e face of the enemy--for, though the city lay under
Federal guns, it was still hostile enough--involved the heaviest
penalties. O'Rourke was speedily arrested with other deserters, tried by
court-martial, and sentenced to death.

The intelligence burst like a shell upon the quiet household in Anchor
Street, listening daily for the sound of Larry O'Rourke's footstep on
the threshold. It was a heavy load for Margaret to bear, after all those
years of patient vigil. But the load was to be lightened for her. In
consideration of O'Rourke's long service, and in view of the fact that
his desertion so near the expiration of his time was an absurdity, the
Good President commuted his sentence to imprisonment for life, with
loss of prize-money and back pay. Mr. O'Rourke was despatched North, and
placed in Moyamensing Prison.

If joy could kill, Margaret would have been a dead woman the day these
tidings reached Rivermouth; and Mr. Bilkins himself would have been in a
critical condition, for, though he did not want O'Rourke shot or hanged,
he was delighted to have him permanently shelved.

After the excitement was over, and this is always the trying time,
Margaret accepted the situation philosophically.

"The pore lad's out o' harum's rache, any way," she reflected. "He can't
be git-tin' into hot wather now, and that's a fact. And maybe after
awhiles they 'll let him go agin. They let out murtherers and thaves and
sich like, and Larry's done no hurt to nobody but hisself."

Margaret was inclined to be rather severe on President Lincoln for
taking away Larry's prize-money. The impression was strong on her mind
that the money went into Mr. Lincoln's private exchequer.

"I would n't wonder if Misthress Lincoln had a new silk gownd or two
this fall," Margaret would remark, sarcastically.

The prison rules permitted Mr. O'Rourke to receive periodical
communications "from his friends outside." Once every quarter Mr. Bilkins
wrote him a letter, and in the interim Margaret kept him supplied with
those doleful popular ballads, printed on broadsides, which one sees
pinned up for sale on the iron railings of city churchyards, and seldom
anywhere else. They seem the natural exhalations of the mould and
pathos of such places, but we have a suspicion that they are written
by sentimental young undertakers. Though these songs must have been a
solace to Mr. O'Rourke in his captivity, he never so far forgot himself
as to acknowledge their rec