Maud started, as if some frightful object glared before her eyes; then she sat in breathless silence, resolute to hear what would come next.  But Robert Willoughby meant to pursue that idea no farther.  He had so accustomed himself—­had endeavoured even so to accustom himself to think of Beulah as his only sister, that the words escaped him unconsciously.  They were no sooner uttered, however, than the recollection of their possible effect on Maud crossed his mind.  Profoundly ignorant of the true nature of her feelings towards himself, he had ever shrunk from a direct avowal of his own sentiments, lest he might shock her; as a sister’s ear would naturally be wounded by a declaration of attachment from a brother; and there were bitter moments when he fancied delicacy and honour would oblige him to carry his secret with him to the grave.  Two minutes of frank communication might have dissipated all these scruples for ever; but, how to obtain those minutes, or how to enter on the subject at all, were obstacles that often appeared insurmountable to the young man.  As for Maud, she but imperfectly understood her own heart—­true, she had conscious glimpses of its real state; but, it was through those sudden and ungovernable impulses that were so strangely mingled with her affections.  It was years, indeed, since she had ceased to think of Robert Willoughby as a brother, and had begun to view him with different eyes; still, she struggled with her feelings, as against a weakness.  The captain and his wife were her parents; Beulah her dearly, dearly beloved sister; little Evert her nephew; and even the collaterals, in and about Albany, came in for a due share of her regard; while Bob, though called Bob as before; though treated with a large portion of the confidence that was natural to the intimacy of her childhood; though loved with a tenderness he would have given even his high-prized commission to know, was no longer thought of as a brother.  Often did Maud find herself thinking, if never saying, “Beulah may do that, for Beulah is his sister; but it would be wrong in me.  I may write to him, talk freely and even confidentially with him, and be affectionate to him; all this is right, and I should be the most ungrateful creature on earth to act differently; but I cannot sit on his knee as Beulah sometimes does; I cannot throw my arms around his neck when I kiss him, as Beulah does; I cannot pat his cheek, as Beulah does, when he says anything to laugh at; nor can I pry into his secrets, as Beulah does, or affects to do, to tease him.  I should be more reserved with one who has not a drop of my blood in his veins—­no, not a single drop.”  In this way, indeed, Maud was rather fond of disclaiming any consanguinity with the family of Willoughby, even while she honoured and loved its two heads, as parents.  The long pause that succeeded the major’s broken sentence was only interrupted by himself.

“It is vexatious to be shut up here, in the dark, Maud,” he said, “when every minute may bring an attack.  This side of the house might be defended by you and Beulah, aided and enlightened by the arm and counsels of that young ‘son of liberty,’ little Evert; whereas the stockade in front may really need the presence of men who have some knowledge of the noble art.  I wish there were a look-out to the front, that one might at least see the danger as it approached.”