On that return voyage from England, he inwardly vowed that his first act
on getting ashore would be to find Deborah Read and make peace with her
and his conscience. And true to his vow, he found her, but she was the
wife of another. Her mother believed that Franklin had run away simply to
get rid of her, and the poor girl, dazed and forlorn, bereft of will, had
been induced to marry a man by the name of Rogers, who was a potter and
also a potterer, but who Franklin says was "a very good potter."

After some months, Deborah left the potter, because she did not like to be
reproved with a strap, and went home to her mother.

Franklin was now well in the way of prosperity, aged twenty-four, with a
little printing business, plans plus, and ambitions to spare. He had had
his little fling in life, and had done various things of which he was
ashamed; and the foolish things that Deborah had done were no worse than
those of which he had been guilty. So he called on her, and they talked it
over and made honest confessions that are good for the soul. The potter
disappeared--no one knew where--some said he was dead, but Benjamin and
Deborah did not wear mourning. They took rumor's word for it, and thanked
God, and went to a church and were married.

Deborah brought to the firm a very small dowry; and Benjamin contributed a
bright baby boy, aged two years, captured no one knows just where. This
boy was William Franklin, who grew up into a very excellent man, and the
worst that can be said of him is that he became Governor of New Jersey. He
loved and respected his father, and called Deborah mother, and loved her
very much. And she was worthy of all love, and ever treated him with
tenderness and gentlest considerate care. Possibly a blot on the
'scutcheon may, in the working of God's providence, not always be a dire