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“I had it on my mind to do so,–if my light be not quenched before then.”

Friend Barton’s light was not quenched. Words came to him without seeking, in which to “open the concern which had ripened in his mind,” of a religious visit to the meeting constituting the yearly meetings of Philadelphia and Baltimore. A “minute” was given him encouraging him in the name of, and with the full concurrence of, the monthly meetings of Nine Partners, and Stony Valley, to go wherever the Truth might lead him. While Friend Barton was thus freshly anointed, and “abundantly encouraged,” his wife, Rachel, was talking with Dorothy in the low upper chamber, known as the “wheel-room.”

Dorothy was spinning wool on the big wheel, dressed in her light calico short-gown and brown quilted petticoat; her arms were bare, and her hair was gathered away from her flushed cheeks and knotted behind her ears. The roof sloped down on one side, and the light came from a long low window under the eaves. There was another window (shaped like a half moon high up in the peak), but it sent down only one long beam of sunlight, which glimmered across the dust and fell upon Dorothy’s white neck.

The wheel was humming a quick measure, and Dorothy trod lightly back and forth, the wheel-pin in one hand, the other upraised holding the tense, lengthening thread, which the spindle devoured again.

“Dorothy, thee looks warm:–can’t thee sit down a moment, while I talk to thee?”

“Is it anything important, mother? I want to get my twenty knots before dinner.” She paused as she joined a long tress of wool at the spindle. “Is it anything about father?”

“Yes, it’s about father, and all of us.”

“I know,” said Dorothy, stretching herself back with a sigh. “He’s going away again!”

“Yes, dear. He feels that he is called. It is a time of trouble and contention everywhere,–‘the harvest truly is plenteous, but the laborers are few.'”

“There are not so many‘laborers’ here, mother, though to be sure, the harvest–“

“Dorothy, my daughter! don’t let a spirit of levity creep into thy speech. Thy father has striven and wrestled with his urgings. I’ve seen it working on him all winter; he feels now it is the Lord’s will.”

“I don’t see how he can be so sure,” said Dorothy, swaying gloomily to and fro against the wheel. “I don’t care for myself,–I’m not afraid of work,–but thee’s not able to do what thee does now, mother. If I have outside things to look after, how can I help thee as I should? The boys are about as much dependence as a flock of barn swallows!”

“Don’t fret about me, dear; the way will open. Thy father has thought and planned for us; have patience while I tell thee. Thee knows Walter Evesham’s pond is small and his mill is doing a thriving business?”

“Yes, I know it!” Dorothy exclaimed. “He has his own share, and ours too–most of it!”

“Wait, dear, wait! Thy father has rented him the ponds to use when his own gives out. He is to have the control of the water, and it will give us a little income, even though the old mill does stand idle.”

“He may as well take the mill, too. If father is away all summer it will be useless ever to start it again. Thee’ll see, mother, how it will end if Walter Evesham has the custom and the water all summer. I think it’s miserable for a young man to be so keen about money.”

“Dorothy, seems to me thee’s hasty in thy judgments. I never heard that said of Walter Evesham. His father left him with capital to improve his mill. It does better work than ours; we can’t complain of that. Thy father was never one to study much after ways of making money. He felt he had no right to more than an honest livelihood. I don’t say that Walter Evesham’s in the wrong. We know that Joseph took advantage of his opportunities, though I can’t say that I ever felt much unity with some of his transactions. What would thee have, my dear? Thee’s discouraged with thy father for choosing the thorny way, which we tread with him; but thee seems no better satisfied with one who considers the flesh and its wants!”