“There is, I believe, a strong love for the old Union throughout the whole South,” remarked Mr. Travilla; “there would be no rebellion among the masses there, but for the deceptions practised upon them by their leaders and politicians; and it is they who have been whirling the States out of the Union, scarce allowing the people a voice in the matter.”

“I don’t wonder at the indignation of the North over the insult to the flag,” said Elsie; “nor the furor for it that is sweeping over the land.”

“I’d like to be there to help fling it to the breeze,” cried Horace excitedly; “and to see how gay the streets must be with it flying everywhere.  Yes, and I’d like to help fight.  Papa, am I not old enough? mayn’t I go?”

“No, foolish boy, you are much too young, not yet fourteen.  And suppose you were old enough, would you wish to fight your uncles? kill one of them, perhaps?  Uncle Walter, for instance?”

“Oh papa, no, no, no!  I wouldn’t for the world hurt one hair of dear Uncle Wal’s head; no, not if he were the hottest kind of secessionist.”

“Kill Uncle Wal! why Horace, how could you ever think of such a thing?” exclaimed Rosebud.  “And mamma and sister Elsie, why are you both crying so?”

All the afternoon the elders of the family remained together, talking over the news—­they could scarce think or speak of anything else:  very grave and sad all of them, the ladies now and then dropping a tear or two while each paper was carefully scanned again and again, lest some item on the all-absorbing subject might have been overlooked, and every letter that had any bearing upon it read and re-read till its contents had been fully digested.

May’s gave a graphic account of the excitement in Philadelphia; the recruiting and drilling of troops, the making of flags, the constant, universal singing of patriotic songs, etc., then closed with the story of the sorrowful parting with the dear brothers who might never return from the battle-field.

It had been a bright, warm day, but at evening the sea breeze came in cool and fresh; thin clouds were scudding across the sky, hiding the stars and giving but a faint and fitful view of the young moon that hung, a bright crescent, amid their murky folds.

Mr. Dinsmore was pacing slowly to and fro upon an open colonnade overlooking the bay.  He walked with bent head and folded arms, as one in painful thought.

A slight girlish figure came gliding towards him from the open doorway.  “Papa, dear, dear papa,” murmured a voice tremulous with emotion, “you are very sad to-night; would that your daughter could comfort you!”

He paused in his walk, took her in his arms and folded her close to his heart.

“Thank you, darling.  Yes, I am sad, as we all are.  Would that I could comfort you, and keep all sorrow from your life.  Nay, that is not a right wish, for ’whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom He receiveth.’  ‘As many as I love I rebuke and chasten.’”