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
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