“Mr. Clinton leaves us, Brother William. Did you say to-morrow?” said Lettice, turning to the young man. “I am going up with Mr. Kendall to Washington,” he answered, without a smile. “He will miss the fox-hunting, won’t he, Brother William? I thought that was what you came down here for.” She turned again to Mr. Clinton. “Washington isn’t so far away but that he can come back again,” said William. “That’s what you intend to do, of course.” He turned to his guest. “Perhaps,” he replied, giving a meaning glance at Lettice, who hastened to say lightly, “Then it is not a long farewell.” And she turned her attention to young Birket Dean, who was mightily complacent in consequence. During the entire evening Lettice chose to ignore Mr. Clinton, whom she relegated to a place by Rhoda’s side when the big wagon-load of young folks started to camp-meeting. It was no new experience to any of them except to Rhoda and to Robert Clinton, who viewed the proceedings with interest and with some wonder; they were not used to seeing such exhibitions of religious excitement at their own homes. But instead of camp-meeting hymns, on their way back, the young people started up such war-songs as:-- “Too long our tars have borne in peace With British domineering; But now they’ve shown that trade should cease, For vengeance they are steering. First gallant Hull, he was the lad Who sailed a tyrant hunting, And swaggering Dacres soon was glad To strike to striped bunting.” “Why don’t you sing?” Lettice asked Mr. Clinton, with fun in her eyes. “Rhoda says you have a right pretty voice. And you, Rhoda, are silent, too. What is the matter? One would suppose the same complaint had seized the two of you and given you husky throats.” “Well, you see, I know Dacres,” Mr. Clinton began. “He knows Dacres! Think of it, girls!” said Lettice, bent on teasing. “How proud he must be of the acquaintance.” “I am proud. He is a gallant, brave fellow,” returned Mr. Clinton, in some heat. “But that didn’t save him from getting whipped,” Lettice chanted in glee. “Let us make our manners, ladies and gentlemen, to a friend of Lieutenant Dacres, who is a friend of England, consequently no friend of ours.” “Now, Lettice,” Rhoda interposed, “don’t stir every one up.” “You called for a song,” cried Robert Clinton, springing to his feet. “We will give you one. Join in, Miss Rhoda.” And he began:-- “Huzza for our liberty, boys, These are the days of our glory; The days of true national joys, When terrapins gallop before ye. There’s Porter and Grundy and Rhea In Congress, who manfully vapor, Who draw their six dollars a day, And fight bloody battles on paper. Ah, this is true Terrapin war.” But before they had proceeded very far with their song, every lad in the wagon was on his feet, and the Terrapin war was drowned out by the lusty singing of:--