“He hasn’t said anything to me.”

“Try, and see if you can’t think of something,” persisted the anxious mother.

“He hasn’t talked of anything but the war since yesterday morning.”

“What did he say?”

“I don’t know, now,” answered John, musing.  “He said he should like to join the army, and go down and fight the rebels.”

Mrs. Somers had heard as much from him, but she had given no particular attention to his remarks on this subject, for they seemed wild and visionary.  John’s words, under the present circumstances, appeared to be full of importance; and taking her stocking, she seated herself before the stove, and resumed her knitting.  She was silent now, for her heart was heavy with the premonitions of impending trouble.

“I will take a walk down to the Harbor, mother, and see if I can find anything of him.  There may be something going on there that I don’t know about.  He may be at the store, talking about the war with Captain Barney and the rest of the folks.”

Mrs. Somers offered no objection to this plan, and John put on his cap, and left the house.  The poor mother brooded upon her trouble for another hour, and with every new moment, the trouble seemed more real.  The clock struck twelve before John returned; and more than once during his absence, as she plied her needles, she had wiped away a tear that hung among the furrows of her care-worn cheek.  She had been thinking of her husband, as well as of her son.  He was, or soon would be, in the midst of the traitors, and she trembled for him.  Uncle Wyman was a secessionist; and, beyond this, she had not much confidence in his integrity, and if Captain Somers came home at all, his property would all be swept away, and he would be a beggar.

The events of that day were not calculated to conciliate Squire Pemberton towards them, and the farm and the cottage would pass away from them.  All these things had been considered and reconsidered by the devoted mother.  Poverty and want seemed to stare her in the face; and to add to all these troubles, Thomas did not come home, and, as fond mothers will, she anticipated the worst.

John entered the kitchen, and carelessly flung his cap upon the table.  Mrs. Somers looked at him, and waited patiently to hear any intelligence he might bring.  But John threw himself into a chair, looking more gloomy than before he left the house.  He did not speak, and therefore he had no good news to tell.

“You didn’t see anything of him—­did you?” asked Mrs. Somers; but it was a useless question, for she had already interpreted the meaning of his downcast looks.

“No, mother; there isn’t a man, woman, or child stirring in the village; and I didn’t see a light in a single house.”

“What do you suppose can have become of him?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.  Tom is old enough and smart enough to take care of himself.”

“It’s very strange.”