“Oh, haven’t we?  Sure, I think ’tis time little boys were in bed, who talk of things they know nothing about.  Isn’t that so, Bert?”

“Why,” said I, “for my part, I think ’tis unkind for a woman to exercise her charms upon men after she has destroyed the possibility of rewarding their devotion.”

“Dear me, you talk like a character in a novel.  Well, then, you’re both agreed I mustn’t be charming.  So I’ll be disagreeable, and begin with you two.  Here’s a book of sermons Mr. Cornelius must have left.  That will help me, if anything will.”  And she sat down with the volume in her hands, took on a solemn frown, and began to read to herself.  After awhile, at a giggle of amusement from schoolboy Tom, she turned a rebuking gaze upon us, over the top of the book; but the very effort to be severe emphasised the fact that her countenance was formed to give only pleasure, and our looks brought back the smile to her eyes.

“’Tis no use,” said Tom, “you couldn’t help being charming if you tried.”

She threw down the book, and came and put her arm around him, and so we all three stood before the fire till Philip returned.

“Ah,” she said, “here is one who will never ask me to be ugly or unpleasant.”

“Who has been asking impossibilities, my dear?” inquired Philip, taking her offered hand in his.

“These wise gentlemen think I oughtn’t to be charming, now that I’m married.”

“Then they think you oughtn’t to be yourself; and I disagree with ’em entirely.”

She gave him her other hand also, and stood for a short while looking into his innocent, fond eyes.

“You dear old Phil!” she said slowly, in a low voice, falling for the moment into a tender gravity, and her eyes having a more than wonted softness.  The next instant, recovering her light playfulness with a little laugh, she took his arm and led the way to the dining-room.

And now came Spring—­the Spring of 1775.  There had been, of course, for years past, and increasing daily in recent months, talk of the disagreement between the king and the colonies.  I have purposely deferred mention of this subject, to the time when it was to fall upon us in its full force so that no one could ignore it or avoid action with regard to it.  But I now reach the beginning of the drama which is the matter of this history, and to which all I have written is uneventful prologue.  We young people of the Faringfield house (for I was still as much of that house as of my own) had concerned ourselves little with the news from London and Boston, of the concentration of British troops in the latter town in consequence of the increased disaffection upon the closing of its port.  We heeded little the fact that the colonies meant to convene another general congress at Philadelphia, or that certain colonial assemblies had done thus and so, and certain local committees decided upon this or that.  ’Twould all blow over, of course, as the Stamp Act trouble