o be wonderfully attractive when they
finish it."

Ailsa mused for a moment. Then:

"I walked down this street to Fort Greene this afternoon," she
began, "and the little rocky park was so sweet and fragrant with
dogwood and Forsythia and new buds everywhere. And I looked out
over the rivers and the bay and over the two cities and, Steve,
somehow--I don't know why--I found my eyes filling with tears. I
don't know why, Steve----"

"Feminine sentiment," observed her cousin, smoking.

Mrs. Craig's fingers became restless on her husband's sleeve; she
spoke at moments in soft, wistful tones, watching her younger
daughters and their friends grouped under the trees in the dusk.
And all the time, whatever it was that had brought a new unease
into her breast was still there, latent. She had no name to give
it, no reason, no excuse; it was too shadowy to bear analysis, too
impalpable to be defined, yet it remained there; she was perfectly
conscious of it, as she held her husband's sleeve the tighter.

"Curt, is business so plaguey poor because of all these politics?"

"My business is not very flourishing. Many men feel the
uncertainty; not everybody, dear."

"When this--_matter_--is settled, everything will be easier for
you, won't it? You look so white and tired, dear."

Stephen overheard her.

"The _matter_, as you call it, won't be settled without a row,
mother--if you mean the rebellion."

"Such a wise boy with his new cigar," she smiled through a sudden
resurgence of uneasiness.

The boy said calmly: "Mother, you don't understand; and all the
rest of the South is like you."

"Does anybody understand, Steve?" asked his father, slightly
ironical.

"Some people understand there's going to be a big fight," said the
boy.

"Oh. Do you?"

"Yes," he said, with the conviction of youth. "And I'm wondering
who's going to be in it."

"The militia, of course," observed Ailsa scornfully. "Camilla is
forever sewing buttons on Jimmy's dress uniform. He wears them off
dancing."

Mr. Craig said, unsmiling: "We are not a military nation, Steve; we
are not only non-military but we are unmilitary--if you know what
that means."

"We once managed to catch Cornwallis," suggested his son, still
proudly smoking.

"I wonder how we did it?" mused his father.

"They were another race--those catchers of Cornwallis--those
fellows in, blue-and-buff and powdered hair."

"You and Celia are their grandchildren," observ