had done; the seditious class in Boston would soon be overawed, and the king would then concede, of his gracious will, what the malcontents had failed to obtain by their violent demands.  Such a thing as actual rebellion, real war, was to us simply inconceivable.  I believe now that Philip had earlier and deeper thoughts on the subject than I had:  indeed events showed that he must have had:  but he kept them to himself.  And far other and lighter subjects occupied our minds as he and I started for a walk out the Bowery lane one balmy Sunday morning in April, the twenty-third day of the month.

Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield, Fanny, and Tom, had gone to church.  Philip and I boasted of too much philosophical reading to be churchgoers, and I had let my mother walk off to Trinity with a neighbour.  As for Margaret, she stayed home because she was now her own mistress and had a novel to read, out of the last parcel received from London.  We left her on the rear veranda, amidst the honeysuckle vines that climbed the trellis-work.

“I’ve been counting the weeks,” she said to Phil, as we were about to set forth.  “Only seven more Sundays.”  And she stopped him to adjust the ribbon of his queue more to her taste.  “Aren’t you glad?”

“Yes; and a thousand times so because it makes you happy, my dear,” said he.

She kissed him, and let him go.  “Don’t walk too far, dear!” she called after us.

We looked back from the gateway, and saw that she had come to the end of the veranda to see us from the garden.  We doffed our hats, and Phil threw her a kiss; which she returned, and then waved her hand after us, softly smiling.  Philip lingered a moment, smiling back, to get this last view of her ere he closed the gate.

We had just passed the common, at the Northern end of the town, when we heard a clatter of galloping hoofs in the Bowery lane before us.  Looking up the vista of road shaded by trees in fresh leafage, we saw a rider coming toward us at a very severe pace.  As he approached, the horse stumbled; and the man on its back, fearing it might sink from exhaustion, drew up and gave it a moment in which to recover itself.  He evidently wished to make a decent entrance into the town.  He was in a great panting and perspiration, like his trembling steed, which was covered with foam; and his clothes were disturbed and soiled with travel.  He took off his cocked felt hat to fan himself.

“You ride fast, for Sunday, friend,” said Phil pleasantly.  “Any trouble?”

“Trouble for some folks, I guess,” was the reply, spoken with a Yankee drawl and twang.  “I’m bringing news from Massachusetts.”  He slapped the great pocket of his plain coat, calling attention to its well-filled condition as with square papers.  “Letters from the Committee of Safety.”

“Why, has anything happened at Boston?” asked Phil, quickly.