The Story of Kennett | Page 2

healthy, pastoral community, has been to me a source of
uninterrupted enjoyment. May you read it with half the interest I have
felt in writing it!
BAYARD TAYLOR.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.
THE CHASE

CHAPTER II.

WHO SHALL HAVE THE BRUSH?

CHAPTER III.
MARY POTTER AND HER SON

CHAPTER IV.
FORTUNE AND MISFORTUNE

CHAPTER V.
GUESTS AT FAIRTHORN'S

CHAPTER VI.
THE NEW GILBERT

CHAPTER VII.
OLD KENNETT MEETING

CHAPTER VIII.
AT DR. DEANE'S

CHAPTER IX.
THE RAISING

CHAPTER X.
THE RIVALS

CHAPTER XI.

GUESTS AT POTTER'S

CHAPTER XII.
THE EVENTS OF AN EVENING

CHAPTER XIII.
TWO OLD MEN

CHAPTER XIV.
DOUBTS AND SURMISES

CHAPTER XV.
ALFRED BARTON BETWEEN TWO FIRES

CHAPTER XVI.
MARTHA DEANE

CHAPTER XVII.
CONSULTATIONS

CHAPTER XVIII.
SANDY FLASH REAPPEARS

CHAPTER XIX.
THE HUSKING FROLIC

CHAPTER XX.

GILBERT ON THE ROAD TO CHESTER

CHAPTER XXI.
ROGER REPAYS HIS MASTER

CHAPTER XXII.
MARTHA DEANE TAKES A RESOLUTION

CHAPTER XXIII.
A CROSS-EXAMINATION

CHAPTER XXIV.
DEB. SMITH TAKES A RESOLUTION

CHAPTER XXV.
TWO ATTEMPTS

CHAPTER XXVI.
THE LAST OF SANDY FLASH

CHAPTER XXVII.
GILBERT INDEPENDENT

CHAPTER XXVIII.
MISS LAVENDER MAKES A GUESS

CHAPTER XXIX.

MYSTERIOUS MOVEMENTS

CHAPTER XXX.
THE FUNERAL

CHAPTER XXXI.
THE WILL

CHAPTER XXXII.
THE LOVERS

CHAPTER XXXIII.
HUSBAND AND WIFE

CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE WEDDING

CHAPTER I.
THE CHASE.
At noon, on the first Saturday of March, 1796, there was an unusual stir
at the old Barton farm-house, just across the creek to the eastward, as
you leave Kennett Square by the Philadelphia stage-road. Any
gathering of the people at Barton's was a most rare occurrence; yet, on
that day and at that hour, whoever stood upon the porch of the corner
house, in the village, could see horsemen approaching by all the four
roads which there met. Some five or six had already dismounted at the
Unicorn Tavern, and were refreshing themselves with stout glasses of
"Old Rye," while their horses, tethered side by side to the pegs in the
long hitching-bar, pawed and stamped impatiently. An eye familiar

with the ways of the neighborhood might have surmised the nature of
the occasion which called so many together, from the appearance and
equipment of these horses. They were not heavy animals, with the
marks of plough-collars on their broad shoulders, or the hair worn off
their rumps by huge breech-straps; but light and clean-limbed, one or
two of them showing signs of good blood, and all more carefully
groomed than usual.
Evidently, there was no "vendue" at the Barton farmhouse; neither a
funeral, nor a wedding, since male guests seemed to have been
exclusively bidden. To be sure, Miss Betsy Lavender had been
observed to issue from Dr. Deane's door, on the opposite side of the
way, and turn into the path beyond the blacksmith's, which led down
through the wood and over the creek to Barton's; but then, Miss
Lavender was known to be handy at all times, and capable of doing all
things, from laying out a corpse to spicing a wedding-cake. Often
self-invited, but always welcome, very few social or domestic events
could occur in four townships (East Marlborough, Kennett, Pennsbury,
and New-Garden) without her presence; while her knowledge of farms,
families, and genealogies extended up to Fallowfield on one side, and
over to Birmingham on the other.
It was, therefore, a matter of course, whatever the present occasion
might be, that Miss Lavender put on her broad gray beaver hat, and
brown stuff cloak, and took the way to Barton's. The distance could
easily be walked in five minutes, and the day was remarkably pleasant
for the season. A fortnight of warm, clear weather had extracted the last
fang of frost, and there was already green grass in the damp hollows.
Bluebirds picked the last year's berries from the cedar-trees; buds were
bursting on the swamp-willows; the alders were hung with tassels, and
a powdery crimson bloom began to dust the bare twigs of the maple-
trees. All these signs of an early spring Miss Lavender noted as she
picked her way down the wooded bank. Once, indeed, she stopped, wet
her forefinger with her tongue, and held it pointed in the air. There was
very little breeze, but this natural weathercock revealed from what
direction it came.

"Southwest!" she said, nodding her head--"Lucky!"
Having crossed the creek on a flat log, secured with stakes at either end,
a few more paces brought her to the warm, gentle knoll, upon which
stood the farm-house. Here, the wood ceased, and the creek, sweeping
around to the eastward, embraced a quarter of a mile of rich bottomland,
before entering the rocky dell below. It was a pleasant