The quiet, sedate city of Penn had in truth lost its air of demure respectability. As the metropolis of the colonies it attracted all those adventurers of the older countries who sought to mend their fortunes at the expense of the new United States. Many also who were sincere in their admiration of the struggle for liberty had come to offer Congress their services, and taverns and inns were filled to overflowing with strangers of distinction and otherwise. Militia drilled; troops marched and countermarched; while many British officers, prisoners on parole, paraded the streets, adding a bright bit of color with their scarlet coats. Mother and daughter passed slowly below High Street and continued down Second. Past shops they went, and the City Tavern, crowded about with sedan chairs and chaises; past the Loxley House, in which lived that Lydia Darrach who had stolen out of the city the winter before to warn the patriots of a contemplated attack by the British; past the dwelling of the Cadwaladers; past also the great house built and formerly owned by the Shippens; and on past other mansions with their gardens until finally they paused involuntarily as the sound of singing came to them. The sounds were wafted from the old Swedish church of Gloria Dei, and the two stood in silence until the singing ceased. “Friends believe not in hymns or singing,” remarked Mrs. Owen as they turned to retrace their steps. “But there is something about the intoning of the psalms that calms the mind. It has ever brought comfort to me.” “Mother,” spoke Peggy shyly. “Yes, my daughter.” “The one thing that I have always minded about the Friends is that very lack of music. When I see other girls play the spinet I too would like dearly to play upon it. I have always loved music, mother.” “I know thee has, Peggy. That is the reason that I have not chided thee when I heard thee singing the ballads and songs of the world’s people. Perhaps some time we may see our way to thy learning the spinet. If it is right thee will be led to it.” “I know,” answered Peggy. And then, after a moment—“What troubled thee, mother?” “Vanities, child. ’Twas the dressing, and the pomade, and the powder discovered in the meeting. I have never seen so much before. And also, I shame to confess it, Peggy, thy garb troubled me.” “Mine, mother?” Peggy looked up in amazement, and then glanced down at her girlish frock of chintz. “Why, mother?”