronville had never met with any such experience. A shy young man, he had kept much to his own compatriots. Then he had devoted himself to business, with a vague idea that when he had made a fortune he would go back to France, that had grown much more liberal in matters of religion. But he had become warmly interested in the new country, and especially the city.
He had been pleased with the household at Pittsburg, the plain sensible soldier, who was making an excellent citizen, but the two ladies he found most interesting. It was golden-crowned Daffodil that stirred his heart in a new fashion, and made him feel how much had been lost out of his life. And now he had her. A sweet, dazzling, bird-like creature, that gave the house an altogether new aspect.
She went with Jane to call on Mrs. Craig. The daughter was well married, and had four small children, though their house was rather simple.
"And have you cried yourself to sleep with homesickness?" asked Mrs. Craig. "I've heard it is rather quiet in the big house where you are, with only a few grown people. True, Mr. de Ronville is like a father or, perhaps, a grandfather would be nearer, and you have been used to elderly men."
"Oh, madam, it is delightful. I like him so much. I did at home, or I never could have come. And Mrs. Jarvis is nice and pleasant, and tells me what is good manners for little girls, and Jane spoils me by waiting on me."
"Madam, indeed!" laughed Mrs. Craig. "Why, you make me feel as if I belonged to the quality!"
"They call the grown-up ladies that, the elder ones I mean. And there is one who has been so good to me, Miss Wharton, who bought my new clothes, and tells me what to wear, and things to say that are the fashion here. I think we have not much fashion at home. She takes me out, and, oh, there are so many things to see. And now uncle has hired a pony, and I ride with him in the morning, and we all went to a play, where the people made believe they were part of a story, and I was charmed, for it seemed so real. And there was a fine concert, I never heard so many instruments. And going to church is quite grand. I wish we had a lovely church at home. Oh, I hardly have a moment, but I do think of them all, and how wild Felix will be over all I shall have to tell him."
"I'm afraid you won't want to go back."
"Not go back to mother and all the others? Why, every day makes it one day nearer;" and the lovely light in her face showed she was not forgetting them.
"I am going before real cold weather. It would be too hard a journey to take in winter. But I find it very pleasant, too."
"And the stores are so full of beautiful things. People must be very rich, they spend so much money."
"It is a big town, and there are many people."
"And one can't help being joyous and happy." She looked as if she could dance or fly. "And uncle likes me best to be gay, and I should be ungrateful to mope when so much is being done for me."
"Yes, that is true."
"And next week Miss Wharton is going to take me to a grand out-of-door party of young people. Mrs. Pemberton came and gave uncle the invitation for me, and he has promised to come in the evening to see us, and to fetch me home."
"Oh, but they're on the Schuylkill! Well, you are going among the quality. You'll never do for Pittsburg again."
"But I shall do for father and mother, and I shall have such fun hearing grandad scold about all the doings, and say that I am spoiled, and not worth a pewter platter. And then he will hug me so tightly that it will almost squeeze the breath out of me."
She laughed so merrily and her face was in a glow of mirth and mischief. Then Jane came for her, though she was quick about learning the city streets. But M. de Ronville thought her too precious to be trusted out alone, though now the town was safe enough.
The place was like a picture by some fine artist, and the midsummer coloring, the shade of the tall trees, the great beds of flowers made it lovely, indeed. There was a space of greensward that ran down to the river, then a series of steps up the terrace, where a large level lawn with another row of steps led and a wide porch, with fluted columns. The house was large, and hospitable of aspect. Now it was filled with graceful figures, flitting to and fro, of all ages, it seemed. For it was quite a notable occasion.
There were two Pemberton sons, one married; then Miss Bessy, who was eighteen; Mary of sixteen, and Belinda, a growing girl, whose birthday was the same as Bessy's, though there was five years between them. This is why young people are asked to the birthday party. And the mothers of the girls, the brothers, and other young men. The tables will be set out on the lawn, three of them.
Bessy was to be married early in the autumn, and lovers in those days were in no wise abashed by their engagement. Mr. Morris hovered about his betrothed, young Mr. and Mrs. Pemberton had not outlived their honeymoon. There were other engaged couples, and quite a merry crowd of children.
Betty Wharton glanced over the group, as they ascended the steps. Not a girl was as handsome as her protégée. They had come in a coach, and the child had just a light scarf thrown over her shoulders. Her frock was of some white crapy stuff, the bodice cut square in the neck after the fashion of the day, and edged with a bit of lace; the short waist defined with a soft blue silk sash. Her curls were caught up high on her head, with a blue bow, and every movement seemed to shake off a shower of gold. Where the chin melted in her neck, and the neck sloped to her shoulder, there were exquisite lines.
"That's the little girl from Pittsburg," exclaimed Anton Wetherell. "I didn't suppose they could raise anything like that. She's not so little, either; why, she must be well on to fifteen. Some connection of that old French lawyer, de Ronville. I wonder if he means to make her his heir? I fancy there's a good deal of money."
"Miss Wharton has been making much of her, it seems, and she isn't the one to fall into a mistake."
The elder ladies greeted her cordially. There was such a charming simplicity about her and her enjoyment of everything was infectious. She gravitated to the younger girls, and Belinda was really fascinated with her. They played some games, and she was so ready to assent to what they proposed, so frank to admit her ignorance of some things, that they were all ready to help her and explain. Presently they sat on the grass in a little ring, and asked her about Pittsburg. Was it a great city?
"Oh, you would think it very queer," she said laughingly. "Only the rivers are beautiful, and the hills, and the woods over opposite. But the people"—then she flushed a little, but she was too honest to embellish—"well, they are Scotch, and Irish, and English, and a few from the East, but now those folks are going out to Ohio. And——"
"But you're French," said one of the girls. "Though I thought all French people were dark."
"Mother and grandmere have beautiful dark eyes and hair. So has my little brother Felix. But my father has blue eyes, and I don't know where the yellow hair came from. That was why my mother called me Daffodil."
"What an odd, pretty name. And your hair is beautiful, like silk. Does it curl that way without——"
For little girls and big ones, too, had their hair put up in curl papers, or the hairdresser used tongs.
"Oh, yes, it curls naturally, and tangles, too. When I was little I wanted it cut off, there were such awful pulls. But mother wouldn't, because father was away soldiering, and when he came home he wouldn't hear to it. One grandfather used to call me Yellowtop."
The nearest girl was petting one of the soft, silky curls. Another said, "Can you talk French? I'm studying it at school. It's awful hard and queer."
"Oh, yes. You see, I learned to talk in both languages. Then I had a lovely great-grandfather, who lived to be almost a hundred, and he taught me to read quite well. There are some French Acadians, who come in to see us now and then. But their speech has been mixed up so much. I've been reading a little with uncle. After grandfather died, I almost forgot."
"And are there fine stores and churches, and do you have plays, and entertainments, and parties?"
"Oh, no. It's queer and plain, quite rough, though now they are making nice streets, and people are spinning and weaving. Some of the women make beautiful lace. There's always a May party and a dance; and then a time when the new year begins, and tea drinkings, and some birthdays are kept. No, you wouldn't like it, after such a beautiful city."
"Oh, you won't want to go back!"
"Mother and all my people are there," she answered simply. "But if I had always lived in a beautiful city like this, I wouldn't want to."
By this time the tables were arranged, and they were summoned to the repast. Several young lads had joined the company, and Mary took the head of the children's table. The lawn was a picturesque sight. Afterward some lanterns were strung about, but it was clear and moonlight, which added to the beauty of the scene, and presently dancing began. There was much rambling around.
Miss Wharton found her, and asked if she was having a good time. She had been dancing with two of the boys. "And Mr. Wetherell wants the pleasure of dancing with the young lady from Pittsburg;" laughing.
"But I am not a real young lady. And I don't know all the dances;" in a hesitating tone.
"You do it at your own risk, Anton," Betty said to the young man. "You have been warned."
"I'll take the risk."
He piloted her through very skilfully. Then young Mr. Pemberton asked her. She met Mr. Bartram in this quadrille, and he talked to her afterward. She wished he would ask her to dance, but he seemed very much occupied with the older girls. And presently she spied out uncle de Ronville, and went over to the step of the porch, where he was sitting in a chair. He felt very proud of her. She was so full of enjoyment she fairly bubbled over with delight, as she detailed the pleasures.
"And we must be thinking of going home. That is one of the penalties of old age."
"Oh," with a kind of riant sweetness in her voice, "if you could go back halfway, and I could come on halfway, wouldn't it be delightful! But I get sleepy often in the evening, not like to-night;" as an afterthought. "I suppose that comes of living in a country place, where people go to bed at nine! But you sometimes go to bed quite late."
Yes, if they could meet halfway! Oh, what a foolish old man!
It has been a delightful evening, and Miss Wharton joins them. "Daffodil, you have had honors enough to turn your head. M. de Ronville, are we spoiling her?"
He gave her a fatherly look, and taking her soft little hand in his, they rose together.
"Will you go home in our coach?" he asked of Miss Wharton.
"Very glad, indeed, my dear sir, I am rather tired. Our party began early."
There were a good many adieus to make, and some very flattering invitations for Daffodil. They put Mistress Betty down at her own door, and when they reached home M. de Ronville gave her a tender good-night.
"It was splendid, Jane," she said as the finery was being removed. "And I danced with several of the young men. I didn't quite know how, but I thought of Norry's stories about the fairy dances in the moonlight, and I guess the real moonlight helped."
"I don't believe there was as pretty a girl among them all," declared Jane admiringly.
It was late when Mr. Bartram came in, and he had enjoyed himself as well.
But it was not all dissipation. There were evenings when Daffodil read French to her host, and he corrected any faulty pronunciation. At other times it was the newspaper. She had such a clear young voice, and she did everything with such charming cheerfulness. The rides with him in the morning were a delight. And though her figure had not rounded out, there was something exquisite in the virginal lines. She did not realize herself that she was a big girl now, so gradual was the change, and she had been a little girl all her life to those at home. He thought it was the French blood, as he could recall the girls of his youth, with their pretty deference, but it is the little admixture of Irish that makes her so winsome and frank.
Yet there were times when Daffodil was surprised at herself, and the strange feelings and stronger emotions that would flash across her. Was it the wider life, the variety of people and incident, the deeper and more comprehensive tone of the talk, and the new pleasures of the higher type?
There was no special dividing line in those days. Little girls wore ankle-length frocks, so the tucks were let out as they grew taller. After a little the hair was put up high with a pretty comb discarded by an older sister. When she had a lover, the next younger girl came to the fore.
"If the child was two years older I might make an excellent match for her," thought Betty Wharton. "But she isn't thinking about lovers or admiration. She will be very lovely presently, when she knows how to use those heart-breaking eyes and that dangerous smile. When she comes again—of course, it would be a sin to bury such a girl alive in that dozy, drowsy old Pittsburg!"
The days flew by so rapidly. Letters did not come frequently, postage was high, and there was a sort of secret faith in most people that things were going on well, according to the old adage that "no news was good news." But when a rare letter came, she cried over it secretly for two or three days, and was rather grave, but she thought it ungracious not to be bright and happy when so much was being done for her. Mrs. Craig was planning to go before the autumnal rains set in, and she took it for granted that it was her place to return Daffodil.
The child had been talking this over one afternoon, and a flood of home love had overwhelmed her. Mrs. Jarvis had an old friend to supper and to spend the evening, Jane had gone out, and M. de Ronville had gone to a sort of sociable dinner, with some of the citizens who were interested in the library project. It had proved a rather lonesome evening, and she had really longed for home. She wandered about aimlessly, and presently settled herself in the corner of the vine-covered porch, and yielded to the beauty and fragrance of the night. Everything had a richer aspect and meaning to her. It was moonlight again. The tall trees seemed outlined in silver, and the flower-beds were transformed into fairy haunts. Only a few stars were out, they were larger and more golden than usual. She drank in the honeyed fragrance all about her, and it seemed a land of enchantment.
Some one came into the library, but did not make a light. She heard M. de Ronville's low, but clear-toned, voice.
"I have wanted to talk this matter over with you. There need be no hurry, one or two years here will answer. You see, I am getting to be an old man. Latterly I have come to long for some one of my own, that I could go down the valley of life with, and who would care to make the journey more cheerful. You have been almost like a son to me. I should like you to be that, indeed. And this child has grown very dear to me. To think of you both going on here in the old house when I have left it, would give me my heart's desire. She is lovely, she is sweet, and has a most admirable temper. Then those people are in comfortable circumstances, and of the better class. You know it is a trait of our nation to be deeply interested in the marriage of our children, to advise, often to choose for them, with our wider experience."
"But she is such a child, eager, unformed, and I have thought of some one, companionable, with a wider education——"
That was Mr. Bartram's voice.
"We can remedy all that. I could have her here, and I think she is an apt scholar. She is well up in French, and that is quite in demand now. She could be trained in music, she has a sweet voice. And she is very graceful. If you could see the indifferent manners of most people in that queer, backward town, you would wonder at her refinement, her nice adjustment. Her mother, the Duvernay people, are high-bred, yet in no wise pretentious."
There was a brief silence, then the young man began.
"Mr. de Ronville, you have been the best and kindest friend a young man could have. I owe you a great deal. But I would not like to bind myself by any such promise. I have an old-fashioned notion that one must or should choose for one's self, and another perhaps foolish one, that I should like to win the woman I marry, not have her take me because some one else desired it. She would naturally be impressionable——"
All this talk was about her. She just realized it. She had listened as if some one was reading out of a book. She started now, and light and fleet as a deer flashed across the porch and up to her own room, in a queer, frightened state, hardly knowing what it meant, and yet vaguely suspicious. She had not been especially drawn to Mr. Bartram. He treated her quite as a child, sometimes teased, and evoked quick, mirthful replies, at others passed her by indifferently. All her experience had been with boys, and men of middle age, and she had no idea of lovers. Did uncle de Ronville mean that she should come here and love, and then be married to Mr. Bartram!
She was suddenly and unreasonably homesick for ugly old Pittsburg. The shops and the drives, the gayeties and delights, had lost their charm. If she could fly home to her mother's arms! If she could sit on her father's knee and have him hug her to his heart, or even grandad's rough love. And Norah, and Felix, and grandfather Bradin, who took her out in his boat, and sang funny sea-going songs. No, she couldn't come here to live!
Yet it was curious the next morning. Everything seemed exactly the same. Uncle said, "Will you get ready for your ride?" in that gentle, courtly manner, and they went off together. Mr. Bartram had been very quiet, she had hardly ventured to raise her eyes to him.
Oh, maybe she had fallen asleep and dreamed it.
Mary Pemberton came over early. A host of girls were going to have a picnic up the river, and Belinda wanted her. They would bring her back by five in the afternoon. It was to be just a girls' party, only her brother would be there to see that Darius, the black servitor, attended to them properly.
It was a bright, jolly day, with swinging, and a gipsy campfire, playing tag and telling riddles, and even running races. And she was so joyous talking it all over that evening, M. de Ronville felt he could never let her go. Could he persuade her to stay? Young people were fond of pleasure, and after this Pittsburg would be dull.
All the week the desire in Daffodil's heart had grown into absolute longing to go home. Yet she cares so much for them here: Uncle, Mrs. Jarvis, Miss Wharton, and a number of other people. But how could the return be planned. No one had suggested such a thing.
Providence comes to her assistance, opening the way in the shape of Mrs. Craig, who stays to supper, as she has a matter to lay before M. de Ronville. And that is, that she has finished her visit, and desires to return before the autumnal rains set in, while the going is still good. And she will take Daffodil.
"I am afraid we can't spare her," returned M. de Ronville. "She has become such a part of our household."
"But I must go home sometime," said the child with a quick gasp in her breath.
"Are you tired of us?"
"Tired!" She came and placed her arm caressingly over his shoulder. "Oh, I have never been tired, but there is mother and—the rest," with a tremble in her voice, while her eyes had the softness of coming tears. "Think how long I have been away!"
"And they've had many a heartache, I dare say. I don't know how they could spare you long. Of course, where your daughters marry it is a different thing. You resign yourself to that," said Mrs. Craig.
"When did you think of starting?"
"Well, so as to miss the equinoctial." People pinned their faith to its coming regularly in those days. "And perhaps no one would care to take such a journey if they had no need, and she couldn't come alone."
"No;" in a grave, slow tone. "We must talk it over. I've thought of her staying in the winter and going to school, perhaps. And you might study music," glancing at her.
"Oh, you are very good. But—I ought to go."
"Yes. You've had a nice long time, and lots of going about, I've heard. I hope you have not been spoiled. And you are the only girl your mother has. Then she had you so long before Felix came and while your father was away, and I know she's missed you sorely."
The tears did come into Daffodil's eyes then.
After Mrs. Craig had gone, her guardian drew her down on the sofa beside him.
"Daffodil," he began, "I have come to love you very dearly. There has been no one in my life to call forth any special affection. There might have been, I see now that there should have been. It is along the last of life that we feel most of the need of these ties. And if you could give me a little——"
"Oh, I do love you. You have been so kind, and given me so many pleasures. But not altogether for that. I liked you when you first came, you know. There was something—I can't quite express it—even if I had not come to Philadelphia, I should have thought of you so often. And it has been such a delightful visit. But I know mother has missed me very much, and she has the first claim. And oh, I want to see her."
The longing and piteousness in her tone touched him. She was not all lightness and pleasure-loving.
"My dear, it is hard to give you up. Child, why can you not divide some time between us, and let me do for you as a father would. They have Felix—and each other. They have parents as well. And I am all alone. It would be a joy to my latter years to have some one to care for, to share my almost useless fortune, and my home."
She leaned her golden head down on his shoulder, and he knew she was crying.
"Oh," she sobbed, "it is very hard. I do love you. But, you see, they have the best right, and I love them. I am torn in two."
Yes, it was selfish to try her this way. He had dreamed of what might happen if he could keep her here, a girl sweet and lovely enough to charm any one. But it was wrong thus to covet, to make it harder for her.
"My child, it shall be as you wish. Sometime you may like to come again. My home and heart will always be open to you, and I shall study your best interests. When you want any favor do not hesitate to ask me. I shall be only too glad to do anything."
"Oh, do not think me ungrateful for all this love and kindness. Every day I shall think of you. Yes," and the brightness in her tone thrilled him. "I may come again if you want me——"
"I shall always want you, remember that."
M. de Ronville was not the only one who made an outcry. Miss Wharton took her to task.
"Daffodil, you are not old enough to realize what a foolish girl you are, and so we must not be too severe. Mr. de Ronville is a rich man, a fine and noble one as well. I have no doubt but that he would leave you a handsome portion, for he loves you sincerely. And think of the advantages of a city like this. But when you go back to Pittsburg, you will see a great difference. If all is true, there is no society, no interest for such a woman as you may become with proper training, such as you would get here. You are—yes, I will say it, too lovely to be wasted on a place like that. I am really vexed with you."
The tears stood in her beautiful eyes.
"Oh, one can't be angry with you, you are so sweet! A year or two hence you could have no end of admirers at your feet, and take your pick of them. I hate to give you up. I want to see you a queen in society, you lovely, winsome, short-sighted thing! I don't believe you have a bit of vanity, and they say no girl child was ever born without it. I shall make your uncle, as you call him, keep track of you, for I shall want to know where you throw away your sweetness. I believe if I was Mr. de Ronville I would offer to buy you from your father."
"Oh, he couldn't."
It sounded as if she said it exultantly.
Jane bemoaned the proposed departure as well.
"The house will feel just like a funeral when you have gone out of it, Miss Daffodil. You've been like the sunshine floating up and down. We never missed it on the rainiest day, for there was your flashing golden head. And, oh, I wish you could stay and, grow up a young woman, and go to parties, and then have a splendid lover. Oh, dear!" and then Jane broke down crying.
Poor Daffodil's heart was torn by the regrets. It seemed as if uncle was the only one who was like to help her bear the parting, and he was so tender that at times she almost relented. Mr. Bartram did not count. He was polite, and to a degree sympathetic. He did not tease her, nor laugh about Pittsburg, that would have made her indignant now.
She had come with such a little parcel, now there was a trunk to be packed. M. de Ronville slipped in some dainty little boxes that were not to be opened until she reached home. And at last the day came, and there were sad enough good-by's.
There was a new Post coach in its shining paint, and four stout horses. Mr. de Ronville pressed Daffodil's hand the last one, but he turned his eyes away. Yes, the light of his house had gone. But he could not give up all hope.
Oh, how queer it looked at Old Pittsburg, after the fine city she had left. Daffodil almost shrank from the sight of the old dilapidated log houses, the streets that were still lanes. But there were the two households to greet her, with not a change in them. Oh, how dear they were! The familiar room, the chair so endeared to her, the high shelf, with its brass candlestick, and there in the corner her mother's little flax wheel.
"We were so afraid they'd keep you," said Felix. "Didn't they want you to stay?"
"Ah, yes," and the tears came to her eyes.
"And you look queer, changed somehow. Your voice has a funny sound. And I want you to tell me all about Philadelphia. Did you see that Mr. Benjamin Franklin, and the men who signed the Declaration of Independence?"
"Mr. Franklin was abroad. And they don't all live there. I believe I saw only three of them. But there was Governor Mifflin. And they hope sometime to have the Capitol there."
"Felix, let your sister have a little rest. There will be days and days to talk. Dilly, are you not tired to death? Such a long journey as it is. I don't see how Mrs. Craig stood it."
"Yes, I am tired," she answered. How plain her room looked, though it had been put in nice order with the best knitted white quilt on her bed, and a bowl of flowers on a pretty new stand grandfather Bradin had made. She hung her coat in the closet, and took off the frock she was so tired of, glad to change it for a fresher one.
"Now you look natural," declared grandmere. "We have our little girl back, but it does seem as if you had grown. And, oh, how glad we are to have her!"
There certainly was some mysterious change. Her mother studied it as well. It seemed as if the little girl had vanished, one could almost imagine the seven years had come and gone, and she had been to fairyland. But she put her face down on her mother's shoulder and cried.
"Dear, are you glad to see us all again, to come back to us? For I have had a heart-breaking fear that I know it must have been delightful there, and Mr. de Ronville had a great love for you. Oh, I really wonder that he let you come."
"He wanted me to stay—yes. To stay and be educated in music and many things. It is so different there. I don't know that I can make you understand."
"Dear," subjoined her mother, "he wrote to us. It was the kindliest letter. If he had persuaded you——"
They clung more closely together, each answering with the pressure. But she made no mention of Mr. Bartram. The talk had not been meant for her ears, indeed, she did not rightly understand the real desire that underlay it.
"Now you must rest awhile," said her mother. "There will be a crowd in to supper."
Felix had been denied the pleasure of a half holiday. "You will have time enough to see your sister," Barbe said to the importunate boy. "She is going to stay at home now."
Daffodil did have a nap and awoke refreshed, though she still looked tired and pale.
"Put on one of your pretty frocks," said her mother, with a touch of pride. Indeed, much as she had missed her darling she had enjoyed the honor. Not every girl could have such an opportunity to see the great city where so many notable events had happened. There were few formal invitations in those early days. Evenings were generally given over to pleasure, for the day was devoted to work. You were sure of a welcome unless somewhere there was a family feud and even that was often overlooked after a few glasses of whiskey. So there were guests in—to supper. Daffodil was inspected, questioned, commented upon in a friendly fashion. They drank to her health, to the fact of her return safe and sound, for, after all, was not a big city where they had all sorts of dissipations dangerous.
But all that was nothing to the evening. Then there was a crowd. Grandad did get very merry and dance a jig, the laughter grew uproarious. Dilly shrank with a fear that was half disgust.
Barbe caught Norah's arm presently.
"Ask them over to finish their merriment," she said persuasively. "Daffodil is very tired and must go to bed."
She looked like a little ghost now and her eyes were heavy.
"Yes, yes; we ought to have a little thought," and Norah rapped on the table and gave her invitation, which was cordially accepted.
"Dear little daughter," began her father. "It's rather wild and rough, but it is their idea of a good, hearty welcome. And you must pardon grandad. He has a warm, loving heart."
"Oh, yes; I know all that. But I am tired." And her voice was full of tears.
"Oh, child, it would be hard to have you outgrow us. And I love you so! I had such hard work to win your love in the beginning. But you don't remember."
"Oh, yes, I do. Was I dreadful? I think I couldn't love any one all at once. And I didn't like mother to care so, when she had loved me best. But I know better now. Her love for me is different from her love for Felix and her love for you. Oh, I am glad to be back." And she clung to him convulsively.
He hoped in his heart she would never go away again. There were some promising beaux in the town. Of course she would marry. He wouldn't want his little girl to be an "old maid."
She said a long prayer that night, it seemed as if there had never been so many things to pray for. Then she crawled into bed and cried softly, she did not know why. Did she wish herself back?
Was it that the place had changed so much or was it all in her. Felix seemed such a big boy, good looking too, with beautiful dark eyes and a very rosy face much sunburned. His dark hair was a mass of clustering curls, they inherited that from their mother. But he talked with his mouth full, he clattered his knife and fork, dropped them occasionally, and asked more questions than one could answer in an hour.
She looked up at her father and smiled her approval. He understood it was that. He had some gentlemanly ways and she was very glad that M. de Ronville had not been shocked by the rude manners that obtained largely in the town. Grandmere waited on the table for there was generally a second cooking. People had stout appetites in those days.
It seemed to her the trees had grown, they were longer armed. And here was the pretty flower garden a-bloom now with marigolds, which were not field flowers. There were large balls of pale yellow and deep orange, bronze ones with a pile as if made of velvet. How beautiful they were. Not a weed was to be seen.
It was a half-cloudy day, not dark or sullen, but with friendly gray under roof. She put on her sun-bonnet, her mother had it starched and ironed for her. Up at the back of the house it was still wild land, a sloping hill, a tangle of summer growth rhododendrons half smothered with it. She threaded her way up, then there was a long level of stubble turning brown. Far to the north vaster bulks loomed up. There was a great world beyond. What if some day it should be cities like Philadelphia. And—people, men and women living in pretty houses and having nice times.
It was a beautiful world, too. There was the fragrance of wild grapes in the air, the sweetness of dying clover blooms and the rich autumnal smells. She drew long breaths and broke into song with the birds. Then she started and ran. How little the houses looked down there!
"Oh," she cried in dismay as she ran through the open doorway, "is it dinner time. I've been up in the woods. It is beautiful."
Her mother looked up smilingly. She had been paring apples to dry and had a great tubful. They strung them on a cord and hung them out in the sunshine to dry. Grandmere had the dinner ready to dish up.
"Oh, I could have been stringing the apples!" she said remorsefully. "And I've been way up the hill. I wondered if it would look so lovely to me. For the Schuylkill is like a dream, but our rivers are finer than the Delaware."
"Don't worry about work so soon. You must get used to it by degrees. And get rested over the journey. Janie and Kate Byerly were in. They want you to come to supper to-morrow night. Janie has a lover and she's promised. 'Tisn't a good sign when the youngest goes off first."
"Why, Janie isn't——" in surprise.
"She was fifteen a month ago;" said grandmere.
"Would you want me to get married?" she asked soberly, recalling the talk she could not confess for honor's sake.
"We are in no hurry," said grandmere. "Though I approve of early marriages. You settle to one another more easily. And women are happier in their own homes."
"I'll get father to put up an addition and bring my husband here;" she rejoined with a kind of reckless gayety. "I couldn't go very far away from you."
Her mother glanced up with fond eyes. And just then her father entered.
Most people at that time were little given to caressing ways. But his own had been much dearer to Bernard Carrick after his three years' absence, and now he kissed his daughter, taking her sweet face in both hands.
"Why, you look fresh as a rose. I half expected to find you in bed. Are you equal to a ride this afternoon?"
"Oh, yes; only—mother——" glancing at her.
"Can't mother spare you?"
"Yes, yes. There will be time enough to work, child."
Her mother was made very happy at the deference.
Felix did not always come home at noon.
"They were pretty gay last night," he began apologetically. "Seen grandad this morning?"
"No, I went up in the woods. I wondered how it would look to me. It was beautiful. And it was a shame not to run over there first."
"Well, you may go a bit before we start. I have some papers to look over. We're in a great wrastle about some whiskey business. And now a man has to hold his tongue sharp if he isn't on the right side."
"You are on the right side?" She looked at him with laughing, trusting eyes.
"I wouldn't dare go agin grandad," he laughed back.
It was the old time to her. The cloth was coarse homespun partly bleached; they had some fine ones laid away for the little girl's outfit; the dishes were a motley lot, some pewter plates among them. The pretty accessories that she had become so accustomed to were missing. Was it this way when M. de Ronville was here? She colored vividly.
"I'll get up, Doll," her father said, "and stop for you." So she ran down to the other house.
Norah kissed her effusively.
"I'm glad you weren't in this morning. I was on thorns an' briars all the time for fear. The men were in howling an' shouting until you'd thought they'd upset the government. An' they will, too. We're not going to pay tax on our very bread. Why they're coming the old game that they fit about for seven years. And grandad's fierce. He'd turn us all back to England to-morrer."
"I don't know——" Daffodil looked up confused.
"No, I s'pose not. Women has husbands to think for them an' gals needn't think about anything but beaux. Did you have any over there?" nodding her head. "Body o' me! but you've grown tall. You ain't a little girl any more. And we'll have to look you up a nice beau."
"Must everybody be married?"
Norah put both hands on her lips and laughed.
"Well, I don't know as there's a must, only old maids ain't of much account an' get sticks poked at 'em pretty often. I wouldn't be one for any money. I'd go out in the woods and ask the first man I met to marry me."
"How old must you be?" asked Daffodil soberly, thinking of Miss Wharton.
"Well, if you ain't married by twenty, lovers ain't so plenty, and at twenty-four you're pushed out of the door and at thirty you might as well go down. But you're not likely to have to ring the bell for them. My! but you're pretty, only I wish your cheeks were redder. I guess you've been housed up too much. I want to hear all about the sort of time you had! Wasn't the old gentleman a little stiff?"
"Oh, no. He seemed so much like great-grandfather to me. I loved him a great deal. And there was a splendid housekeeper. The maid was sweet and she cried when I came away."
"Little Girl," called her father.
"Oh, are you going to ride away? Come over to-night. Grandad is going to the meeting where they will spout like a leaky gargoyle. Or stay, your father will go too. I'll come over instead."
Daffodil mounted Dolly, who certainly had not grown fat in her absence. Felix had attended to that. "Dear old Dolly!" patting her neck, and the mare whinnied as if overjoyed.
"You haven't forgotten, dear old Dolly;" and Daffodil was minded to lean over and give her a hug as she had times before.
"We'll go down town. We are stretching out our borders. Here is the new dock. We are building boats for the western trade, and here is the shipyard."
It had doubled itself since spring. Everybody seemed hurrying to and fro. Brawny, sunburned men with shirt sleeves rolled nearly to the shoulders, jesting, whistling, sometimes swearing, the younger ones pausing now and then to indulge in a few jig steps. There were boats loading with a variety of freight, but largely whiskey. Carrick took some drawings out of his memorandum book.
"Look them over sharp, Cap'n Boyle, though I think you'll find them all right."
There was the long point, the two rivers flowing into the Ohio, the murmur like the undertone of the sea. And over beyond, far beyond an endless stretch. There were some Indian wigwams, there were long reaches of cornfields yet uncut, a few stacked; apples ripening in the mellow sunshine, a wild kind of fruit, great tangles of grapevine enough to smother any tree.
"It is beautiful," she said with deep feeling. "Oh, do you suppose there'll ever be anything—over there—like a town, houses and such?"
She nodded upward. That was her portion.
"If we go on this way. There's a line for trade between this and Cincinnati all planned out, boats being built, there's coal and iron to supply places around, and they're talking about glass even. We shall be the head centre. Oh, land doesn't cost much since taxes are so light. Yes, some likely young fellow will take it in hand and evolve a fortune for you. Daffodil, you will not go back to de Ronville?"
"To live? Oh, no."
"I couldn't spare my little girl. I want you to marry and settle here."
She seemed to shrink from the thought.
Down here they were working streets. New houses were going up. Store-houses were being built. Carrick had to stop and discuss several openings. And no matter what subject was in hand it came round to the whiskey.
"What is it all about, father?" she asked, raising her perplexed face to his.
"I don't know that you can understand. We were all served with a summons in the summer to appear at court over the other side of the mountains. Crops were just at the point where they would be ruined if left. The distillers were very angry, the farmers, too. They held meetings and decided they wouldn't go. It's a matter of the general government. The country is behind in everything and is striving to meet its expenses. It could not be otherwise after such a war as we have had. The tax is four pence per gallon—it seems a big figure on hundreds of gallons, still they can recoup themselves on the other end."
"And who is right?"
Bernard Carrick laughed.
"There is but one side to be on just now. Grandad is among the distillers and Norah is as hotheaded as he. But women ought to stay out of it. Take pattern by mother and grandmere and have no opinions. You can't help hearing it talked about. I'm glad it wasn't one of M. de Ronville's interests or you might have heard hard things said about us. There now, business is done, let us have a fine gallop over this road."
Dolly went very well for a while then said plainly she could not keep it up.
"You are a good rider, Dilly. I'm glad you did not get out of practice. Your guardian must have been indulgent."
"We had a ride every fine morning. He was very fond of it."
He was glad to have her talk about her visit. The life would be very different here. Not only were all his interests here, and he was getting to be one of the rising men of the town, but the Bradins held the house they lived in and he was as a son to them. Barbe had never been parted from her mother. And though he had gone to his country's call with their consent he knew his own father would never forgive a second defection. No, he must stay here, and his daughter must marry here.
Felix begged her to come out with him and see the great bee tree where father was going to take up the honey some night, but she was tired and curled herself up in the grandfather chair. Her thoughts wandered a little.
"I don't believe you are paying a bit of attention to me!" the boy flung out angrily. "I wish you hadn't gone to that old city. You were twice as good fun before. And I s'pose you won't climb trees or run races or—or do any of the things that used to be such good fun. What in the world did you do there?"
"Oh, I'll try them with you again. But I've been out with father all the afternoon——"
"And now he'll be so taken up with you he won't want me. Girls haven't any call to be out so much with men."
"Not when they are our own fathers?" smiling.
"Well—there's knitting, and spinning, and sewing, and darning stockings——"
"I thought you were begging me to go out and have a good romp with you?"
"Oh, that's different."
She laughed. Then father came in and they had supper. After that until he went out he had to help Felix with sums, then the boy was sleepy, and went to bed.
Daffodil had to talk about her visit. She had been to the theatre twice and to some fine out-of-doors concerts. Then the afternoon at the Pembertons, where the ladies had been so beautifully dressed, and the dance and the tea on the lawn. She had been sent to a dancing class and knew the modern steps.
"And I just don't believe any one can beat grandad;" said Norah with pride. "And stout as he is, he's as light on his feet as a young girl. And about this Miss Wharton and her living alone with servants just as if she was a widow, and she must be an old maid. It's queer they should make so much of her."
"But she's so nice and sweet. Everybody likes her. And her house is so full of pretty things. The gentlemen are always wanting to dance with her and come to tea."
"Well, it's very queer except for a queen. There was a great queen once who didn't and wouldn't get married."
"That was Queen Elizabeth and Virginia was named in her honor."
"Well, I hope you won't get sick of us after a little. But blood's thicker than water;" and Norah nodded confidently to Daffodil's mother.
Then it seemed really strange to go over to the Byerly's to tea. They had been older girls in school. Now they were busy all day spinning and Kate wove on a hand loom. Girls worked through the day and frolicked in the evening. They all seemed so large to Daffodil. They joked one another about beaux. Half a dozen young men were invited. Kitchen and dining-room was all one, and the two tables were put together, and would have groaned with their burden if they had not been strong.
"I want Daffodil Carrick," said Ned Langdale rather peremptorily. "I went to her first party and she came to mine."
"That's whether she wants you," said Janie saucily. "Do you, Daffodil?"
"Do I—what?"
"Want Ned to take you in to supper. We're pairing off. By right you ought to take Kate," to Ned. "She can have some of the younger boys."
Daffodil was rather startled at Ned. He had grown so tall and looked so manly.
"I'll take Archie," she said a little timidly.
Archie smiled and came over to her, clasping her hand.
"I'm so glad," he said in a half whisper. "Oh, Daffodil, you're so pretty, like some of the sweet pictures in a book mother has. Yes, I'm so glad."
Did Daffodil go to school with most of these girls? She felt curiously strange. After the first greeting and the question about her visit, that she was getting rather tired of, there was a new diversion at the entrance of Mr. Josephus Sanders, who was announced to the company by his betrothed. He was a great, rather coarse-looking fellow, with a red face burned by wind and water, and reddish hair that seemed to stand up all over his head. Even at the back it hardly lay down. He was a boatman, had made two trips to New Orleans, and now was going regular between Pittsburg and Cincinnati with a share in the boat which he meant to own by and by. He had a loud voice and took the jesting in good part, giving back replies of coarse wit and much laughter.
Mrs. Byerly waited on the guests, though the viands were so arranged that there was a dish for every three or four. Cold chicken, cold ham, cold roast pork temptingly sliced. White bread and brown, fried nuts as they called them, the old Dutch doughnuts and spiced cakes, beside the great round one cut in generous slices. And after that luscious fruits of all kinds.
"Yes, I am so glad to see you. And you have been off among the quality. But I hope you have not forgotten—" and he raised his eyes, then colored and added, "but you weren't so much with the boys. I do suppose girls' schools are different. Still there were Saturdays."
"I don't know why I lagged behind," and she gave a soft laugh that was delicious. "Maybe it was because some of them were older. Even now I feel like a little girl and I don't mean to be married in a long time. Oh, yes, I remember the May day fun and the races and tag——" pausing.
"And the tree climbing and the big jumps and prisoner's base, and 'open the gates' and 'tug of war.' Ned was famous in them. I liked often to go off by myself and read, but once in a while it was fun."
"Oh, you should go to Philadelphia. There are so many fine books. And many of the people have libraries of their own. My guardian had. And pictures."
He bent his head quite low.
"I'm going some day. That's my secret. I mean to be a doctor."
"Oh!" The eyes she turned upon him thrilled him to the heart. Oh, she was the prettiest and sweetest girl in the room.
But she wasn't glowing and red-cheeked and black-eyed. Then yellow hair wasn't particularly in favor.
The table was cleared and the dessert was grapes and melons, yellow-hearted cantelopes and rosy watermelons, and they snapped seeds at one another, a rather rude play, which made a great deal of dodging. Afterward they went to the best room and had some more refined plays. They "picked cherries," they had to call their sweetheart and stand with him in the middle of the room. Ned chose Daffodil Carrick and he kissed her of course, that made her blush like a peony. And she chose Archie.
But, alas! Archie had to choose some one else. He said afterward—"I had a great mind to choose you again, but I knew they'd laugh and say it wasn't fair. But I didn't care at all for Emma Watkins."
They wound up with "Oats, Peas, Beans, and Barley Grows." Then Janie Byerly took her betrothed's hand and stood in the middle of the room.
"Joe and I are to be married in October somewhere about the middle. We haven't set the day yet, but you'll all know it and I want a great crowd to come and see the knot tied. Then we're going to Cincinnati on Joe's boat to visit his folks, and if I like it first-class we may settle there. I hope you have all had a good time."
They said they had in a shout.
"I'm coming over to see your pretty frocks," Janie whispered to Daffodil. "My, I shall be so busy that my head will spin."
Of course Archie had to see her home, but as Ned's girl was already home, he walked with them and did most of the talking, to Archie's chagrin. And he ended with—"I've so much to tell you. I'm coming over right soon."
"Dilly, you're not worth shucks since you came back!" exclaimed the boy in a severely upbraiding tone. "You don't do nothin' as you used, you just sit and moon. Do you want to go back to that old man? I sh'd think you'd been awful dull."
"Do you talk that way at school?"
"Oh, well, a fellow needn't be so fussy at home."
"What would you like me to do? You are off with the boys——"
"That's because you're no good. You don't run races nor climb trees nor wade in the brook to catch frogs, nor jump—I'll bet you don't know how to jump any more. And you were a staver!"
"Girls leave off those things. And you are a good deal younger, and ought to have a boy's good times. I must sew and spin and help keep house and work in the garden to take care of the flowers and learn to cook."
"My! I wouldn't be a girl for anything! Dilly, who will you marry?"
Her face was scarlet. Must a girl marry? She understood now the drift of the talk she had unwittingly overheard. And her cheek burned thinking that she had been offered and declined.
"I'm not going to marry any one in a good while," she returned gravely.
"Tim Garvin asked me——" he looked at her hesitatingly.
"Well?"
"If he might come round. He thinks you sing like a mocking bird. And he says he likes yellow hair. I don't. I wish yours was black and that you had red cheeks and that you'd laugh real loud, and want to play games."
"There are plenty of little girls, Felix, who are ready for any sort of fun."
He spun round on his heel and went off. It had been one of the resplendent early autumn days with a breath of summer in the air and the richness of all ripening things. The call of the wood thrush came softly through the trees with a lingering delicious tenderness. She sat on a large boulder nearly at the foot of a great sycamore tree. She used to have a play-house here. What had changed her so? She did not want to go back to Philadelphia. She would never want to see Mr. Bartram again. In a way she was content. Her father loved her very much, it was a stronger love in one way, a man's love, though her mother was tender and planning a nice future for her.
She did not understand that it was the dawning of womanhood, the opening of a new, strange life different from what had gone before. There was a sort of delicious mystery about it and she stood in tremulous awe. It was going to bring her something that she half dreaded, half desired.
She had gone down by the schoolhouse one afternoon. They had built a new one, really quite smart, and now they had taken off an hour of the last session. The children were out at play, racing, screaming, wrestling, here playing ring around a rosy, here London bridge is falling down, here a boy chasing a girl and kissing her roughly, she slapping his face and being kissed half a dozen times more. Had she ever been one of this boisterous, romping group?
The French blood had brought in more refinement, like the Quaker element. And she had been rather diffident. At home they were more delicate, while they had too much good breeding and kindliness to hold themselves much above their neighbors.
The marriage of Janie Byerly was quite an event. It took place at ten in the morning and there was a great wedding cake with slices for the girls to dream on. Then they went down to the boat in a procession and there was a merry time as the boat made ready to push out. Rice had not come in yet, but old shoes were there in abundance.
There were other marriages and the little girl went to them because she did not want to slight her old companions. Some of the couples set up housekeeping in a two-roomed cabin and the new wife went on with her spinning or weaving and some of them were quite expert at tailoring. There was plenty of work getting ready for winter.
Tim Garvin had been as good as his word and came on Sunday evening. Daffodil sheltered herself behind her father's protecting wing. They talked of the whiskey question, of the Ohio trade, and then there was a lagging, rather embarrassing time. Four elderly people sat around—they generally retired and gave the young folks a chance, but it was Daffodil who disappeared first. And Tim did not make a second attempt.
The Langdale boys had better luck in establishing friendliness. Ned came over in high feather one afternoon. Daffodil was practising a rather intricate piece of lace making. He looked manly and proud. He was tall and well filled out, very well looking.
"I hope you'll all congratulate me," he began in a buoyant tone. "I've enlisted. I'm going to live up at the Fort and begin soldier life in earnest."
"And I do most heartily wish you success," declared grandmere, her eyes lighting up with a kind of admiration at the manly face in the pride of youth. "We shall need soldiers many a day yet, though I hope the worst is over. Still the Indians are treacherous and stubborn."
"And we may have another fight on our hands;" laughing. "For we are not going to be ridden over rough shod."
"But you must belong to the government side now."
"I suppose so;" flushing.
The delinquent distillers had been summoned to Philadelphia and had refused to go.
"This is our very living," declared grandad, who was one of the most fiery insurgents. "Then they will tax our grain, our crops of all kinds. A king could do no worse! What did I tell you about these men! Why, we'll have to emigrate t'other side of the Mississippi and start a new town. That's all we get for our labor and hard work."
"I ought to have waited until this thing was settled," Ned said rather ruefully, studying Daffodil's face. "But I had hard work to coax father, and when he consented I rushed off at once. He thinks there's going to be fortunes in this iron business, and Archie won't be worth shucks at it. He hates it as much as I do, but he's all for books, and getting his living by his brains. Maybe he'll be a lawyer."
Daffodil flushed. She held Archie's secret.
"You don't like it," Ned began when he had persuaded her to walk a little way with him. "You said once you didn't like soldiering. Yet it is a noble profession, and I'm not going to stay down at the bottom of the line."
"No," with a sweet reluctance as if she was sorry to admit it. "It seems cruel to me, why men should like to kill each other."
"They don't like it in the way of enjoyment, but do their duty. And they are for the protection of the homes, the women and children. We may have another Indian raid; we have some"—then he paused, he was going to say, "some French to clear out," but refrained. The French still held some desirable western points.
"Father talks of the war occasionally, and mother shivers and says—'My heart would have broken if I had known that!' And to be away three years or more, never knowing if one was alive!"
No, she wouldn't do for a soldier's wife. And Archie had prefigured himself a bachelor; he really had nothing to fear there, only would she not take more interest in his brother? There were other young fellows in the town, but not many of her kind. Well, he would wait—she seemed quite like a child yet.
Somehow she had not made the same impression as she had in Philadelphia. No one praised her hair or her beautiful complexion or her grace in dancing. It did not hurt her exactly, but she felt sorry she could not please as readily. Only—she did not care for that kind of florid approbation.
Grandmere looked up from her work when they had gone out. "He is a fine lad," she commented. "And they are of a good family. Daffodil is nearing sixteen. Though there doesn't seem much need of soldiers—it is a noble profession. It seems just the thing for him."
"She is such a child yet. I don't know how we could spare her. And her father is so fond of her."
Mrs. Bradin had a rather coveting regard for the young man. And a pretty girl like Daffodil should not hang on hand.
Ned Langdale made friends easily at the Fort. And during the second month, on account of a little misbehavior in the ranks, he was advanced to the sergeantship.
Meanwhile feeling ran higher and higher. Those who understood that the power of the general government must be the law of the land were compelled to keep silence lest they should make matters worse. Even the clergy were forced to hold their peace. Processes were served and thrown into the fire or torn to bits. Then the government interfered and troops were ordered out.
Bernard Carrick had tried to keep his father within bounds. It did not do to protest openly, but he felt the government should be obeyed, or Pittsburg would be the loser. Bradford and several others ordered the troops to march to Braddock's field, and then to Pittsburg. The town was all astir and in deadly terror lest if the insurgents could not rule they would ruin. But after all it was a bloodless revolution. Governor Mifflin, after a temperate explanation, softening some of the apparently arbitrary points, commanded the insurgents to disperse. Breckenridge thought it safest to give good words rather than powder and balls. So they marched through the town in excellent order and came out on the plains of the Monogahela where the talking was softened with libations of whiskey, and a better understanding prevailed, the large distillers giving in to the majesty of the law.
Some of the still disgruntled insurgents set fire to several barns, but no special damage was done. And thus ended the year's turmoil and business went on with renewed vigor. There was also an influx of people, some to settle, others from curiosity. But the West was awakening a new interest and calling for immigrants.
Mrs. Janie Sanders came back with glowing accounts of the town on the Ohio. And now trade was fairly established by the line of boats. And from there down to New Orleans continual traffic was established.
The older log houses were disappearing or turned into kitchens with a finer exterior in front. People began to laugh at the old times when there was much less than a thousand inhabitants.
And though Bernard Carrick still called his daughter "Little Girl," she was quite grown up with a slim lissome figure and her golden hair was scarcely a shade darker. She was past sixteen, and yet she had never had a lover. Young men dropped in of a Sunday afternoon or evening, but she seemed to act as if they were her father's guests. After two or three attempts they dropped out again.
Archie had gone to Philadelphia for a year at a preparatory school, then was to enter college. Ned now was first lieutenant, having been promoted for bravery and foresight in warding off an Indian sortie that might have been a rather serious matter.
The little girl had vanished with the old Pittsburg. She hardly knew herself in these days. Something seemed to touch her with a magic wand. She was full of joy with all things of the outside world, and the spring and the early summer, nature seemed to speak in all manner of wooing tongues and she answered. She took long walks in the woods and came home with strange new flowers. There was not much to read, it was not a season of intellectuality but a busy, thrifty time laying the foundation for the great city of industry and prosperity that was to be.
Barbe Carrick made pretty garments with fine needlework and lace and laid them by in an old oaken chest. Grandmere was sometimes a little impatient over the dreaming child. Another year was going and she had counted on Daffodil being married before the next generation of girls came to the fore. Plain ones, loud, awkward ones were married and had a jollification. Some of them at twenty had three or four children.
She was very sweet, charming and helpful. Grandad had taken the "knuckling down," as he called it, rather hard, but it seemed as if the tax and more came back in increased sales. He was very fond of small Sandy, now a fast-growing boy, but there was a different love for Daffodil, who looked over his accounts, read the paper to him, and listened to his stories as well as his complaints.
"I wish it wasn't so much the fashion for girls to marry," he said one day to Norah. "I don't know how we could spare Dilly."
"And keep her an old maid!" with scorn in her voice. "But it's queer! One would think lovers would buzz about her like bees."
Now and then there came a letter from Philadelphia that she answered with a good long one, yet she wondered afterward what she found to say. That visit seemed such a long, long while ago, almost in another life. And Mistress Betty Wharton had married and gone to Paris, as her husband was connected with the embassy. There were many questions yet to settle.
"Don't you want to go over to the Fort with me, Daffodil?" her father asked one afternoon. He had a fondness for Lieutenant Langdale, and not the slightest objection to him as a future son-in-law.
"Oh, yes," eagerly, and joined him, smiling under the great hat with its flaring front filled in with gathered silk, her white frock short enough to show the trim ankles and dainty feet, and her green silk parasol that had come from Philadelphia that very spring. She generally wore her hair in curls, though it was cut much shorter in the front and arranged not unlike more modern finger puffs. A very pretty girl of the refined type.
Fort Pitt was then in all its glory though the old block house of Colonel Bouquet was still standing, up Duquesne way, and there were soldiers strolling about and a few officers in uniform.
Langdale was on duty somewhere. Captain Forbes came to greet them.
"You'll find the general in his office, Mr. Carrick. May I take charge of Miss Carrick, meanwhile?"
"Yes, I shall be glad to have you."
Captain Forbes was a Philadelphian, so they were not at loss for conversation. Here two or three men were in earnest discussion, there one deeply interested in a book, who touched his cap without looking up. In a shady corner two men were playing chess, one a civilian, the other a young private.
"Well, Hugh, how goes it?" asked the captain.
"Why, I am not discouraged;" laughing and bowing to Daffodil.