The approach of night, at sea and in a wilderness, has
always something more solemn in it, than on land in the
centre of civilization. As the curtain is drawn before his
eyes, the solitude of the mariner is increased, while even his
sleepless vigilance seems, in a measure, baffled, by the
manner in which he is cut off from the signs of the hour.
Thus, too, in the forest, or in an isolated clearing, the mysteries
of the woods are deepened, and danger is robbed of
its forethought and customary guards. That evening, Major

[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]

Willoughby stood at a window with an arm round the slender
waist of Beulah, Maud standing a little aloof; and, as the
twilight retired, leaving the shadows of evening to thicken
on the forest that lay within a few hundred feet of that side
of the Hut, and casting a gloom over the whole of the quiet
solitude, he felt the force of the feeling just mentioned, in a
degree he had never before experienced.

“This is a very retired abode, my sisters,” he said,
thoughtfully. “Do my father and mother never speak of
bringing you out more into the world?”

“They take us to New York every winter, now father is
in the Assembly,” quietly answered Beulah. “We expected
to meet you there, last season, and were greatly disappointed
that you did not come.”

“My regiment was sent to the eastward, as you know,
and having just received my new rank of major, it would
not do to be absent at the moment. Do you ever see any
one here, besides those who belong to the manor?”

“Oh! yes”—exclaimed Maud eagerly—then she paused,
as if sorry she had said anything; continuing, after a little
pause, in a much more moderated vein—“I mean occasionally.
No doubt the place is very retired.”

“Of what characters are your visiters?—hunters, trappers,
settlers—savages or travellers?”

Maud did not answer; but, Beulah, after waiting a moment
for her sister to reply, took that office on herself.

“Some of all,” she said, “though few certainly of the
latter class. The hunters are often here; one or two a
month, in the mild season; settlers rarely, as you may suppose,
since my father will not sell, and there are not many
about, I believe; the Indians come more frequently, though
I think we have seen less of them, during Nick's absence,
than while he was more with us. Still we have as many as
a hundred in a year, perhaps, counting the women. They
come in parties, you know, and five or six of these will
make that number. As for travellers, they are rare; being
generally surveyors, land-hunters, or perhaps a proprietor
who is looking up his estate. We had two of the last in the
fall, before we went below.”

“That is singular; and yet one might well look for an
estate in a wilderness like this. Who were your proprietors?”

[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]

“An elderly man, and a young one. The first was a sort
of partner of the late Sir William's, I believe, who has a
grant somewhere near us, for which he was searching. His
name was Fonda. The other was one of the Beekmans,
who has lately succeeded his father in a property of considerable
extent, somewhere at no great distance from us, and
came to take a look at it. They say he has quite a hundred
thousand acres, in one body.”

“And did he find his land? Tracts of thousands and tens
of thousands, are sometimes not to be discovered.”

“We saw him twice, going and returning, and he was
successful. The last time, he was detained by a snow-storm,
and staid with us some days — so long, indeed, that he
remained, and accompanied us out, when we went below.
We saw much of him, too, last winter, in town.”

“Maud, you wrote me nothing of all this! Are visiters
of this sort so very common that you do not speak of them
in your letters?”

“Did I not?—Beulah will scarce pardon me for that.
She thinks Mr. Evert Beekman more worthy of a place in
a letter, than I do, perhaps.”

“I think him a very respectable and sensible young
man,” answered Beulah quietly, though there was a deeper
tint on her cheek than common, which it was too dark to
see. “I am not certain, however, he need fill much space
in the letters of either of your sisters.”

“Well, this is something gleaned!” said the major, laughing—
“and now, Beulah, if you will only let out a secret of
the same sort about Maud, I shall be au fait of all the
family mysteries.”

“All!” repeated Maud, quickly—“would there be nothing
to tell of a certain major Willoughby, brother of
mine?”

“Not a syllable. I am as heart-whole as a sound oak,
and hope to remain so. At all events, all I love is in this
house. To tell you the truth, girls, these are not times for
a soldier to think of anything but his duty. The quarrel is
getting to be serious between the mother country and her
colonies.”

“Not so serious, brother,” observed Beulah, earnestly,
“as to amount to that. Evert Beekman thinks there will

[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]

be trouble, but he does not appear to fancy it will go as far
as very serious violence.”

“Evert Beekman!—most of that family are loyal, I believe;
how is it with this Evert?”

“I dare say, you would call him a rebel,” answered Maud,
laughing, for now Beulah chose to be silent, leaving her
sister to explain. “He is not fiery; but he calls himself
an American, with emphasis; and that is saying a good
deal, when it means he is not an Englishman. Pray what
do you call yourself, Bob?”

“I!—Certainly an American in one sense, but an Englishman
in another. An American, as my father was a
Cumberland-man, and an Englishman as a subject, and as
connected with the empire.”

“As St. Paul was a Roman. Heigho!—Well, I fear I
have but one character—or, if I have two, they are an
American, and a New York girl. Did I dress in scarlet,
as you do, I might feel English too, possibly.”

“This is making a triffing misunderstanding too serious,”
observed Beulah. “Nothing can come of all the big words
that have been used, than more big words. I know that is
Evert Beekman's opinion.”

“I hope you may prove a true prophet,” answered the
major, once more buried in thought. “This place does
seem to be fearfully retired for a family like ours. I hope
my father may be persuaded to pass more of his time in
New York. Does he ever speak on the subject, girls, or
appear to have any uneasiness?”

“Uneasiness about what? The place is health itself;
all sorts of fevers, and agues, and those things being quite
unknown. Mamma says the toothache, even, cannot be found
in this healthful spot.”

“That is lucky—and, yet, I wish captain Willoughby—
Sir Hugh Willoughby could be induced to live more in
New York. Girls of your time of life, ought to be in the
way of seeing the world, too.”

“In other words, of seeing admirers, major Bob,” said
Maud, laughing, and bending forward to steal a glance in
her brother's face. “Good night. Sir Hugh wishes us to
send you into his library when we can spare you, and my
lady has sent us a hint that it is ten o'clock, at which hour
it is usual for sober people to retire.”

[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]

The major kissed both sisters with warm affection—
Beulah fancied with a sobered tenderness, and Maud thought
kindly—and then they retired to join their mother, while he
went to seek his father.

The captain was smoking in the library, as a room of
all-head-work was called, in company with the chaplain.
The practice of using tobacco in this form, had grown to be
so strong in both of these old inmates of garrisons, that they
usually passed an hour, in the recreation, before they went
to bed. Nor shall we mislead the reader with any notions
of fine-flavoured Havana segars; pipes, with Virginia cut,
being the materials employed in the indulgence. A little
excellent Cogniac and water, in which however the spring
was not as much neglected, as in the orgies related in the
previous chapter, moistened their lips, from time to time,
giving a certain zest and comfort to their enjoyments. Just
as the door opened to admit the major, he was the subject
of discourse, the proud parent and the partial friend finding
almost an equal gratification in discussing his fine, manly
appearance, good qualities, and future hopes. His presence
was untimely, then, in one sense; though he was welcome,
and, indeed, expected. The captain pushed a chair to his
son, and invited him to take a seat near the table, which
held a spare pipe or two, a box of tobacco, a decanter of
excellent brandy, a pitcher of pure water, all pleasant companions
to the elderly gentlemen, then in possession.

“I suppose you are too much of a maccaroni, Bob, to
smoke,” observed the smiling father. “I detested a pipe at
your time of life; or may say, I was afraid of it; the only
smoke that was in fashion among our scarlet coats being
the smoke of gunpowder. Well, how comes on Gage, and
your neighbours the Yankees?”

“Why, sir,” answered the major, looking behind him, to
make sure that the door was shut—“Why, sir, to own the
truth, my visit, here, just at this moment, is connected with
the present state of that quarrel.”

Both the captain and the chaplain drew the pipes from
their mouths, holding them suspended in surprise and attention.

“The deuce it is!” exclaimed the former. “I thought I
owed this unexpected pleasure to your affectionate desire to

[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]

let me know I had inherited the empty honours of a baronetey!”

“That was one motive, sir, but the least. I beg you to
remember the awkwardness of my position, as a king's
officer, in the midst of enemies.”

“The devil! I say, parson, this exceeds heresy and
schism! Do you call lodging in your father's house, major
Willoughby, being in the midst of enemies? This is rebellion
against nature, and is worse than rebellion against the
king.”

“My dear father, no one feels more secure with you,
than I do; or, even, with Mr. Woods, here. But, there are
others besides you two, in this part of the world, and your
very settlement may not be safe a week longer; probably
would not be, if my presence in it were known.”

Both the listeners, now, fairly laid down their pipes, and
the smoke began gradually to dissipate, as it might have
been rising from a field of battle. One looked at the other,
in wonder, and, then, both looked at the major, in curiosity.

“What is the meaning of all this, my son?” asked the
captain, gravely. “Has anything new occurred to complicate
the old causes of quarrel?”

“Blood has, at length, been drawn, sir; open rebellion
has commenced!”

“This is a serious matter, indeed, if it be really so. But
do you not exaggerate the consequences of some fresh indiscretion
of the soldiery, in firing on the people? Remember,
in the other affair, even the colonial authorities justified
the officers.”

“This is a very different matter, sir. Blood has not been
drawn in a riot, but in a battle.”

“Battle! You amaze me, sir! That is indeed a serious
matter, and may lead to most serious consequences!”

“The Lord preserve us from evil times,” ejaculated the
chaplain, “and lead us, poor, dependent creatures that we
are, into the paths of peace and quietness! Without his
grace, we are the blind leading the blind.”

“Do you mean, major Willoughby, that armed and disciplined
bodies have met in actual conflict?”

“Perhaps not literally so, my dear father; but the minute-men
of Massachusetts, and His Majesty's forces, have met

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

and fought. This I know, full well; for my own regiment
was in the field, and, I hope it is unnecessary to add, that
its second officer was not absent.”

“Of course these minute-men—rabble would be the better
word—could not stand before you?” said the captain, compressing
his lips, under a strong impulse of military pride.

Major Willoughby coloured, and, to own the truth, at that
moment he wished the Rev. Mr. Woods, if not literally at
the devil, at least safe and sound in another room; anywhere,
so it were out of ear-shot of the answer.

“Why, sir,” he said, hesitating, not to say stammering,
notwithstanding a prodigious effort to seem philosophical
and calm—“To own the truth, these minute-fellows are not
quite as contemptible as we soldiers would be apt to think.
It was a stone-wall affair, and dodging work; and, so, you
know, sir, drilled troops wouldn't have the usual chance.
They pressed us pretty warmly on the retreat.”

“Retreat! Major Willoughby!”

“I called it retreat, sure enough; but it was only a march
in, again, after having done the business on which we went
out. I shall admit, I say, sir, that we were hard pressed,
until reinforced.”

“Reinforced, my dear Bob! Your regiment, our regiment
could not need a reinforcement against all the Yankees
in New England.”

The major could not abstain from laughing, a little, at
this exhibition of his father's esprit de corps; but native
frankness, and love of truth, compelled him to admit the
contrary.

“It did, sir, notwithstanding,” he answered; “and, not
to mince the matter, it needed it confoundedly. Some of
our officers who have seen the hardest service of the last
war, declare, that taking the march, and the popping work,
and the distance, altogether, it was the warmest day they
remember. Our loss, too, was by no means insignificant,
as I hope you will believe, when you know the troops engaged.
We report something like three hundred casualties.”

The captain did not answer for quite a minute. All this
time he sat thoughtful, and even pale; for his mind was
teeming with the pregnant consequences of such an

[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]

outbreak. Then he desired his son to give a succinct, but
connected history of the whole affair. The major complied,
beginning his narrative with an account of the general state
of the country, and concluding it, by giving, as far as it was
possible for one whose professional pride and political feelings
were too deeply involved to be entirely impartial, a
reasonably just account of the particular occurrence already
mentioned.

The events that led to, and the hot skirmish which it is the
practice of the country to call the Battle of Lexington, and
the incidents of the day itself, are too familiar to the ordinary
reader, to require repetition here. The major explained
all the military points very clearly, did full justice to the
perseverance and daring of the provincials, as he called his
enemies—for, an American himself, he would not term them
Americans—and threw in as many explanatory remarks as
he could think of, by way of vindicating the “march in,
again.” This he did, too, quite as much out of filial piety,
as out of self-love; for, to own the truth, the captain's mortification,
as a soldier, was so very evident as to give his son
sensible pain.

“The effect of all this,” continued the major, when his
narrative of the military movements was ended, “has been
to raise a tremendous feeling, throughout the country, and
God knows what is to follow.”

“And this you have come hither to tell me, Robert,” said
the father, kindly. “It is well done, and as I would have
expected from you. We might have passed the summer,
here, and not have heard a whisper of so important an
event.”

“Soon after the affair—or, as soon as we got some notion
of its effect on the provinces, general Gage sent me, privately,
with despatches to governor Tryon. He, governor
Tryon, was aware of your position; and, as I had also to
communicate the death of Sir Harry Willoughby, he directed
me to come up the river, privately, have an interview with
Sir John, if possible, and then push on, under a feigned
name, and communicate with you. He thinks, now Sir
William is dead, that with your estate, and new rank, and
local influence, you might be very serviceable in sustaining
the royal cause; for, it is not to be concealed that this affair

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

is likely to take the character of an open and wide-spread
revolt against the authority of the crown.”

“General Tryon does me too much honour,” answered
the captain, coldly. “My estate is a small body of wild
land; my influence extends little beyond this beaver meadow,
and is confined to my own household, and some fifteen
or twenty labourers; and as for the new rank of which you
speak, it is not likely the colonists will care much for that,
if they disregard the rights of the king. Still, you have
acted like a son in running the risk you do, Bob; and I pray
God you may get back to your regiment, in safety.”

“This is a cordial to my hopes, sir; for nothing would
pain me more than to believe you think it my duty, because
I was born in the colonies, to throw up my commission, and
take side with the rebels.”

“I do not conceive that to be your duty, any more than
I conceive it to be mine to take sides against them, because
I happened to be born in England. It is a weak view of
moral obligations, that confines them merely to the accidents
of birth, and birth-place. Such a subsequent state of things
may have grown up, as to change all our duties, and it is
necessary that we discharge them as they are; not as they
may have been, hitherto, or may be, hereafter. Those who
clamour so much about mere birth-place, usually have no
very clear sense of their higher obligations. Over our birth
we can have no control; while we are rigidly responsible
for the fulfilment of obligations voluntarily contracted.”

“Do you reason thus, captain?” asked the chaplain, with
strong interest—“Now, I confess, I feel, in this matter, not
only very much like a native American, but very much
like a native Yankee, in the bargain. You know I was born
in the Bay, and—the major must excuse me—but, it ill-becomes
my cloth to deceive—I hope the major will pardon
me—I—I do hope—”

“Speak out, Mr. Woods,” said Robert Willoughby,
smiling—“You have nothing to fear from your old friend
the major.”

“So I thought—so I thought—well, then, I was glad—
yes, really rejoiced at heart, to hear that my countrymen,
down-east, there, had made the king's troops scamper.”

“I am not aware that I used any such terms, sir, in

[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]

connection with the manner in which we marched in, after the
duty we went out on was performed,” returned the young
soldier, a little stiffly. “I suppose it is natural for one
Yankee to sympathize with another; but, my father, Mr.
Woods, is an Old England, and not a New-England-man;
and he may be excused if he feel more for the servants of
the crown.”

“Certainly, my dear major—certainly, my dear Mr. Robert—
my old pupil, and, I hope, my friend—all this is true
enough, and very natural. I allow captain Willoughby to
wish the best for the king's troops, while I wish the best for
my own countrymen.”

“This is natural, on both sides, out of all question, though
it by no means follows that it is right. `Our country, right
or wrong,' is a high-sounding maxim, but it is scarcely the
honest man's maxim. Our country, after all, cannot have
nearer claims upon us, than our parents for instance; and
who can claim a moral right to sustain even his own father,
in error, injustice, or crime? No, no—I hate your pithy
sayings; they commonly mean nothing that is substantially
good, at bottom.”

“But one's country, in a time of actual war, sir!” said
the major, in a tone of as much remonstrance as habit would
allow him to use to his own father.

“Quite true, Bob; but the difficulty here, is to know
which is one's country. It is a family quarrel, at the best,
and it will hardly do to talk about foreigners, at all. It is the
same as if I should treat Maud unkindly, or harshly, because
she is the child of only a friend, and not my own
natural daughter. As God is my judge, Woods, I am unconscious
of not loving Maud Meredith, at this moment, as
tenderly as I love Beulah Willoughby. There was a period,
in her childhood, when the playful little witch had most of
my heart, I am afraid, if the truth were known. It is use,
and duty, then, and not mere birth, that ought to tie our
hearts.”

The major thought it might very well be that one child
should be loved more than another, though he did not understand
how there could be a divided allegiance. The
chaplain looked at the subject with views still more narrowed,
and he took up the cudgels of argument in sober earnest,

[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

conceiving this to be as good an opportunity as another, for
disposing of the matter.

“I am all for birth, and blood, and natural ties,” he said,
“always excepting the peculiar claims of Miss Maud, whose
case is sui generis, and not to be confounded with any
other case. A man can have but one country, any more
than he can have but one nature; and, as he is forced to
be true to that nature, so ought he morally to be true to
that country. The captain says, that it is difficult to determine
which is one's country, in a civil war; but I cannot
admit the argument. If Massachusetts and England get to
blows, Massachusetts is my country; if Suffolk and Worcester
counties get into a quarrel, my duty calls me to
Worcester, where I was born; and so I should carry out
the principle from country to country, county to county,
town to town, parish to parish; or, even household to household.”

“This is an extraordinary view of one's duty, indeed,
my dear Mr. Woods,” cried the major, with a good deal of
animation; “and if one-half the household quarrelled with
the other, you would take sides with that in which you
happened to find yourself, at the moment.”

“It is an extraordinary view of one's duty, for a parson;”
observed the captain. “Let us reason backward a little,
and ascertain where we shall come out. You put the head
of the household out of the question. Has he no claims?
Is a father to be altogether overlooked in the struggle between
the children? Are his laws to be broken—his rights
invaded—or his person to be maltreated, perhaps, and his
curse disregarded, because a set of unruly children get by
the ears, on points connected with their own selfishness?”

“I give up the household,” cried the chaplain, “for the
bible settles that; and what the bible disposes of, is beyond
dispute—`Honour thy father and thy mother, that thy days
may be long in the land which the Lord thy God giveth
thee'—are terrible words, and must not be disobeyed. But
the decalogue has not another syllable which touches the
question. `Thou shalt not kill,' means murder only; common,
vulgar murder—and `thou shalt not steal,' `thou shalt
not commit adultery,' &c., don't bear on civil war, as I see.
`Remember the Sabbath to keep it holy'—`Thou shalt not

[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]

covet the ox nor the ass'—`Thou shalt not take the name
of the Lord thy God in vain'—none of these, not one of
them, bears, at all, on this question.”

“What do you think of the words of the Saviour, where
he tells us to `render unto Cæsar the things which are
Cæsar's?' Has Cæsar no rights here? Can Massachusetts
and my Lord North settle their quarrels in such a manner
as to put Cæsar altogether out of view?”

The chaplain looked down a moment, pondered a little,
and then he came up to the attack, again, with renewed
ardour.

“Cæsar is out of the question here. If His Majesty will
come and take sides with us, we shall be ready to honour
and obey him; but if he choose to remain alienated from us,
it is his act, not ours.”

“This is a new mode of settling allegiance! If Cæsar
will do as we wish, he shall still be Cæsar; but, if he refuse
to do as we wish, then down with Cæsar. I am an old
soldier, Woods, and while I feel that this question has two
sides to it, my disposition to reverence and honour the king
is still strong.”

The major appeared delighted, and, finding matters going
on so favourably, he pleaded fatigue and withdrew, feeling
satisfied that, if his father fairly got into a warm discussion,
taking the loyal side of the question, he would do more to
confirm himself in the desired views, than could be effected
by any other means. By this time, the disputants were so
warm as scarcely to notice the disappearance of the young
man, the argument proceeding.

The subject is too hackneyed, and, indeed, possesses too
little interest, to induce us to give more than an outline of
what passed. The captain and the chaplain belonged to
that class of friends, which may be termed argumentative.
Their constant discussions were a strong link in the chain
of esteem; for they had a tendency to enliven their solitude,
and to give a zest to lives that, without them, would have
been exceedingly monotonous. Their ordinary subjects
were theology and war; the chaplain having some practical
knowledge of the last, and the captain a lively disposition
to the first. In these discussions, the clergyman was good-natured,
and the soldier polite; circumstances that tended

[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]

to render them far more agreeable to the listeners than they
might otherwise have proved.

On the present occasion, the chaplain rang the changes
diligently, on the natural feelings, while his friend spoke
most of the higher duties. The ad captandum part of the
argument, oddly enough, fell to the share of the minister of
the church; while the intellectual, discriminating, and really
logical portion of the subject, was handled by one trained
in garrisons and camps, with a truth, both of ethics and
reason, that would have done credit to a drilled casuist.
The war of words continued till past midnight, both disputants
soon getting back to their pipes, carrying on the
conflict amid a smoke that did no dishonour to such a well-contested
field. Leaving the captain and his friend thus
intently engaged, we will take one or two glimpses into
different parts of the house, before we cause all our characters
to retire for the night.

About the time the battle in the library was at its height,
Mrs. Willoughby was alone in her room, having disposed
of all the cares, and most of the duties of the day. The
mother's heart was filled with a calm delight that it would
have been difficult for herself to describe. All she held most
dear on earth, her husband, her kind-hearted, faithful, long-loved
husband; her noble son, the pride and joy of her
heart; Beulah, her own natural-born daughter, the mild,
tractable, sincere, true-hearted child that so much resembled
herself; and Maud, the adopted, one rendered dear by solicitude
and tenderness, and now so fondly beloved on her
own account, were all with her, beneath her own roof,
almost within the circle of her arms. The Hutted Knoll
was no longer a solitude; the manor was not a wilderness
to her; for where her heart was, there truly was her treasure,
also. After passing a few minutes in silent, but de-lightful
thought, this excellent, guileless woman knelt and
poured out her soul in thanksgivings to the Being, who had
surrounded her lot with so many blessings. Alas! little did
she suspect the extent, duration, and direful nature of the
evils which, at that very moment, were pending over her
native country, or the pains that her own affectionate heart
was to endure! The major had not suffered a whisper of
the real nature of his errand to escape him, except to his

[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]

father and the chaplain; and we will now follow him to his
apartment, and pass a minute, tête-à-tête, with the young
soldier, ere he too lays his head on his pillow.

A couple of neat rooms were prepared and furnished, that
were held sacred to the uses of the heir. They were known
to the whole household, black and white, as the “young
captain's quarters;” and even Maud called them, in her
laughing off-handedness, “Bob's Sanctum.” Here, then,
the major found everything as he left it on his last visit, a
twelvemonth before; and some few things that were strangers
to him, in the bargain. In that day, toilets covered
with muslin, more or less worked and ornamented, were a
regular appliance of every bed-room, of a better-class house,
throughout America. The more modern “Duchesses,”
“Psychés,” “dressing-tables,” &c. &c., of our own extravagant
and benefit-of-the-act-taking generation, were then
unknown; a moderately-sized glass, surrounded by curved,
gilded ornaments, hanging against the wall, above the said
muslin-covered table, quite as a matter of law, if not of domestic
faith.

As soon as the major had set down his candle, he looked
about him, as one recognises old friends, pleased at renewing
his acquaintance with so many dear and cherished objects.
The very playthings of his childhood were there;
and, even a beautiful and long-used hoop, was embellished
with ribbons, by some hand unknown to himself. “Can
this be my mother?” thought the young man, approaching
to examine the well-remembered hoop, which he had never
found so honoured before; “can my kind, tender-hearted
mother, who never will forget that I am no longer a child,
can she have really done this? I must laugh at her, to-morrow,
about it, even while I kiss and bless her.” Then
he turned to the toilet, where stood a basket, filled with
different articles, which, at once, he understood were offerings
to himself. Never had he visited the Hut without finding
such a basket in his room at night. It was a tender
proof how truly and well he was remembered, in his absence.

“Ah!” thought the major, as he opened a bundle of knit
lamb's-wool stockings, “here is my dear mother again, with
her thoughts about damp feet, and the exposure of service.

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And a dozen shirts, too, with `Beulah' pinned on one of
them—how the deuce does the dear girl suppose I am to
carry away such a stock of linen, without even a horse to
ease me of a bundle? My kit would be like that of the commander-in-chief,
were I to take away all that these dear
relatives design for me. What's this?—a purse! a handsome
silken purse, too, with Beulah's name on it. Has
Maud nothing, here? Why has Maud forgotten me! Ruffles,
handkerchiefs, garters—yes, here is a pair of my good mother's
own knitting, but nothing of Maud's—Ha! what have
we here? As I live, a beautiful silken scarf—netted in a
way to make a whole regiment envious. Can this have
been bought, or has it been the work of a twelvemonth?
No name on it, either. Would my father have done this?
Perhaps it is one of his old scarfs—if so, it is an old new
one, for I do not think it has ever been worn. I must inquire
into this, in the morning—I wonder there is nothing
of Maud's!”

As the major laid aside his presents, he kissed the scarf,
and then—I regret to say without saying his prayers—the
young man went to bed.

The scene must now be transferred to the room where
the sisters—in affection, if not in blood—were about to seek
their pillows also. Maud, ever the quickest and most prompt
in her movements, was already in her night-clothes; and,
wrapping a shawl about herself, was seated waiting for
Beulah to finish her nightly orisons. It was not long before
the latter rose from her knees, and then our heroine spoke.

“The major must have examined the basket by this time,”
she cried, her cheek rivalling the tint of a riband it leaned
against, on the back of the chair. “I heard his heavy
tramp—tramp—tramp—as he went to his room—how differently
these men walk from us girls, Beulah!”

“They do, indeed; and Bob has got to be so large and
heavy, now, that he quite frightens me, sometimes. Do you
not think he grows wonderfully like papa?”

“I do not see it. He wears his own hair, and it's a pity
he should ever cut it off, it's so handsome and curling. Then
he is taller, but lighter—has more colour—is so much
younger—and everyway so different, I wonder you think
so. I do not think him in the least like father.”

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