mer of 1860, James Penhallow guarded an awkward
silence about politics. Leila found that her uncle would not talk of what
the closing months of Buchanan's administration might contribute to
insure peaceful settlement. John Penhallow was as averse to answering her
eager questions. Their silence on matters which concerned a nation's
possible dismemberment and her aunt's too evident distress weighed
heavily upon Leila. The newspapers bewildered her. The _Tribune_ was for
peaceful separation, and then later was against it. Uncle Jim had said he
was too worried about the mills to talk politics, "Don't ask me, Leila."
At last, an errand to Dr. McGregor's gave her the chance she desired.

"Yes," said the doctor, "I'll come to-day. One of the maids? Well, what
else, Leila?" seeing that she still lingered.

"I want to know something about all this tangle of politics. There's
Breckinridge, Douglas, Bell and Lincoln--four candidates. Uncle Jim gets
almost cross when I ask him what they all stand for. Mr. Rivers told me
to be thankful I have no vote. If there is to be war, have I no interest?
There is Uncle Jim--and--and John."

The doctor said, "Sit down, Leila. Your uncle could answer you. He won't
talk. I don't believe John Penhallow owns any politics except a soldier's
blind creed of devotion to the Flag."

"Oh, the Flag, Doctor! But it is a symbol--it is history. I won't write
to a man any more who has no certain opinions. He never answers."

"Well, my dear, see how hard it is to know what to think! One State after
another is seceding. The old juggle of compromises goes on in that circus
we call Congress. The audience is grimly silent. Crittenden's compromise
has failed. The President is at last against secession--and makes no
vigorous effort to reinforce Fort Sumter. The Cabinet was distinctly with
the South--the new men came in too late. You--a girl--may well call it a
tangle. It is a diabolical cat's-cradle. My only hope, my dear, is in a
new and practically untried man--Abraham Lincoln. The South is one in
opinion--we are perplexed by the fears of commerce and are split. There
you have all my wisdom. Read the news, but not the weathercock essays
called editorials. Oh! I forgot to tell the Squire that Tom, my young
doctor, has passed the Army Board and is awaiting orders in Washington.
By-bye!"

"Tom as a doctor--and in uniform," Leila murmured, as her horse walked
away. "How these boys go on and on, and we women just