Well, there passed a Christmas, and a New Year, in which the Faringfield house saw some revival of the spirit of gladness that had formerly prevailed within its comfortable walls at that season.  Mr. Faringfield, who had grown more gray and taciturn each year, mellowed into some resemblance to his former benevolent, though stately, self.  He had not yet heard of Ned’s treason.  His lady, still graceful and slender, resumed her youth.  Fanny, who had ever forced herself to the diffusion of merriment when there was cheerlessness to be dispelled, reflected with happy eyes the old-time jocundity now reawakened.  My mother, always a cheerful, self-reliant, outspoken soul, imparted the cordiality of her presence to the household, and both Tom and I rejoiced to find the old state of things in part returned.  Margaret, perhaps for relief from her private dejection, took part in the household festivities with a smiling animation that she had not vouchsafed them in years; and Captain Falconer added to their gaiety by his charming wit, good-nature, and readiness to please.  Yet he, I made no doubt, bore within him a weight of dashed hopes, and could often have cursed when he laughed.

The happy season went, leaving a sweeter air in the dear old house than had filled it for a long time.  All that was missing, it seemed to us who knew not yet as much as Margaret knew, was the presence of Philip.  Well, the war must end some day, and then what a happy reunion!  By that time, if Heaven were kind, I thought, the charm of Captain Falconer would have lost power over Margaret’s inclinations, and all would be well that ended well.

One night in January, we had sat very late at cards in the Faringfield parlour, and my mother had just cried out, “Dear bless me, look at the clock!”—­when there sounded a dull, heavy pounding upon the rear hall door.  There were eight of us, at the two card-tables:  Mr. Faringfield and his lady, my mother, Margaret and Fanny, Mr. Cornelius, Tom, and myself.  And every one of us, looking from face to face, showed the same thought, the same recognition of that half-cowardly, half-defiant thump, though for so long we had not heard it.  How it knocked away the years, and brought younger days rushing back upon us!

Mr. Faringfield’s face showed a sweep of conjectures, ranging from that of Ned’s being in New York in service of his cause, to that of his being there as a deserter from it.  Margaret flushed a moment, and then composed herself with an effort, for whatever issue this unexpected arrival might portend.  The rest of us waited in a mere wonder touched with the old disquieting dread of painful scenes.

Old Noah, jealous of the single duty that his years had left him, and resentful of its frequent usurpation by Falconer’s servant, always stayed up to attend the door till the last of the family had retired.  We now heard him shuffling through the hall, heard the movement of the lock, and then instantly a heavy tread that covered the sound of Noah’s.  The parlour door from the hall was flung open, and in strode the verification of our thoughts.