e, yet let us, oh, Lord, spare the vanquished, though they never
spared us in their hour of butchery and bloodshed. And, in the hour of
death, do thou guide us into the abode prepared for the blest; so shall
we return thanks unto thee, through Christ, our Redeemer.--GOD PROSPER
THE CAUSE.--_Amen_"

During the recital of this interesting and thrilling incident of the
Revolution, the veterans--even Higgins, too--laid down their knives
and forks, and listened as if carried back to the memorable eve of the
battle of Brandywine, and filled with the hopes and fears of the period.
At its conclusion, they expressed their approbation of the manner of the
recital, and the beauty of the sermon.

"That minister was one of the kind that I like," said Wilson. "He could
preach peace as long as peace was wise, and buckle on his armor and
fight when it became his duty."

"Mr. Harmer handles his pen well," remarked Morton, "but such an
incident would make any pen write well of itself. There's fire in it."

"Yes, a whole heap of fire," put in Mrs. Harmar, who thought she must
make a remark, as she had been quieting the children while the latter
part of the sermon and the remarks upon it were listened to by the
others.

"But the Lord didn't assist us much in that next day's battle," said old
Harmar. "We had hard fighting, and then were compelled to retreat."

"It was all for the best," said Wilson. "We shouldn't have known our
enemies nor ourselves without losing that battle. The harder the
struggle for liberty, the more we enjoy it when won."

"That's true," said young Harmar, "The freedom dearest bought is highest
prized, and Americans have learned the value of that inestimable gem."

The dinner was, by this time, pretty well disposed of, and the party
adjourned to the large parlor, where they were soon comfortable seated.
Mrs. Harmar would make one of the company, and the children would force
their way in to see and hear the "sogers." The windows were up, and the
gentle breeze of summer blew softly through the parlor, thus relieving
the otherwise oppressive atmosphere.

But we must introduce the company to the reader. Old Hannar was seated
on one end of the sofa, with one of the small children on his knee. He
was a stout, hearty-looking man of about seventy, with silvery hair,
and a face much embrowned by exposure and furrowed by time. The general
expression of his features was a hearty good humor, as if perfectly
satisfied wi