So she suffered through the hours when her father and mother danced in their wide gilt frames on the parlor wall, when torn dust lapped across lots from the west. Beyond the Joe Leens’ garden she could see whole streets-full of blue men with bayoneted muskets, jogging out into the fields north of town. Once she took her sunbonnet and went as far as the Deffenbaughs’: young Mrs. Gubbe shrieked from the door of a cellar, For pity sakes, Mis’ Duffey … She waved at the Gubbes, and walked on until she was ordered to return. A wheel had rolled from a gun-carriage; red-striped boys clustered around the gun, lifting and straining, the sun seeming to pick them out with especial ferocity. She felt very sorry for them and she wanted to call, “If you wouldn’t get in each other’s way you might get that thing fixed,” but for once she felt that she would say nothing. There was no sign of old Salt coming across the Diamond; nothing but more yellow mist, and more teams plunging through it, perverted in their anxiety to meet the thunder which grumbled in the north and west. Then a lone brown-faced youth with high, creased boots (he looked like someone she had known once, but she couldn’t place him; he had a precious fuzz of mutton-chop whiskers, and heaven knew he had sat up nights to raise that much) came scampering toward her on an ugly pony, and he yelled, “Thee had better go home before thee gets run down!” and he whirled the white-eyed pony in front of her, to compel her to turn back. She cried angrily, “My conscience!” and stepped among Mrs. Deffenbaugh’s honeysuckle bushes, but she did obey him, and turned back. Hours later she could have sworn that the youth was one of the Copes she had known in West Chester; he had the same nose and upper lip which Edge and Samuel and Edgar Cope all had. The Copes were Friends. It was absurd to think of Quakers scurrying through the dirt-clouds with big revolvers bumping against their saddles.