prevailed within its comfortable walls at that season. Mr.
Faringfield, who had grown more gray and taciturn each year, mellowed
into some resemblance to his former benevolent, though stately, self.
He had not yet heard of Ned's treason. His lady, still graceful and
slender, resumed her youth. Fanny, who had ever forced herself to the
diffusion of merriment when there was cheerlessness to be dispelled,
reflected with happy eyes the old-time jocundity now reawakened. My
mother, always a cheerful, self-reliant, outspoken soul, imparted the
cordiality of her presence to the household, and both Tom and I
rejoiced to find the old state of things in part returned. Margaret,
perhaps for relief from her private dejection, took part in the
household festivities with a smiling animation that she had not
vouchsafed them in years; and Captain Falconer added to their gaiety
by his charming wit, good-nature, and readiness to please. Yet he, I
made no doubt, bore within him a weight of dashed hopes, and could
often have cursed when he laughed.

The happy season went, leaving a sweeter air in the dear old house
than had filled it for a long time. All that was missing, it seemed to
us who knew not yet as much as Margaret knew, was the presence of
Philip. Well, the war must end some day, and then what a happy
reunion! By that time, if Heaven were kind, I thought, the charm of
Captain Falconer would have lost power over Margaret's inclinations,
and all would be well that ended well.

One night in January, we had sat very late at cards in the Faringfield
parlour, and my mother had just cried out, "Dear bless me, look at the
clock!"--when there sounded a dull, heavy pounding upon the rear hall
door. There were eight of us, at the two card-tables: Mr. Faringfield
and his lady, my mother, Margaret and Fanny, Mr. Cornelius, Tom, and
myself. And every one of us, looking from face to face, showed the
same thought, the same recognition of that half-cowardly, half-defiant
thump, though for so long we had not heard it. How it knocked away the
years, and brought younger days rushing back upon us!

Mr. Faringfield's face showed a sweep of conjectures, ranging from
that of Ned's being in New York in service of his cause, to that of
his being there as a deserter from it. Margaret flushed a moment, and
then composed herself with an effort, for whatever issue this
unexpected arrival might portend. The rest of us waited in a mere
wonder touched with th