“Very true.  It is in observing the terms of that what-you-may-call-it,—­that federation, that bond,—­in mutual concessions, in fraternal remembrances, that we gain a country.  And what a country!”

“Yes, what a country, Vivia!  And shall I consent to resign an atom of it while there’s a drop of blood in my body, to lose a single grain of its dust?  When Beltran brought me here three years ago, I sailed day and night up a mighty river, from one zone into another,—­sailed for weeks between banks that were still my own country.  And if I had ever returned, we should have passed by the thundering ledges of New England, Jersey surfs and shallows, the sand-bars of the Carolinas, the shores of Florida lying like a faint green cloud long and low upon the horizon,—­sailing a thousand miles again in our own waters.  Enormous borders! and throughout their vast stretch happiness and promise!  And shall I give such dominion to the first traitor that demands it?  No! nor to the thousandth!  There she lies, bleeding, torn, prostrate, a byword!  Why, Vivia, this was my country, she that made me, reared me, gladdened me!  It is the now crusade.  I understand none of your syllogisms.  My country is in danger.  Here’s my hand!”

And Ray stood erect, bristling and fiery, as some one reddening in the very light of battle.

And answering him only with flashing eyes, Vivia sang, in her triumphant, thrilling tones,—­

    “Hark to a wandering child’s appeal,
      Maryland! my Maryland! 
    My mother State, to thee I kneel,
      Maryland! my Maryland! 
    For life and death, for woe and weal,
    Thy peerless chivalry reveal,
    And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel,
      Maryland! my Maryland!”

“You’re a wicked girl, Vivia, if you are as beautiful as Phryne!” exclaimed Ray, while little Jane picked herself up from the table, across which she had been leaning with both arms and her dish-towel, and staring forgetfully at him.

Vivia laughed.

“Well, you young fanatic,” said she, “we can’t convert each other.  We are both incontrovertible.  Let us be friends.  One needs more time than we have to quarrel in.”

“Yes,” said Ray.  “I am going this afternoon, and I shall drink of every river west of the Mississippi before I come back.  It’s a wild life, a royal life; I am thirsty for its excitement and adventure.”

“Jane,” called Mrs. Vennard from within, “did you find all the nests to-day?”

“All but two, Ma’am,” said little Jane, as she let a tempting odor escape from the tin oven.  “The black hen got over the fence last night; she’s down in the lot.  And the cropple-crown laid away.”

“You’d better get them.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“If you’d just as lief.”

“Oh, yes, Ma’am!”

“We’ll go, too,” said Ray.

“Oh, no, you needn’t.”

“We’d like to, little Jane.  Are the cookies done?  By George! don’t they look like manna?  They’ll last all the way to Fort Riley.  And be manna in the wilderness.  Smoking hot.  Have some, Vivia?  Little Jane, I say, ’t would be jolly, if you’d go along and cook for the regiment.”