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The next evening, Friend Barton sat by his wife’s easy-chair, drawn into the circle of firelight, with his elbows on his knees, and his head between his hands.

The worn spot on the top of his head had widened considerably during the summer, but Rachel looked stronger and brighter than she had for many a day. There was even a little flush on her cheek, but that might have come from the excitement of a long talk with her husband.

“I’m sorry thee takes it so hard, Thomas; I was afraid thee would. But the way didn’t seem to open for me to do much. I can see now, that Dorothy’s inclinations have been turning this way for some time, though it’s not likely she would own it, poor child; and Walter Evesham’s not one who is easily gainsayed. If thee could only feel differently about it, I can’t say but it would make me very happy to see Dorothy’s heart satisfied. Can’t thee bring thyself into unity with it, father? He’s a nice young man. They’re nice folks. Thee can’t complain of the blood. Margaret Evesham tells me a cousin of hers married one of the Lawrences, so we are kind of kin, after all.”

“I don’t complain of the blood; they’re well enough placed as far as the world is concerned! But their ways are not our ways, Rachel! Their faith is not our faith!”

“Well! I can’t see such a very great difference, come to live among them! ‘By their fruits ye shall know them.’ To comfort the widow and the fatherless, and keep ourselves unspotted from the world!–thee’s always preached that, father! I really can’t see any more worldliness here than among many households with us,–and I’m sure if we haven’t been the widow and the fatherless this summer, we’ve been next to it!”

Friend Barton raised his head a little, and rested his forehead on his clasped hands.

“Rachel,” he said, “look at that!” He pointed upward to an ancient sword with belt and trappings, which gleamed on the panelled chimney-piece–crossed by an old queen’s arm. Evesham had given up his large sunny room to Dorothy’s mother, but he had not removed all his lares and penates.

“Yes, dear; that’s his grandfather’s sword–Colonel Evesham, who was killed at Saratoga!”

“Why does he hang up that thing of abomination for a light and a guide to his footsteps, if his way be not far from ours?”

“Why, father! Colonel Evesham was a good man!–I dare say he fought for the same reason that thee preaches–because he felt it his duty!”

“I find no fault with him, Rachel. Doubtless he followed his light, as thee says; but he followed it in better ways too. He cleared land and built a homestead and a meeting-house. Why don’t his grandson hang up his old broad-ax and ploughshare, and worship them, if he must have idols, instead of that symbol of strife and bloodshed. Does thee want our Dorothy’s children to grow up under the shadow of that sword?”

There was a stern light of prophecy in the old man’s eyes.

“Maybe Walter Evesham would take it down,” said Rachel, leaning back wearily and closing her eyes. “I never was much of a hand to argue, even if I had the strength for it; but it would hurt me a good deal–I must say it–if thee denies Dorothy in this matter, Thomas. It’s a very serious thing to have old folks try to turn young hearts the way they think they ought to go. I remember now,–I was thinking about it last night, and it all came back as fresh! I don’t know that I ever told thee about that young friend who visited me before I heard thee preach at Stony Valley? Well! father, he was wonderful pleased with him, but I didn’t feel any drawing that way. He urged me a good deal, more than was pleasant for either of us. He wasn’t at all reconciled to thee, Thomas, if thee remember.”

“I remember,” said Thomas Barton, “it was an anxious time.”

“Well dear, if father had insisted, and sent thee away, I can’t say but life would have been a very different thing to me.”

“I thank thee for saying it, Rachel.” Friend Barton’s head drooped between his hands.

“Thee’s suffered much through me; thee’s had a hard life, but thee’s been well beloved.”

The flames leaped and flickered in the chimney, they touched the wrinkled hands, whose only beauty was in their deeds; they crossed the room and lit the pillows where, for three generations, young heads had dreamed, and gray heads had watched and suffered; then they mounted to the chimney and struck a gleam from the sword.

“Well, father,” said Rachel, “what answer is thee going to give Walter Evesham?”

“I shall say no more, my dear. Let the young folks have their way. There’s strife and contention enough in the world without my stirring up more. And it may be I’m resisting the Master’s will; I left her in His care: this may be His way of dealing with her.”

Walter Evesham did not take down his grandfather’s sword. Fifty years later another went up beside it,–the sword of a young Evesham who never left the field of Shiloh; and beneath them both hangs the portrait of the Quaker grandmother, Dorothy Evesham, at the age of sixty-nine.

The golden ripples, silver now, are hidden under a “round-eared cap,” the quick flush has faded in her cheek, and fold upon fold of snowy gauze and creamy silk are crossed over the bosom that thrilled to the fiddles of Slocum’s barn. She has found the cool grays and the still waters; but on Dorothy’s children rests the “Shadow of the Sword”!