absence in the field; and
so, in the Summer of 1775, upon a day much like that in which he had
first come to us twelve years before, it was ours to wish him for a
time farewell.

Mr. Faringfield and his lady, with Fanny and Tom, stood in the hall,
and my mother and I had joined them there, when Philip came
down-stairs in his new blue regimentals. He wore his sword, but it was
not his wife that had buckled it on. There had been no change in her
manner toward him: he was still to her but as a strange guest in the
house, rather to be disdained than treated with the courtesy due even
to a strange guest. We all asked ourselves what her farewell would be,
but none mentioned the thought. As Phil came into view at the first
landing, he sent a quick glance among us to see if she was there. For
a moment his face was struck into a sadly forlorn expression; but, as
if by chance, she came out of the larger parlour at that moment, and
his countenance revived almost into hope. The rest of us had already
said our good-byes to Mr. Cornelius, who now stood waiting for Philip.
As the latter reached the foot of the stairs, Margaret suddenly turned
to the pedagogue, to add her civility to ours, for she had always
liked the bashful fellow, and _his_ joining the rebels was to her a
matter of indifference--it did not in any way affect her own pleasure.
This movement on her part made it natural that Philip's first
leave-taking should be of Mr. Faringfield, who, seeing Margaret
occupied, went forward and grasped Phil's hand.

"God bless thee, lad," said he, showing the depth of his feelings as
much by a tenderness very odd in so cold a man, as by reverting to the
old pronoun now becoming obsolete except with Quakers, "and bring thee
safe out of it all, and make thy cause victorious!"

"Good-bye, Philip," said Mrs. Faringfield, with some betrayal of
affection, "and heaven bring you back to us!"

Fanny's farewell, though spoken with a voice more tremulous and eyes
more humid, was in the same strain; and so was that of my mother,
though she could not refrain from adding, "Tis such a pity!" and
wishing that so handsome a soldier was on the right side.

"Good-bye and good luck, dear old Phil!" was all that Tom said.

"And so say I," I put in, taking his hand in my turn, and trying not
to show my discomposure, "meaning to yourself, but not to your cause.
Well--dear lad--heaven guard you, and give you a speedy return! For
your sake and ours, ma