now found themselves, they must have remarked a singular change in the black brigade in kitchen and garden.  But, preocupied each with a different interest, as well as the preparation for the President’s fete, the Atterburys remarked nothing sinister in the distracted conduct of their servants, and had only a vague feeling that the great event had in some sort paralyzed their wonted noisy activities and repressed their usual chatter.  Kate’s uneasiness and restless vagaries, her disjointed talk and half-guilty evasions, would have been remarked by her prepossessed hosts; while Wesley’s shifting and moody silence would have warned his comrades that he was suffering the pangs of an evil done or meditated.  Precursive signs like these—­and much more, which need not be dwelt on—­the kind hosts of Rosedale made no note of.  But when Vincent opened the mail-bag—­brought by an orderly from Williamsburg every morning, the first surprise and shock of the day was felt—­though in varying degrees by all the diverse inmates of the house.

“Hah! glory to the Lord of hosts!” the exultant reader cried, as he passed to his mother a large official envelope at the breakfast-table.

“I’m ordered to the field.” he cried, as Jack looked inquiringly; “I’m to set out to-night and report for duty with General Johnston to-morrow at Manassas.  No more loitering in my lady’s bower; Jack, my boy, the carpet will be clear for your knightly pranks after to-night.”

“If it were Aladdin’s magic rug, I should caper nimbly enough.  I warrant you.”

“What would you wish—­if it were under your feet, with its slaves at your command?”

“I should whisk you all off—­North—­instanter.”

“Ingrate!—­plunge us into the chilly blasts of the North, in return for our glorious Southern sun?  Fie, Jack!  I’m surprised at such selfish ingratitude.  We expected better things of our prisoners,” Mrs. Atterbury murmured, and affected a reproving frown at the culprit, as she handed her son back the order, with a stilled sigh.

“The sun of the South is not the sun of York to us, you know; all the clouds that lower on our house are doubly darkened by this Southern sun; even the warmth of Rosedale hearts can not make up for our eclipsed Northern star,” Jack said, sadly, with a wistful look at the rival warrior reading with sparkling eyes the instructions accompanying the order to march.

“Since Vincent is going so far northward, I think it will be a good time for us to go home,” Mrs. Sprague began, tentatively.

“Oh—­no—­no!  Oh, we could never think of such a thing,” Rosa cried—­“could we, mamma?”

“Why should you go?” Mrs. Atterbury asked.  “Until Jack is exchanged, you’ve certainly no duty in the North so important as watching over this headstrong fellow.  We can’t think of your going—­unless you are weary of us.”

“O Mrs. Atterbury, pray don’t put it in that way!  You know better.  Our visit here has been perfect.  But you can understand my anxiety to be at home; to be where I can aid my son’s release.  I have been anxious for some time to broach the subject, but I saw that our going would be a trouble to you; now, since fortune offers this chance, we must seize it—­that is, those of us who feel it a duty to go”; and she looked meaningly at Merry and her daughter.