those wicked cartridges, so cleverly and artfully and cheerfully constructed,—­men with homes, wives, mothers, sisters, children, every soldier representing to some anxious, tender heart a whole world, a microcosm of affection, all illuminated with hope and joy or to be clouded with grief and terror and loss and despair,—­oh, glad, glad was she that the French invasion was but a figment,—­a tissue of misconceptions and vague innuendoes and groundless assumptions.

And yet she was sad and sorry and ashamed, because of the futile bustle and bluster and cheerful courageous activity about her.  Not a cheek had blenched; not a hand had trembled; not a voice had been lifted to protest or counsel surrender, despite their meagre capacities for defense and their number, but a handful.  What would these men say to her if they knew that their patriotism and their valor were expended in vain,—­above all, their mutual cause of quarrel wasted!—­as pretty a bit of neighborhood spite as ever stopped a bullet—­all foolishly and needlessly reconciled without a blow!  She had saved them from a bloody feud, the chances of which were terrifying to her for their own sakes.  But what would they say when discovery should come!

Still, it might never come.  And yet, should they patrol the woods in vain and at last disperse and return each to his own home, she had no placidity in prospect,—­she was troubled and sad and her sorry heart was heavy.  Her scheme had succeeded beyond her wildest hopes.  Her beneficent artifice had fully worked its mission.  And now, since there was no more to be done, she had time to repent her varied deceits.  Was it right? she asked herself in conscientious alarm, not the less sincere because belated.  Ought she to have interfered, with what forces it was possible for her limited capacity to wield?  Had they an inalienable right to cut each other’s throats?  Should she have so presumed?  And now—­

“Howly Moses!” a voice in shrill agitation broke in upon her preoccupation.  “An’ is it sheddin’ tears ye are upon the blessed gunpowther?  Sure the colleen’s crazed!  Millia Murther! the beautiful ca’tridges is ruint intoirely!  Any man moight be proud an’ plazed to be kilt by the loikes o’ them!  How many o’ them big wathery tears have yez been after sheddin’ into aich o’ them lovely ca’tridges?”

He had risen; one hand was laid protectingly upon the completed pile of fixed ammunition as if to ward off the damping influences of her woe, while he ruefully contemplated the suspected cartridge bags, all plump and tidy and workmanlike, save for their possible charge of tears.  She made no answer, but sat quite motionless upon her low stool, a cartridge bag unfinished in her lap, her golden brown curls against the cannon, still weeping her large tears and looking very small.

His clamors brought half the force to the scene of the disturbance.  A keen question here, an inference heedfully taken there, and the situation was plain!