farmers as any, and Alice is such a tidy housekeeper--that we could
manage very well without help. Only for thy sake, Henry: I fear
it would be a terrible disappointment to thee. Or is thee as
accustomed to the high seat as I to my place on the women's side?"

"No!" he answered emphatically. "The talk with De Courcy has set
my quiet Quaker blood in motion. The boy is more than half right;
I am sure Sylvia thinks so too. What could I expect? He has no
birthright, and didn't begin his task, as I did, after the bravery
of youth was over. It took six generations to establish the
serenity and content of our brethren here, and the dress we wear
don't give us the nature. De Courcy is tired of the masquerade,
and Sylvia is tired of seeing it. Thou, my little Susan, who wert
so timid at first, puttest us all to shame now!"

"I think I was meant for it,--Alice, and Henry, and I," said she.

No outward change in Henry Donnelly's demeanor betrayed this or any
other disturbance at home. There were repeated consultations
between the father and son, but they led to no satisfactory
conclusion. De Courcy was sincerely attached to the pretty
Presbyterian maiden, and found livelier society in her brothers and
cousins than among the grave, awkward Quaker youths of Londongrove.

With the occasional freedom from restraint there awoke in him
a desire for independence--a thirst for the suppressed license of
youth. His new acquaintances were accustomed to a rigid domestic
regime, but of a different character, and they met on a common
ground of rebellion. Their aberrations, it is true, were not of a
very formidable character, and need not have been guarded but for