Poor fellow! his heart was divided; on the one side were home, parents, friends, and neighbors, native State and section; on the other, pride in the great, powerful Union he had hitherto called his country, love for the old flag as the emblem of its greatness and symbol of Revolutionary glory; and—­perhaps more potent than all—­the wishes and entreaties of a Northern girl who had won his heart and promised him her hand.

One April morning Walter, who had overslept himself, having been up late the night before, was roused from his slumbers by a loud hurrah coming from the veranda below.  He recognized his father’s voice, Arthur’s, and that of one of the latter’s particular friends, a hot secessionist residing in the adjacent city.

There seemed a great tumult in the house, running to and fro, loud laughter, repeated hurrahs and voices—­among which his mother’s and Enna’s were easily distinguished—­talking in high, excited chorus.

“So Fort Sumter has fallen, and war is fairly inaugurated,” he sighed to himself, as he rose and began to dress.  “It can mean nothing else.”

“Glorious news, Wal!” cried Arthur, catching sight of him as he descended the stairs; “Fort Sumter has fallen and Charleston is jubilant.  Here, listen while I read the despatch.”

Walter heard it in grave silence, and at the close merely inquired how the news had come so early.

“Johnson brought it; has gone on now to Ashlands with it; says the city’s in a perfect furor of delight But you, it seems, care nothing about it,” Arthur concluded with a malignant sneer.

“Not a word of rejoicing over this glorious victory”—­cried Enna angrily.

“Of seven thousand over seventy-five?”

“If I were papa, I’d turn you out of the house;” she exclaimed still more hotly.

“Walter, I have no patience with you,” said his father.  “To think that son of mine should turn against his own country!” he added, with a groan.

“No, father, I could never do that,” Walter answered with emotion.

“It looks very much like it—­the utter indifference with which you receive this glorious news!” cried Mrs. Dinsmore with flashing eyes.  “I’m positively ashamed of you.”

“No, mother, not with indifference, far from it; for it inaugurates a war that will drench the land with blood.”

“Nonsense! the North will never fight.  A race of shop-keepers fighting for a sentiment, poh!  But come to breakfast, there’s the bell.”

“Better,” says Solomon, “is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.”  The luxurious breakfast at Roselands was partaken of with very little enjoyment that morning; by Walter especially, who had to bear contempt and ridicule; threats also:  he was called a Yankee, coward, poltroon, traitor; and threatened with disinheritance and denouncement unless he would declare himself for the Confederacy and enlist in its army.