Jack and I had of late expected this, and I, for one, was not grieved, but my friend was less well pleased. We strolled across to the Schuylkill, and there, sitting down, amused ourselves with making a little crown of twisted twigs and leaves of the red and yellow maples. This we set merrily on my mother’s gray beaver, while Mr. Wilson declared it most becoming. Just then Friend Pemberton and my father came upon us, and, as usual when the latter appeared, our laughter ceased. “I shall want thee this afternoon, Hugh,” he said. “And what foolishness is this on thy head, wife? Art thou going home in this guise?” “It seems an innocent prettiness,” said Pemberton, while my mother, in no wise dismayed, looked up with her big blue eyes. “Thou wilt always be a child,” said my father. “_Je l’espere_,” said the mother; “must I be put in a corner? The _bon Dieu_ hath just changed the forest fashions. I wonder is He a Quaker, Friend Pemberton?” “Thou hast ever a neat answer,” said the gentle old man. “Come, John, we are not yet done.” My father said no more, and we boys were still as mice. We went homeward with our mirth quite at an end, Jack and Wilson leaving us at Fourth street. In the afternoon about six--for an hour had been named--I saw my aunt’s chaise at the door. I knew at once that something unusual was in store, for Mistress Wynne rarely came hither except to see my mother, and then always in the forenoon. Moreover, I noticed my father at the window, and never had I known him to return so early. When I went in he said at once: “I have been telling thy aunt of my intention in regard to thee.” “And I utterly disapprove of it,” said my aunt. “Wait,” he said. “I desire that thou shalt enter as one of my clerks; but first it is my will that, as the great and good proprietary decreed, thou shouldst acquire some mechanic trade; I care not what.” I was silent; I did not like it. Even far later, certain of the stricter Friends adhered to a rule which was once useful, but was now no longer held to be of imperative force. “I would suggest shoemaking,” said my Aunt Gainor, scornfully, “or tailoring.” “I beg of thee, Gainor,” said my mother, “not to discontent the lad.” “In this matter,” returned my father, “I will not be thwarted. I asked thee to come hither, not to ridicule a sensible decision, but to consult upon it.” “You have had all my wisdom,” said the lady. “I had thought to ask my friend, Charles Townshend, for a pair of colours; but now that troops are sent to Boston to override all reason, I doubt it. Do as you will with the boy. I wash my hands of him.” This was by no means my father’s intention. I saw his face set in an expression I well knew; but my mother laid a hand on his arm, and, with what must have been a great effort, he controlled his anger, and said coldly: “I have talked this over with thy friend, Joseph Warder, and he desired that his son should share in my decision as to Hugh. Talk to him, Gainor.”