“Oh!  Beulah’s remarks I do not fear; so long as I get off unscathed from yours, Miss Maud, I shall think myself a lucky fellow.  But what has brought me and my training into discussion, this morning?”

“It is natural for sisters to speak about their brother after so long——­”

“Tell him nothing about it, Beulah,” interrupted Maud.  “Let him listen, and eaves-drop, and find out as he may, if he would learn our secrets.  There, major Willoughby, I hope that is a promise of a breakfast, which will satisfy even your military appetite!”

“It looks well, indeed, Maud—­and there, I perceive, are some of Beulah’s excellent plums, of which I am so fond—­know they were made especially for me, and I must kiss you, sister, for this proof of remembrance.”

Beulah, to whose simple mind it seemed injustice to appropriate credit that belonged to another, was about to tell the truth; but an imploring gesture from her sister induced her to smile, and receive the salute in silence.

“Has any one seen captain Willoughby and parson Woods this morning?” inquired the major.  “I left them desperately engaged in discussion, and I really feel some apprehension as to the remains left on the field of battle.”

“Here they both come,” cried Maud, glad to find the discourse taking so complete a change; “and there is mamma, followed by Pliny, to tell Beulah to take her station at the coffee, while I go to the chocolate, leaving the tea to the only hand that can make it so that my father will drink it.”

The parties mentioned entered the room, in the order named; the usual salutations followed, and all took their seats at table.  Captain Willoughby was silent and thoughtful at first, leaving his son to rattle on, in a way that betokened care, in his view of the matter, quite as much as it betokened light-heartedness in those of his mother and sisters.  The chaplain was rather more communicative than his friend; but he, too, seemed restless, and desirous of arriving at some point that was not likely to come uppermost, in such a family party.  At length, the impulses of Mr. Woods got the better of his discretion, even, and he could conceal his thoughts no longer.

“Captain Willoughby,” he said, in a sort of apologetic, and yet simple and natural manner, “I have done little since we parted, seven hours since, but think of the matter under discussion.”

“If you have, my dear Woods, there has been a strong sympathy between us; I have scarcely slept.  I may say I have thought of nothing else, myself, and am glad you have broached the subject, again.”

“I was about to say, my worthy sir, that reflection, and my pillow, and your sound and admirable arguments, have produced an entire change in my sentiments.  I think, now, altogether with you.”

“The devil you do, Woods!” cried the captain, looking up from his bit of dry toast, in astonishment.  “Why, my dear fellow—­this is odd—­ excessively odd, if the truth must be said.—­To own the real state of the case, chaplain, you have won me over, and I was just about to make proper acknowledgments of your victory!”