[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]

Although most of the people retired to their dwellings,
or their labours, as soon as the captain dismissed them, a
few remained to receive his farther orders. Among these
last were Joel, the carpenter, and the blacksmith. These
men now joined the chief of the settlement and his son, who
had lingered near the gateway, in conversation concerning
the alterations that the present state of things might render
necessary, in and about the Hut.

“Joel,” observed the captain, when the three men were
near enough to hear his orders, “this great change in the
times will render some changes in our means of defence
prudent, if not necessary.”

“Does the captain s'pose the people of the colony will
attack us?” asked the wily overseer, with emphasis.

“Perhaps not the people of the colony, Mr. Strides, for
we have not yet declared ourselves their enemies; but there
are other foes, who are more to be apprehended than the
people of the colony.”

“I should think the king's troops not likely to trouble
themselves to ventur' here—the road might prove easier to
come than to return. Besides, our plunder would scarce
pay for such a march.”

[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]

“Perhaps not — but there never has yet been a war in
these colonies that some of the savage tribes were not engaged
in it, before the whites had fairly got themselves into
line.”

“Do you really think, sir, there can be much serious
danger of that!” exclaimed the major, in surprise.

“Beyond a question, my son. The scalping-knife will
be at work in six months, if it be not busy already, should
one-half of your reports and rumours turn out to be true.
Such is American history.”

“I rather think, sir, your apprehensions for my mother
and sisters may mislead you. I do not believe the American
authorities will ever allow themselves to be driven into
a measure so perfectly horrible and unjustifiable; and were
the English ministry sufficiently cruel, or unprincipled, to
adopt the policy, the honest indignation of so humane a
people would be certain to drive them from power.”

As the major ceased speaking, he turned and caught the
expression of Joel's countenance, and was struck with the
look of intense interest with which the overseer watched his
own warm and sincere manner.

“Humanity is a very pretty stalking-horse for political
orations, Bob,” quietly returned the father; “but it will
scarcely count for much with an old campaigner. God
send you may come out of this war with the same ingenuous
and natural feelings as you go into it.”

“The major will scarce dread the savages, should he be
on the side of his nat'ral friends!” remarked Joel; “and if
what he says about the humanity of the king's advisers be
true, he will be safe from them.”

“The major will be on the side to which duty calls him,
Mr. Strides, if it may be agreeable to your views of the
matter,” answered the young man, with a little more hauteur
than the occasion required.

The father felt uneasy, and he regretted that his son had
been so indiscreet; though he saw no remedy but by drawing
the attention of the men to the matter before them.

“Neither the real wishes of the people of America, nor of
the people of England, will avail much, in carrying on this
war,” he said. “Its conduct will fall into the hands of
those who will look more to the ends than to the means;

[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]

and success will be found a sufficient apology for any wrong.
This has been the history of all the wars of my time, and it
is likely to prove the history of this. I fear it will make
little difference to us on which side we may be in feeling;
there will be savages to guard against in either case. This
gate must be hung, one of the first things, Joel; and I have
serious thoughts of placing palisades around the Knoll.
The Hut, well palisaded, would make a work that could not
be easily carried, without artillery.”

Joel seemed struck with the idea, though it did not appear
that it was favourably. He stood studying the house and
the massive gates for a minute or two, ere he delivered his
sentiments on the subject. When he did speak, it was a
good deal more in doubt, than in approbation.

“It's all very true, captain,” he said; the house would
seem to be a good deal more safe like, if the gates were up;
but, a body don't know; sometimes gates be a security, and
sometimes they isn't. It all depends on which side the
danger comes. Still, as these are made, and finished all to
hanging, it's 'most a pity, too, they shouldn't be used, if a
body could find time.”

“The time must be found, and the gates be hung,” interrupted
the captain, too much accustomed to Joel's doubting,
'sort-o'-concluding manner, to be always patient under the
infliction. “Not only the gates, but the palisades must be
got out, holes dug, and the circumvallation completed.”

“It must be as the captain says, of course, he being
master here. But time's precious in May. There's half
our plantin' to be done yet, and some of the ground hasn't
got the last ploughin'. Harvest won't come without seedtime;
for no man, let him be great, or let him be small —
and it does seem to me a sort o' wastin' of the Lord's
blessin's, to be hangin' gates, and diggin' holes for that —
the thing the captain mentioned — when there's no visible
danger in sight to recommend the measure to prudence, as
it might be.”

“That may be your opinion, Mr. Strides, but it is not
mine. I intend to guard against a visible danger that is out
of sight, and I will thank you to have these gates hung, this
very day.”

“This very day!—The captain's a mind to be musical

[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]

about the matter! Every hand in the settlement couldn't
get them gates in their places in less than a week.”

“It appears to me, Strides, you are `playing on the music,'
as you call it, yourself, now?”

“No, indeed, captain; them gates will have to be hung
on the mechanic principle; and it will take at least two or
three days for the carpenter and blacksmith to get up the
works that's to do it. Then the hanging, itself, I should
think would stand us in hand a day for each side. As for
the circumvalley, what between the cuttin', and haulin', and
diggin', and settin', that would occupy all hands until after
first hoein'. That is, hoein' would come afore the plantin'.”

“It does not appear to me, Bob, such a heavy job as Joel
represents! The gates are heavy, certainly, and may take
us a day or two; but, as for stockading—I've seen barracks
stockaded in, in a week, if I remember right. You know
something of this—what is your opinion?”

“That this house can be stockaded in, in the time you
mention; and, as I have a strong reluctance to leave the
family before it is in security, with your permission I will
remain and superinted the work.”

The offer was gladly accepted, on more accounts than
one; and the captain, accustomed to be obeyed when he
was in earnest, issued his orders forthwith, to let the work
proceed. Joel, however, was excused, in order that he
might finish the planting he had commenced, and which a
very few hands could complete within the required time.
As no ditch was necessary, the work was of a very simple
nature, and the major set about his portion of it without even
re-entering the house.

The first thing was to draw a line for a trench some six
or seven feet deep, that was to encircle the whole building,
at a distance of about thirty yards from the house. This
line ran, on each side of the Hut, on the very verge of the
declivities, rendering the flanks far more secure than the
front, where it crossed the lawn on a gently inclining surface.
In one hour the major had traced this line, with accuracy;
and he had six or eight men at work with spades,
digging the trench. A gang of hands was sent into the
woods, with orders to cut the requisite quantity of young
chestnuts; and, by noon, a load of the material actually

[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]

appeared on the ground. Still, nothing was done to the
gates.

To own the truth, the captain was now delighted. The
scene reminded him of some in his military life, and he
bustled about, giving his orders, with a good deal of the fire
of youth renewed, taking care, however, in no manner to
interfere with the plans of his son. Mike buried himself
like a mole, and had actually advanced several feet, before
either of the Yankees had got even a fair footing on the
bottom of his part of the trench. As for Jamie Allen, he
went to work with deliberation; but it was not long before
his naked gray hairs were seen on a level with the surface
of the ground. The digging was not hard, though a little
stony, and the work proceeded with spirit and success. All
that day, and the next, and the next, and the next, the Knoll
appeared alive, earth being cast upward, teams moving,
carpenters sawing, and labourers toiling. Many of the men
protested that their work was useless, unnecessary, unlawful
even; but no one dared hesitate under the eyes of the
major, when his father had once issued a serious command.
In the mean time, Joel's planting was finished, though he
made many long pauses while at work on the flats, to look
up and gaze at the scene of activity and bustle that was
presented at the Knoll. On the fourth day, towards evening,
he was obliged to join the general “bee,” with the few
hands he had retained with himself.

By this time, the trench was dug, most of the timber was
prepared, and the business of setting up the stockade was
commenced. Each young tree was cut to the length of
twenty feet, and pointed at one end. Mortices, to receive
cross-pieces, were cut at proper distances, and holes were
bored to admit the pins. This was all the preparation, and
the timbers were set in the trench, pointed ends uppermost.
When a sufficient number were thus arranged, a few inches
from each other, the cross-pieces were pinned on, bringing
the whole into a single connected frame, or bent. The bent
was then raised to a perpendicular, and secured, by pounding
the earth around the lower ends of the timbers. The
latter process required care and judgment, and it was entrusted
to the especial supervision of the deliberate Jamie;
the major having discovered that the Yankees, in general,

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were too impatient to get on, and to make a show. Serjeant
Joyce was particularly useful in dressing the rows of timber,
and in giving the whole arrangement a military air.

“Guid wark is far better than quick wark,” observed the
cool-headed Scotchman, as he moved about among the men,
“and it's no the fuss and bustle of acteevity that is to give
the captain pleasure. The thing that is well done, is done
with the least noise and confusion. Set the stockades mair
pairpendic'lar, my men.”

“Ay—dress them, too, my lads”—added the venerable
ex-serjeant.

“This is queer plantin', Jamie,” put in Joel, “and queerer
grain will come of it. Do you think these young chestnuts
will ever grow, ag'in, that you put them out in rows, like so
much corn?”

“Now it's no for the growth we does it, Joel, but to presairve
the human growth we have. To keep the savage
bairbers o' the wilderness fra' clippin' our polls before the
shearin' time o' natur' has gathered us a' in for the hairvest
of etairnity. They that no like the safety we're makin' for
them, can gang their way to 'ither places, where they'll find
no forts, or stockades to trouble their een.”

“I'm not critical at all, Jamie, though to my notion a
much better use for your timber plantation would be to turn
it into sheds for cattle, in the winter months. I can see some
good in that, but none in this.”

“Bad luck to ye, then, Misther Sthroddle,” cried Mike,
from the bottom of the trench, where he was using a pounding
instrument with the zeal of a paviour—“Bad luck to the
likes of ye, say I, Misther Strides. If ye've no relish for a
fortification, in a time of war, ye've only to shoulther yer
knapsack, and go out into the open counthry, where ye'll
have all to yer own satisfaction. Is it forthify the house,
will we? That we will, and not a hair of the missuss's
head, nor of the young ladies' heads, nor of the masther's
head, though he's mighty bald as it is, but not a hair of all
their heads shall be harmed, while Jamie, and Mike, and
the bould ould serjeant, here, can have their way. I wish
I had the trench full of yer savages, and a gineral funeral
we'd make of the vagabonds! Och! They're the divil's
imps, I hear from all sides, and no love do I owe them.”

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“And yet you're the bosom friend of Nick, who's anything
but what I call a specimen of his people.”

“Is it Nick ye 're afther? Well, Nick's half-civilized
accorthin' to yer Yankee manners, and he's no spicimen,
at all. Let him hear you call him by sich a name, if ye
want throuble.”

Joel walked away muttering, leaving the labourers in
doubt whether he relished least the work he was now obliged
to unite in furthering, or Mike's hit at his own peculiar people.
Still the work proceeded, and in one week from the
day it was commenced, the stockade was complete, its gate
excepted. The entrance through the palisades was directly
in front of that to the house, and both passages still remained
open, one set of gates not being completed, and the other
not yet being hung.

It was on a Saturday evening when the last palisade was
placed firmly in the ground, and all the signs of the recent
labour were removed, in order to restore as much of the
former beauty of the Knoll as possible. It had been a busy
week; so much so, indeed, as to prevent the major from
holding any of that confidential intercourse with his mother
and sisters, in which it had been his habit to indulge in former
visits. The fatigues of the days sent everybody to their
pillows early; and the snatches of discourse which passed,
had been affectionate and pleasant, rather than communicative.
Now that the principal job was so near being finished,
however, and the rubbish was cleared away, the captain
summoned the family to the lawn again, to enjoy a delicious
evening near the close of the winning month of May. The
season was early, and the weather more bland, than was
usual, even in that sheltered and genial valley. For the
first time that year, Mrs. Willoughby consented to order the
tea-equipage to be carried to a permanent table that had been
placed under the shade of a fine elm, in readiness for any
fête champêtre of this simple character.

“Come, Wilhelmina, give us a cup of your fragrant
hyson, of which we have luckily abundance, tax or no tax.
I should lose caste, were it known how much American
treason we have gulped down, in this way; but, a little tea,
up here in the forest, can do no man's conscience any great
violence, in the long run. I suppose, major Willoughby,

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His Majesty's forces do not disdain tea, in these stirring
times.”

“Far from it, sir; we deem it so loyal to drink it, that it
is said the port and sherry of the different messes, at Boston,
are getting to be much neglected. I am an admirer of tea,
for itself, however, caring little about its collateral qualities.
Farrel”—“turning to his man, who was aiding Pliny the
elder, in arranging the table—“when you are through here,
bring out the basket you will find on the toilet, in my
room.”

“True, Bob,” observed the mother, smiling—“that basket
has scarce been treated with civility. Not a syllable of
thanks have I heard, for all the fine things it contains.”

“My mind has been occupied with care for your safety,
dear mother, and that must be my excuse. Now, however,
there is an appearance of security which gives one a breathing-time,
and my gratitude receives a sudden impulse. As
for you, Maud, I regret to be compelled to say that you
stand convicted of laziness; not a single thing do I owe to
your labours, or recollection of me.”

“Is that possible!” exclaimed the captain, who was pouring
water into the tea-pot. “Maud is the last person I should
suspect of neglect of this nature; I do assure you, Bob, no
one listens to news of your promotions and movements with
more interest than Maud.”

Maud, herself, made no answer. She bent her head aside,
in a secret consciousness that her sister might alone detect,
and form her own conclusions concerning the colour that
she felt warming her cheeks. But, Maud's own sensitive
feelings attributed more to Beulah than the sincere and simple-minded
girl deserved. So completely was she accustomed
to regard Robert and Maud as brother and sister, that even
all which had passed produced no effect in unsettling her
opinions, or in giving her thoughts a new direction. Just
at this moment Farrel came back, and placed the basket on
the bench, at the side of his master.

“Now, my dearest mother, and you, girls” — the major
had begun to drop the use of the word `sisters' when addressing
both the young ladies—“Now, my dearest mother,
and you, girls, I am about to give each her due. In the first
place, I confess my own unworthiness, and acknowledge,

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that I do not deserve one-half the kind attention I have received
in these various presents, after which we will descend
to particulars.”

The major, then, exposed every article contained in the
basket, finding the words “mother” and “Beulah” pinned
on each, but nowhere any indication that his younger sister
had even borne him in mind. His father looked surprised
at this, not to say a little grave; and he waited, with evident
curiosity, for the gifts of Maud, as one thing after another
came up, without any signs of her having recollected the
absentee.

“This is odd, truly,” observed the father, seriously; “I
hope, Bob, you have done nothing to deserve this? I should
be sorry to have my little girl affronted!”

“I assure you, sir, that I am altogether ignorant of any
act, and I can solemnly protest against any intention, to give
offence. If guilty, I now pray Maud to pardon me.”

“You have done nothing, Bob — said nothing, Bob —
thought nothing to offend me,” cried Maud, eagerly.

“Why, then, have you forgotten him, darling, when your
mother and sister have done so much in the way of recollection?”
asked the captain.

“Forced gifts, my dear father, are no gifts. I do not like
to be compelled to make presents.”

This was uttered in a way to induce the major to throw
all the articles back into the basket, as if he wished to get
rid of the subject, without further comment. Owing to this
precipitation, the scarf was not seen. Fortunately for Maud,
who was ready to burst into tears, the service of the tea
prevented any farther allusion to the matter.

“You have told me, major,” observed captain Willoughby,
“that your old regiment has a new colonel; but you
have forgotten to mention his name. I hope it is my old
messmate, Tom Wallingford, who wrote me he had some
such hopes last year.”

“General Wallingford has got a light-dragoon regiment—
general Meredith has my old corps; he is now in this country,
at the head of one of Gage's brigades.”

It is a strong proof of the manner in which Maud—Maud
Willoughby, as she was ever termed—had become identified
with the family of the Hutted Knoll, that, with two

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exceptions, not a person present thought of her, when the name
of this general Meredith was mentioned; though, in truth,
he was the uncle of her late father. The exceptions were
the major and herself. The former now never heard the
name without thinking of his beautiful little playfellow, and
nominal sister; while Maud, of late, had become curious
and even anxious on the subject of her natural relatives.
Still, a feeling akin to awe, a sentiment that appeared as if
it would be doing violence to a most solemn duty, prevented
her from making any allusion to her change of thought, in
the presence of those whom, during childhood, she had
viewed only as her nearest relatives, and who still continued
so to regard her. She would have given the world to ask
Bob a few questions concerning the kinsman he had mentioned,
but could not think of doing so before her mother,
whatever she might be induced to attempt with the young
man, when by himself.

Nick next came strolling along, gazing at the stockade,
and drawing near the table with an indifference to persons
and things that characterized his habits. When close to the
party he stopped, keeping his eye on the recent works.

“You see, Nick, I am about to turn soldier again, in my
old days,” observed the captain. “It is now many years
since you and I have met within a line of palisades. How
do you like our work?”

“What you make him for, cap'in?”

“So as to be secure against any red-skins who may happen
to long for our scalps.”

“Why want your scalp? Hatchet hasn't been dug up,
a-tween us—bury him so deep can't find him in ten, two,
six year.”

“Ay, it has long been buried, it is true; but you red
gentlemen have a trick of digging it up, with great readiness,
when there is any occasion for it. I suppose you
know, Nick, that there are troubles in the colonies?”

“Tell Nick all about him,”—answered the Indian, evasively—
“No read—no hear—don't talk much—talk most
wid Irisher—can't understand what he want—say t'ing one
way, den say him, anoder.”

“Mike is not very lucid of a certainty,” rejoined the captain,
laughing, all the party joining in the merriment—“but

[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]

he is a sterling good fellow, and is always to be found, in a
time of need.”

“Poor rifle—nebber hit—shoot one way, look t'other?”

“He is no great shot, I will admit; but he is a famous
fellow with a shillaleh. Has he given you any of the
news?”

“All he say, news—much news ten time, as one time.
Cap'in lend Nick a quarter dollar, yesterday.”

“I did lend you a quarter, certainly, Nick; and I supposed
it had gone to the miller for rum, before this. What
am I to understand by your holding it out in this manner?—
that you mean to repay me!”

“Sartain—good quarter—just like him cap'in lent Nick.
Like as one pea. Nick man of honour; keep his word.”

“This does look more like it than common, Nick. The
money was to be returned to-day, but I did not expect to see
it, so many previous contracts of that nature having been
vacated, as the lawyers call it.”

“Tuscarora chief alway gentleman. What he say, he do.
Good quarter dollar, dat, cap'in?”

“It is unexceptionable, old acquaintance; I'll not disdain
receiving it, as it may serve for a future loan.”

“No need bye'm-by—take him, now—cap'in, lend Nick
dollar; pay him to-morrow.”

The captain protested against the sequitur that the Indian
evidently wished to establish; declining, though in a good-natured
manner, to lend the larger sum. Nick was disappointed,
and walked sullenly away, moving nearer to the
stockade, with the air of an offended man.

“That is an extraordinary fellow, sir!” observed the
major—“I really wonder you tolerate him so much about
the Hut. It might be a good idea to banish him, now that
the war has broken out.”

“Which would be a thing more easily said than done.
A drop of water might as readily be banished from that
stream, as an Indian from any part of the forest he may
choose to visit. You brought him here yourself, Bob, and
should not blame us for tolerating his presence.”

“I brought him, sir, because I found he recognised me
even in this dress, and it was wise to make a friend of him.
Then I wanted a guide, and I was well assured he knew

[figure description] Page 116.[end figure description]

the way, if any man did. He is a surly scoundrel, however,
and appears to have changed his character, since I
was a boy.”

“If there be any change, Bob, it is in yourself. Nick has
been Nick these thirty years, or as long as I have known
him. Rascal he is, or his tribe would not have cast him
out. Indian justice is stern, but it is natural justice. No
man is ever put to the ban among the red men, until they
are satisfied he is not fit to enjoy savage rights. In garrison,
we always looked upon Nick as a clever knave, and
treated him accordingly. When one is on his guard against
such a fellow, he can do little harm, and this Tuscarora has
a salutary dread of me, which keeps him in tolerable order,
during his visits to the Hut. The principal mischief he does
here, is to get Mike and Jamie deeper in the Santa Cruz
than I could wish; but the miller has his orders to sell no
more rum.”

“I hardly think you do Nick justice, Willoughby,” observed
the right-judging and gentle wife. “He has some
good qualities; but you soldiers always apply martial-law
to the weaknesses of your fellow-creatures.”

“And you tender-hearted women, my dear Wilhelmina,
think everybody as good as yourselves.”

“Remember, Hugh, when your son, there, had the canker-rash,
how actively and readily the Tuscarora went into
the forest to look for the gold-thread that even the doctors
admitted cured him. It was difficult to find, Robert; but
Nick remembered a spot where he had seen it, fifty miles
off; and, without a request even, from us, he travelled that
distance to procure it.”

“Yes, this is true”—returned the captain, thoughtfully—
“though I question if the cure was owing to the gold-thread,
as you call it, Wilhelmina. Every man has some good
quality or other; and, I much fear, some bad ones also.—
But, here is the fellow coming back, and I do not like to let
him think himself of sufficient consequence to be the subject
of our remarks.”

“Very true, sir—it adds excessively to the trouble of such
fellows, to let them fancy themselves of importance.”

Nick, now, came slowly back, after having examined the
recent changes to his satisfaction. He stood a moment in

[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]

silence, near the table, and then, assuming an air of more
dignity than common, he addressed the captain.

“Nick ole chief,” he said. “Been at Council Fire, often
as cap'in. Can't tell, all he know; want to hear about
new war.”

“Why, Nick, it is a family quarrel, this time. The French
have nothing to do with it.”

“Yengeese fight Yengeese—um?”

“I am afraid it will so turn out. Do not the Tuscaroras
sometimes dig up the hatchet against the Tuscaroras?”

“Tuscarora man kill Tuscarora man—good—he quarrel,
and kill he enemy. But Tuscarora warrior nebber take
scalp of Tuscarora squaw and pappoose! What you t'ink
he do dat for? Red man no hog, to eat pork.”

“It must be admitted, Nick, you are a very literal logician—
`dog won't eat dog,' is our English saying. Still the
Yankee will fight the Yengeese, it would seem. In a word,
the Great Father, in England, has raised the hatchet against
his American children.”

“How you like him, cap'in—um? Which go on straight
path, which go on crooked? How you like him?”

“I like it little, Nick, and wish with all my heart the
quarrel had not taken place.”

“Mean to put on regimentals—hah! Mean to be cap'in,
ag'in? Follow drum and fife, like ole time?”

“I rather think not, old comrade. After sixty, one likes
peace better than war; and I intend to stay at home.”

“What for, den, build fort? Why you put fence round
a house, like pound for sheep?”

“Because I intend to stay there. The stockade will be
good to keep off any, or every enemy who may take it into
their heads to come against us. You have known me defend
a worse position than this.”

“He got no gate,” muttered Nick—“What he good for,
widout gate? Yengeese, Yankees, red man, French man,
walk in just as he please. No good to leave such squaw
wid a door wide open.”

“Thank you, Nick,” cried Mrs. Willoughby. “I knew
you were my friend, and have not forgotten the gold-thread.”

“He very good,” answered the Indian, with an important

[figure description] Page 118.[end figure description]

look. “Pappoose get well like not'ing. He a'most die, today;
to-morrow he run about and play. Nick do him,
too; cure him wid gold-thread.”

“Oh! you are, or were quite a physician at one time,
Nick. I remember when you had the smallpox, yourself.”

The Indian turned, with the quickness of lightning, to
Mrs. Willoughby, whom he startled with his energy, as he
demanded—

“You remember dat, Mrs. cap'in! Who gib him—who
cure him—um?”

“Upon my word, Nick, you almost frighten me. I fear
I gave you the disease, but it was for your own good it was
done. You were inoculated by myself, when the soldiers
were dying around us, because they had never had that
care taken of them. All I inoculated lived; yourself among
the number.”

The startling expression passed away from the fierce
countenance of the savage, leaving in its place another so
kind and amicable as to prove he not only was aware of the
benefit he had received, but that he was deeply grateful for
it. He drew near to Mrs. Willoughby, took her still white
and soft hand in his own sinewy and dark fingers, then
dropped the blanket that he had thrown carelessly across
his body, from a shoulder, and laid it on a mark left by the
disease, by way of pointing to her good work. He smiled,
as this was done.

“Ole mark,” he said, nodding his head—“sign we good
friend—he nebber go away while Nick live.”

This touched the captain's heart, and he tossed a dollar
towards the Indian, who suffered it, however, to lie at his
feet unnoticed. Turning to the stockade, he pointed significantly
at the open gate-ways.

“Great danger go t'rough little 'ole,” he said, sententiously,
walking away as he concluded. “Why you leave
big 'ole open?”

“We must get those gates hung next week,” said the
captain, positively; “and yet it is almost absurd to apprehend
anything serious in this remote settlement, and that at
so early a period in the war.”

Nothing further passed on the lawn worthy to be recorded.
The sun set, and the family withdrew into the house,

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as usual, to trust to the overseeing, care of Divine Providence,
throughout a night passed in a wilderness. By
common consent, the discourse turned upon things noway
connected with the civil war, or its expected results, until
the party was about to separate for the night, when the
major found himself alone with his sisters, in his own little
parlour, dressing-room, or study, whatever the room adjoining
his chamber could properly be called.

“You will not leave us soon, Robert,” said Beulah, taking
her brother's hand, with confiding affection, “I hardly
think my father young and active enough, or rather alarmed
enough, to live in times like these!”

“He is a soldier, Beulah, and a good one; so good that
his son can teach him nothing. I wish I could say that he
is as good a subject: I fear he leans to the side of the colonies.”

“Heaven be praised!” exclaimed Beulah — “Oh! that
his son would incline in the same direction.”

“Nay, Beulah,” rejoined Maud, reproachfully; “you
speak without reflection. Mamma bitterly regrets that papa
sees things in the light he does. She thinks the parliament
right, and the colonies wrong.”

“What a thing is a civil war!” ejaculated the major—
“Here is husband divided against wife—son against father—
brother against sister. I could almost wish I were dead,
ere I had lived to see this!”

“Nay, Robert, it is not so bad as that, either,” added
Maud. “My mother will never oppose my father's will or
judgment. Good wives, you know, never do that. She will
only pray that he may decide right, and in a way that his
children will never have cause to regret. As for me, I count
for nothing, of course.”

“And Beulah, Maud; is she nothing, too? Here will
Beulah be praying for her brother's defeat, throughout this
war. It has been some presentiment of this difference of
opinion that has probably induced you to forget me, while
Beulah and my mother were passing so many hours to fill
that basket.”

“Perhaps you do Maud injustice, Robert,” said Beulah,
smiling. “I think I can say none loves you better than

[figure description] Page 120.[end figure description]

our dear sister—or no one has thought of you more, in your
absence.”

“Why, then, does the basket contain no proof of this
remembrance—not even a chain of hair—a purse, or a ring—
nothing, in short, to show that I have not been forgotten,
when away.”

“Even if this be so,” said Maud, with spirit, “in what
am I worse than yourself. What proof is there that you
have remembered us?”

“This,” answered the major, laying before his sisters two
small packages, each marked with the name of its proper
owner. “My mother has her's, too, and my father has not
been forgotten.”

Beulah's exclamations proved how much she was gratified
with her presents; principally trinkets and jewelry, suited
to her years and station. First kissing the major, she declared
her mother must see what she had received, before
she retired for the night, and hurried from the room. That
Maud was not less pleased, was apparent by her glowing
cheeks and tearful eyes; though, for a wonder, she was far
more restrained in the expression of her feelings. After
examining the different articles, with pleasure, for a minute
or two, she went, with a quick impetuous movement, to the
basket, tumbled all its contents on the table, until she reached
the scarf, which she tossed towards the major, saying,
with a faint laugh—

“There, unbeliever—heathen—is that nothing? Was
that made in a minute, think you?”

“This!” cried the major, opening the beautiful, glossy
fabric in surprise. “Is not this one of my father's old
sashes, to which I have fallen heir, in the order of nature?”

Maud dropped her trinkets, and seizing two corners of the
sash, she opened it, in a way to exhibit its freshness and
beauty.

“Is this old, or worn?” she asked, reproachfully. “Your
father never even saw it, Bob. It has not yet been around
the waist of man.”

“It is not possible!—This would be the work of months—
is so beautiful—you cannot have purchased it.”

Maud appeared distressed at his doubts. Opening the
folds still wider, she raised the centre of the silk to the light,

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and pointed to certain letters that had been wrought into the
fabric, so ingeniously as to escape ordinary observation, and
yet so plainly as to be distinctly legible when the attention
was once drawn to them. The major took the sash into his
own hands altogether, held it opened before the candles, and
read the words “Maud Meredith” aloud. Dropping the
sash, he turned to seek the face of the donor, but she had
fled the room. He followed her footsteps and entered the
library, just as she was about to escape from it, by a different
door.

“I am offended at your incredulity,” said Maud, making
an effort to laugh away the scene, “and will not remain to
hear lame excuses. Your new regiment can have no nature
in it, or brothers would not treat sisters thus.”

“Maud Meredith is not my sister,” he said, earnestly,
“though Maud Willoughby may be. Why is the name
Meredith?”

“As a retort to one of your own allusions—did you not
call me Miss Meredith, one day, when I last saw you in
Albany?”

“Ay, but that was in jest, my dearest Maud. It was not
a deliberate thing, like the name on that sash.”

“Oh! jokes may be premeditated as well as murder;
and many a one is murdered, you know. Mine is a prolonged
jest.”

“Tell me, does my mother—does Beulah know who made
this sash?”

“How else could it have been made, Bob? Do you think
I went into the woods, and worked by myself, like some
romantic damsel who had an unmeaning secret to keep
against the curious eyes of persecuting friends!”

“I know not what I thought—scarce know what I think
now. But, my mother; does she know of this name?”

Maud blushed to the eyes; but the habit and the love of
truth were so strong in her, that she shook her head in the
negative.

“Nor Beulah?—She, I am certain, would not have permitted
`Meredith' to appear where `Willoughby' should have
been.”

“Nor Beulah, either, major Willoughby,” pronouncing
the name with an affectation of reverence. “The honour

[figure description] Page 122.[end figure description]

of the Willoughbys is thus preserved from every taint, and
all the blame must fall on poor Maud Meredith.”

“You dislike the name of Willoughby, then, and intend
to drop it, in future—I have remarked that you sign yourself
only `Maud,' in your last letters—never before, however,
did I suspect the reason.”

“Who wishes to live for ever an impostor? It is not my
legal name, and I shall soon be called on to perform legal
acts. Remember, Mr. Robert Willoughby, I am twenty;
when it comes to pounds, shillings, and pence, I must not
forge. A little habit is necessary to teach me the use of
my own bonâ fide signature.”

“But ours—the name is not hateful to you—you do not
throw it aside, seriously, for ever!”

“Yours! What, the honoured name of my dear, dearest
father—of my mother—of Beulah—of yourself, Bob!”

Maud did not remain to terminate her speech. Bursting
into tears, she vanished.