comes with Mrs.
Footer and Patty Warren, who are glad to take him as escort in these
troublous times, I will run up to Moppet, for the girls are waiting for
you; the lead got somewhat overheated, and they want your advice as to
using it."

Miss Euphemia went slowly down the hall and through the large
dining-room, pausing as she passed to knock at a small door opening off
the hall into a sitting-room.

"Are you there, Miss Bidwell?" she said, as a small elderly woman, with
bent figure and pleasant, shrewd face, rose from her chair in response.
"Will you kindly go up and see that Miss Moppet be properly rubbed and
made dry, and let her take her hot posset, and then, if not too tired,
she may come to me in the kitchen."

Miss Bidwell, who was at once house-keeper, manager, and confidential
servant to the Wolcott household, gave a cheerful affirmative; and as
she laid down the stocking she was carefully darning, and prepared to
leave the room, Miss Euphemia resumed her interrupted walk toward the
kitchen.

Standing and sitting around the great kitchen fireplace were a group of
young people, whose voices rose in a lively chorus as she entered. Over
the fire, on a crane, hung a large kettle, from the top of which issued
sounds of spluttering and boiling, and a young man was in the act of
endeavoring to lift it amid cries of remonstrance.

"Have a care, Francis," cried a pretty, roguish-looking girl in a gray
homespun gown, brandishing a wet towel as she spoke; "hot lead will be
your portion if you dare trifle with that boiling pot. What are we to do
with it, Miss Euphemia?" as that lady came forward in haste; "a few
drops of water flirted out of my towel and must have fallen inside, for
't is spluttering in terrific fashion."

"Shall I lift it off the fire?" asked the young man, whose name was
Francis Plunkett.

"Certainly," said Miss Euphemia, inspecting the now tranquil kettle;
"here are the moulds all greased; gently, now," as she put a small ladle
inside the pot; "now move it slowly, and put the pot here beside me on
the table."

"Will they really turn out bullets?" asked another girl in a whisper, as
Sally Tracy moved a second big pot with the intention of hanging it on
the fire, but was prevented by a tall, silent young man, who stopped his
occupation of sorting out bits of lead to assist her.

"Thank you, Josiah," said Sally. "Turn out bullets, Dolly?--why, of
course, when they come out of the moulds. What