Four o’clock struck over the great city, and the line moved out of the square, through Fourth Street, to Broadway.  Then began a march, which whoso witnessed, though but a little child, will remember to his dying day, the story of which he will repeat to his children, and his children’s children, and, these dead, it will be read by eyes that shall shine centuries hence, as one of the most memorable scenes in the great struggle for freedom.

Hands were stretched forth to touch the cloth of their uniforms, and kissed when they were drawn back.  Mothers held up their little children to gain inspiration for a lifetime.  A roar of voices, continuous, unbroken, rent the skies; while, through the deafening cheers, men and women, with eyes blinded by tears, repeated, a million times, “God bless—­God bless and keep them!” And so, down the magnificent avenue, through the countless, shouting multitude, through the whirlwind of enthusiasm and adoration, under the glorious sweep of flags, the grand regiment moved from the beginning of its march to its close,—­till it was swept away towards the capital, around which were soon to roll such bloody waves of death.

Meanwhile, where was Miss Ercildoune?  Surrey had thought her behavior strange the last morning they spent together.  How much stranger, how unaccountable, indeed, would it have seemed to him, could he have seen her through the afternoon following!

“What is wrong with you? are you ill, Francesca?” her aunt had inquired as she came in, pulling off her hat with the air of one stifling, and throwing herself into a chair.

“Ill!  O no!”—­with a quick laugh,—­“what could have made you think so?  I am quite well, thank you; but I will go to my room for a little while and rest.  I think I am tired.”

“Do, dear, for I want you to take a trip up the Hudson this afternoon.  I have to see some English people who are living at a little village a score of miles out of town, and then I must go on to Albany before I take you home.  It will be pleasant at Tanglewood over the Sabbath,—­unless you have some engagements to keep you here?”

“O Aunt Alice, how glad I am!  I was going home this afternoon without you.  I thought you would come when you were ready; but this will do just as well,—­anything to get out of town.”

“Anything to get out of town? why, Francesca, is it so hateful to you?  ’Going home! and this do almost as well!’—­what does the child mean? is she the least little bit mad?  I’m afraid so.  She evidently needs some fresh country air, and rest from excitement.  Go, dear, and take your nap, and refresh yourself before five o’clock; that is the time we leave.”

As the door closed between them, she shook her head dubiously. ’"Going home this afternoon!’ what does that signify?  Has she been quarrelling with that young lover of hers, or refusing him?  I should not care to ask any questions till she herself speaks; but I fear me something is wrong.”