The harmony of the household had been disturbed, never again to be restored. The peace which had lasted for years was broken, so were the ties of love, which had defined the ravages of time, and the thousand petty vexations of domestic life were sadly strained. Mr. Tompkins' political preference was cramped and choked by his family division. True, no open rupture had taken place between him and his wife, yet the very fact that both were silent upon the exciting topic of the day brought about that coolness which is sure to result when there is a forbidden topic between husband and wife. Mr. Tompkins spent the days in anxiety, and the nights brought no peace. He went to the village almost daily for the mail, and found the newspapers full of accounts of bloody battles, while from lip to lip passed horrible rumors. When the defeat at Bull Run was rumored he waited to gather authentic news, with painfully complicated feelings--anxiety for the cause he could not openly avow, and for his sons, in either army, one always to be in the victorious army, and one in the ranks of the defeated. And this thought chased away the look of joy that for an instant lit up the face of Mrs. Tompkins when she learned the news. Days passed, and weeks, but no news came of either son. All Mr. Tompkins knew was that armies were marching and counter-marching daily, and filling the country with alarm. Communication north and south was cut off, and it was almost impossible for any letter to cross the line. It was evening, three or four weeks after the battle of Bull Run. Mr. Tompkins had, as usual, been to Snagtown, and returned; the Summer sun was sinking, battling in golden glory, a thick, dark bank of clouds gathering in the northwest. Mr. Tompkins sat in a rustic seat on the lawn, beneath the spreading branches of a maple, which had of late become his favorite resort. As he sat, his eyes wandered off to the northwest, rather in listlessness than interest. The sun went to rest behind the hill, and lightning flashed from the dark recesses of the clouds, and twilight, soft and gray, began to gather about the landscape. A man entered the front yard and walked leisurely down the white gravelled walk toward the portion of the lawn where Mr. Tompkins was sitting. He was a man apparently near Mr. Tompkins' own age, but his form erect, and lithe, still seemed to retain his vitality and youthful vigor. His woolly, sun burned hair was streaked with gray; his yellow face was wrinkled, but his eyes were fired with energy. The rapid change of expression on his face was perhaps the most remarkable thing about this man--at one moment gentle, almost appealing, the next inspired with the fury of a demon. The mulatto carried himself with a boldness and a freedom not common with those of his color. Walking up to the planter and touching the brim of his weather-beaten hat, he said: "Good evening, sir. Mr. Tompkins, I believe?"