"By magnetic telegraph if you wish, Honey-bell," conceded Celia hastily. "Oh, we must _not_ begin disputin' about matters that nobody can possibly he'p. It will all come right; you know it will, don't you, Curt?" "Yes, I know it, somehow." Silence, fragrance, and darkness, through which rang the distant laugh of a young girl. And, very, very far away sounds arose in the city, dull, indistinct, lost for moments at a time, then audible again, and always the same sounds, the same monotony, and distant persistence. "I do believe they're calling an extra," said Ailsa, lifting her head to listen. Celia listened, too. "Children shouting at play," she said. "They _are_ calling an extra, Celia!" "No, little Cassandra, it's only boys skylarking." For a while they remained listening and silent. The voices still persisted, but they sounded so distant that the light laughter from their neighbour's stoop drowned the echoes. Later, Jimmy Lent drifted into the family circle. "They say that there's an extra out about Fort Sumter," he said. "Do you think he's given up, Mr. Craig?" "If there's an extra out the fort is probably safe enough, Jim," said the elder man carelessly. He rose and went toward the group of girls and youths under the trees. "Come, children," he said to his two daughters; and was patient amid indignant protests which preceded the youthful interchange of reluctant good-nights. When he returned to the stoop Ailsa had gone indoors with her cousin. His wife rose to greet him as though he had been away on a long journey, and then, passing her arms around her schoolgirl daughters, and nodding a mischievous dismissal to Jimmy Lent, walked slowly into the house. Bolts were shot, keys turned; from the lighted front parlour came the notes of the sweet-toned square piano, and Ailsa's voice: --"Dear are her charms to me, Dearest her constancy, Aileen aroon--" "Never mind any more of that silly song!" exclaimed Celia, imprisoning Ailsa's arms from behind. "Youth must with time decay, Aileen aroon, Beauty must fade away, Aileen aroon--" "Don't, dear! please----" But Ailsa sang on obstinately: "Castles are sacked in war, Chieftains are scattered far, Truth is a fixed star, Aileen aroon." And, glancing back over her shoulder, caught her breath quickly. "Celia! What _is_ the matter, dear?" "Nothing. I don't like such songs--just now----" "What songs?" "I don't know, Ailsa; songs about war and castles. Little things plague me. . . . There's been altogether too much talk about war--it gets into ev'ything, somehow. I can't seem to he'p it, somehow----" "Why, Celia! _You_ are not worrying?" "Not fo' myse'f, Honey-bud. Somehow, to-night--I don't know--and Curt seemed a little anxious." She laughed with an effort; her natural gaiety returned to buoy her above this indefinable undercurrent of unrest.