Ailsa Paige. Robert W. Chambers

I know it, somehow."

      Silence, fragrance, and darkness, through which rang the distant laugh of a young girl. And, very, very far away sounds arose in the city, dull, indistinct, lost for moments at a time, then audible again, and always the same sounds, the same monotony, and distant persistence.

      "I do believe they're calling an extra," said Ailsa, lifting her head to listen.

      Celia listened, too.

      "Children shouting at play," she said.

      "They are calling an extra, Celia!"

      "No, little Cassandra, it's only boys skylarking."

      For a while they remained listening and silent. The voices still persisted, but they sounded so distant that the light laughter from their neighbour's stoop drowned the echoes.

      Later, Jimmy Lent drifted into the family circle.

      "They say that there's an extra out about Fort Sumter," he said.

       "Do you think he's given up, Mr. Craig?"

      "If there's an extra out the fort is probably safe enough, Jim," said the elder man carelessly. He rose and went toward the group of girls and youths under the trees.

      "Come, children," he said to his two daughters; and was patient amid indignant protests which preceded the youthful interchange of reluctant good-nights.

      When he returned to the stoop Ailsa had gone indoors with her cousin. His wife rose to greet him as though he had been away on a long journey, and then, passing her arms around her schoolgirl daughters, and nodding a mischievous dismissal to Jimmy Lent, walked slowly into the house. Bolts were shot, keys turned; from the lighted front parlour came the notes of the sweet-toned square piano, and Ailsa's voice:

      —"Dear are her charms to me,

       Dearest her constancy,

       Aileen aroon—"

      "Never mind any more of that silly song!" exclaimed Celia, imprisoning Ailsa's arms from behind.

      "Youth must with time decay,

       Aileen aroon,

       Beauty must fade away,

       Aileen aroon—"

      "Don't, dear! please——"

      But Ailsa sang on obstinately:

      "Castles are sacked in war,

       Chieftains are scattered far,

       Truth is a fixed star,

       Aileen aroon."

      And, glancing back over her shoulder, caught her breath quickly.

      "Celia! What is the matter, dear?"

      "Nothing. I don't like such songs—just now——"

      "What songs?"

      "I don't know, Ailsa; songs about war and castles. Little things plague me. … There's been altogether too much talk about war—it gets into ev'ything, somehow. I can't seem to he'p it, somehow——"

      "Why, Celia! You are not worrying?"

      "Not fo' myse'f, Honey-bud. Somehow, to-night—I don't know—and

       Curt seemed a little anxious."

      She laughed with an effort; her natural gaiety returned to buoy her above this indefinable undercurrent of unrest.

      Paige and Marye came in from the glass extension where their father was pacing to and fro, smoking his bedtime cigar, and their mother began her invariable running comment concerning the day's events, rallying her children, tenderly tormenting them with their shortcomings—undarned stockings, lessons imperfectly learned, little household tasks neglected—she was always aware of and ready at bedtime to point out every sin of omission.

      "As fo' you, Paige, you are certainly a ve'y rare kind of Honey-bird, and I reckon Mr. Ba'num will sho'ly catch you some day fo' his museum. Who ever heard of a shif'less Yankee girl except you and Marye?"

      "O mother, how can we mend everything we tear? It's heartless to ask us!"

      "You don't have to try to mend _ev'y_thing. Fo' example, there's

       Jimmy Lent's heart——"

      A quick outbreak of laughter swept them—all except Paige, who flushed furiously over her first school-girl affair.

      "That poor Jimmy child came to me about it," continued their mother, "and asked me if I would let you be engaiged to him; and I said, 'Certainly, if Paige wants to be, Jimmy. I was engaiged myse'f fo' times befo' I was fo'teen——'"

      Another gale of laughter drowned her words, and she sat there dimpled, mischievous, naively looking around, yet in her careful soul shrewdly pursuing her wise policy of airing all sentimental matters in the family circle—letting in fresh air and sunshine on what so often takes root and flourishes rather morbidly at sixteen.

      "It's perfectly absurd," observed Ailsa, "at your age, Paige——"

      "Mother was married at sixteen! Weren't you, dearest?"

      "I certainly was; but I am a bad rebel and you are good little Yankees; and good little Yankees wait till they're twenty odd befo' they do anything ve'y ridiculous."

      "We expect to wait," said Paige, with a dignified glance at her sister.

      "You've four years to wait, then," laughed Marye.

      "What's the use of being courted if you have to wait four years?"

      "And you've three years to wait, silly," retorted Paige. "But I don't care; I'd rather wait. It isn't very long, now. Ailsa, why don't you marry again?"

      Ailsa's lip curled her comment upon the suggestion. She sat under the crystal chandelier reading a Southern newspaper which had been sent recently to Celia. Presently her agreeable voice sounded in appreciative recitation of what she was reading.

      "Hath not the morning dawned with added light?

       And shall not evening call another star

       Out of the infinite regions of the night

       To mark this day in Heaven? At last we are

       A nation among nations; and the world

       Shall soon behold in many a distant port

       Another flag unfurled!"

       "Listen, Celia," she said, "this is really beautiful:

      A tint of pink fire touched Mrs. Craig's cheeks, but she said nothing. And Ailsa went on, breathing out the opening beauty of Timrod's "Ethnogenesis":

      "Now come what may, whose favour need we court?

       And, under God, whose thunder need we fear?"

      She stopped short, considering the printed page. Then, doubtfully:

      "And what if, mad with wrongs themselves have wrought,

       In their own treachery caught,

       By their own fears made bold,

       And leagued with him of old

       Who long since, in the limits of the North,

       Set up his evil throne, and warred with God—

       What if, both mad and blinded in their rage

       Our foes should fling us down the mortal gauge,

       And with a hostile horde profane our sod!"

      The girl reddened, sat breathing a little faster, eyes on the page; then:

      "Nor would we shun the battleground!

      … The winds in our defence

       Shall seem to blow; to us the hills shall lend

       Their firmness and their calm,