us
the long evening passed away.

"I don't see what has become of Thomas," said Mrs. Somers, when the clock
struck eleven, as she rose from her chair and looked out of the window.

"Well, I don't see, either," replied John. "I don't believe there is
anything going on at this time of night."

"I hope nothing has happened to him," continued the anxious mother, as she
went to the door and looked out, hoping, perhaps, to discover him in the
gloom of the night, or to hear his familiar step.

"What could have happened to him?" asked John, who did not believe his
brother was fool enough to fall overboard, or permit any serious accident
to happen to him.

"I don't know. I can't see what has got the boy. He always comes home
before nine o'clock. Have you heard him say anything that will give you an
idea where he is?"

"He hasn't said anything to me."

"Try, and see if you can't think of something," persisted the anxious
mother.

"He hasn't talked of anything but the war since yesterday morning."

"What did he say?"

"I don't know, now," answered John, musing. "He said he should like to
join the army, and go down and fight the rebels."

Mrs. Somers had heard as much from him, but she had given no particular
attention to his remarks on this subject, for they seemed wild and
visionary. John's words, under the present circumstances, appeared to be
full of importance; and taking her stocking, she seated herself before the
stove, and resumed her knitting. She was silent now, for her heart was
heavy with the premonitions of impending trouble.

"I will take a walk down to the Harbor, mother, and see if I can find
anything of him. There may be something going on there that I don't know
about. He may be at the store, talking about the war with Captain Barney
and the rest of the folks."

Mrs. Somers offered no objection to this plan, and John put on his cap,
and left the house. The poor mother brooded upon her trouble for another
hour, and with every new moment, the trouble seemed more real. The clock
struck twelve before John returned; and more than once during his absence,
as she plied her needles, she had wiped away a tear that hung among the
furrows of her care-worn cheek. She had been thinking of her husband, as
well as of her son. He was, or soon would be, in the midst of the
traitors, and she trembled for him. Uncle Wyman was a secessionist; and,
beyond this, she had not much confidence in his integrity, and if Capta