in her grasp. Out of his coat pocket hung the curved butt of
a pepperbox revolver.

"Let me go, Anne!" he cried. "Do you think I can stay here while my
people are shot down by a lot of damned Dutchman?"

"John," said Mr. Brinsmade, sternly, "I cannot let you join a mob. I
cannot let you shoot at men who carry the Union flag."

"You cannot prevent me, sir," shouted the young man, in a frenzy. "When
foreigners take our flag for them own, it is time for us to shoot them
down."

Wrenching himself free, he ran down the steps and up the street ahead of
the regiment. Then the soldiers and the noisy crowd were upon them and
while these were passing the two stood there as in a dream. After that
silence fell upon the street, and Mr. Brinsmade turned and went back
into the house, his head bowed as in prayer. Stephen and his mother drew
back, but Anne saw them.

"He is a rebel," she faltered. "It will break my father's heart."

She looked at Stephen appealingly, unashamed of the tears in her eyes.
Then she, too went in.

"I cannot stay here mother," he said.

As he slammed the gate, Anne ran down the steps calling his name. He
paused, and she caught his sleeve.

"I knew you would go," she said, "I knew you would go. Oh, Stephen, you
have a cool head. Try to keep Jack--out of mischief."

He left her standing on the pavement. But when he reached the corner and
looked back he saw that she had gone in at his own little gate to
meet his mother. Then he walked rapidly westward. Now and again he was
stopped by feverish questions, but at length he reached the top of the
second ridge from the river, along which crowded Eighteenth Street now
runs. There stood the new double mansion Mr. Spencer Catherwood had
built two years before on the outskirts of the town, with the wall at
the side, and the brick stable and stable yard. As Stephen approached
it, the thought came to him how little this world's goods avail in times
of trouble. One of the big Catherwood boys was in the blue marching
regiment that day, and had been told by his father never again to darken
his doors. Another was in Clarence Colfax's company of dragoons, and
still another had fled southward the night after Sumter.

Stephen stopped at the crest of the hill, in the white dust of the
new-turned street, to gaze westward. Clouds were gathering in the sky,
but the sun still shone brightly, Half way up the rise two blue lines
had crawled, followed by black splotches, an