ing, and everybody is losing by it. Fighting the
French and the Spaniards is a very different thing. Everybody feels
that. It's all natural, you know."

"I'm sure that I shall be glad to hear that the war is over," said Jane,
with a sigh, "but surely the Americans must be very wicked people to
behave as they have done to their lawful sovereign King George."

"They say that he has been a very ill-advised King to behave as he has
done to them," I replied. "You see, dear Jane, that there are two sides
to every question; but do not let us discuss that matter just now.
You'll say that, for the sake of Madeline Carlyon, I am siding too much
with the Americans, but that is not the reason. I have been on the
spot. I know the feelings of both sides. I have seen how things have
been managed. I am sure the war can bring no honour or profit to
England, and I heartily wish that it was ended one way or the other."

"So do I, brother, believe me," said Jane warmly; "and then, if Miss
Carlyon is all you describe her, I for one will cordially welcome her as
a sister if you can persuade her to come over here to visit our kith and
kin."

I jumped up and gave Jane a hearty kiss when she said this.

"Just like my own good sister," said I at the same time, and in a moment
I pictured to myself the happiness which would be mine, when perhaps in
that very room I might be introducing Madeline to my family. I forgot
that I was still a poor lieutenant--that the wealth I had so nearly
possessed, and had fought so hard to obtain, had gone to the bottom in
the old Leviathan--that I had saved but a few hundred pounds of
prize-money--that England and the American States were still actively
engaged in war--that the Atlantic still rolled between her and me, and
that her kindred would probably exert their influence to make her give
up all thoughts of one fighting on the side of their enemies. I was
young, and hope was bright, and difficulties and impediments were
speedily kicked away. Before another day Jane and I were talking away
as if my marriage with Madeline Carlyon was a settled thing. At last we
told our mother, dear old soul! She didn't see how it could be exactly,
but then that was her fault; and though she used to have some idea
formerly that the Americans were red, and wore leathern cloaks and
petticoats covered with beads and feathers, and painted their faces,
yet, as I assured her that Miss Carlyon was quite fair, and spoke