“But we have had some rousing victories at sea; quite enough to encourage us to keep up a good heart. No, Patsey, with all I have lost, I still believe it was right for us to fight.” “You have more spirit than I, for I would grovel on my knees, give up everything, be a British subject, or anything else, if it would but give me back my Joe safe and sound. You don’t know what it is to feel so, do you, Lettice dear? Your heart is not so deeply touched.” “No, I don’t believe it is,” she replied slowly. “Yet, I venture to say it beats quicker when a certain person is near,” returned Patsey, patting her hand. “Come now, my sister will wonder if we are going to stay here all night without a word to her.” It was, indeed, as Patsey said; war, war, politics, politics, were all that Washington people talked about. The news from Europe was scarcely less eagerly looked for than home news, and when it became apparent that Napoleon’s power was overthrown, and that England was free to send her transports laden with troops to attempt the subjugation of the United States, the seriousness of the danger threatening their native land aroused men, north, south, east, and west. “Every seaboard city is in peril,” the people said one to another, and one August morning into Washington galloped an express messenger with the news that a large fleet of British men-of-war had been seen in the Potomac. It was evident that, despite the obstinate refusal of the Secretary of War to admit the possibility of an attack upon the nation’s capital, precisely that was the object. The militia began trooping into town. Few had uniforms; they were without bayonets, and were so poorly equipped that it seemed a farce for them to attempt to withstand a foe which had just triumphed so signally against Napoleon at Waterloo. There was much talk, much advice, and great excitement. No one seemed to know what was to be done, or whose orders were to be obeyed, and in consequence of this state of affairs, at first appearance of the British the raw militia, without hesitancy, ran for dear life. CHAPTER XVII. _A Day of Disaster._ “How hot it is; how hot it is!” said Lettice, on that memorable morning of August 24, 1814. “How uncomfortable one can be in this world! Here we sit nearly dead with the heat, and full of anxiety for our friends. They are fighting, Patsey, fighting. My fathers! when it is so near home one only then can realize the terror of it. Our poor fellows in this choking, blinding dust, and with the sun pouring down on them, must be in a pitiful state. And how will it end?” She wrung her hands, and began to walk restlessly up and down the floor. Patsey in a big chair, fanning herself languidly, said, “Letty dear, you’ll not be any cooler for stirring about. Do try and sit still.” “I can’t. Indeed, I cannot. Hark! Here comes some one.”