“Yes,” said the doctor, “I’ll come to-day.  One of the maids?  Well, what else, Leila?” seeing that she still lingered.

“I want to know something about all this tangle of politics.  There’s Breckinridge, Douglas, Bell and Lincoln—­four candidates.  Uncle Jim gets almost cross when I ask him what they all stand for.  Mr. Rivers told me to be thankful I have no vote.  If there is to be war, have I no interest?  There is Uncle Jim—­and—­and John.”

The doctor said, “Sit down, Leila.  Your uncle could answer you.  He won’t talk.  I don’t believe John Penhallow owns any politics except a soldier’s blind creed of devotion to the Flag.”

“Oh, the Flag, Doctor!  But it is a symbol—­it is history.  I won’t write to a man any more who has no certain opinions.  He never answers.”

“Well, my dear, see how hard it is to know what to think!  One State after another is seceding.  The old juggle of compromises goes on in that circus we call Congress.  The audience is grimly silent.  Crittenden’s compromise has failed.  The President is at last against secession—­and makes no vigorous effort to reinforce Fort Sumter.  The Cabinet was distinctly with the South—­the new men came in too late.  You—­a girl—­may well call it a tangle.  It is a diabolical cat’s-cradle.  My only hope, my dear, is in a new and practically untried man—­Abraham Lincoln.  The South is one in opinion—­we are perplexed by the fears of commerce and are split.  There you have all my wisdom.  Read the news, but not the weathercock essays called editorials.  Oh!  I forgot to tell the Squire that Tom, my young doctor, has passed the Army Board and is awaiting orders in Washington.  By-bye!”

“Tom as a doctor—­and in uniform,” Leila murmured, as her horse walked away.  “How these boys go on and on, and we women just wait and wait while men dispose of our fates.”

In February the Confederacy of the South was organising, and in March of 1861 Mr. Lincoln was President.  Penhallow groaned over Cameron as Secretary of War, smiled approval of the Cabinet with Seward and Chase and anxiously waited to see what Lincoln would do.

Events followed fast in those eventful days.  On the thirteenth of April Ann Penhallow sat in the spring sunshine on the porch, while Leila read aloud to her with entranced attention “The Marble Faun.”  The advent of an early spring in the uplands was to be seen in the ruddy colour of the maples.  Bees were busy among the young flowers.  There was noiseless peace in the moveless infant foliage.

“How still it is!” said Leila looking up from the book.  They were far from the madding crowd.  “What is it, Billy?”

He was red, breathless, excited, and suddenly broke out in his thin boy-like voice, “Hurrah!  They’ve fired on the flag.”

“Who—­what flag?”

“Don’t know.”  He had no least idea of what his words meant.  “Don’t know,” and crying “Hurrah!  They’ve fired on the flag,” fled away.