The old Lutheran minister was no politician; he was a philosopher and bookworm; but he was not alone in his incredulity. Even up to this late period, it was very difficult to make any sane man, not infected with the madness of the day, believe in the possibility of disunion. Breakfast was served. But for some reason or other, the social morning meal did not pass off so cheerfully as it might have been expected to do. And as soon as it was over, Colonel Eastworth excused himself and went out. Colonel Eastworth came home to the late dinner. He was grave, absorbed, absent-minded. He sometimes shook off this pre-occupation, but it was with an evident effort. There was no danger that he should talk politics with his host; he was very, very reticent on all public subjects. After dinner they withdrew to the drawing-room, where coffee was served, and then Dr. Rosenthal took his pipe and went off to his study to smoke and read. Erminie was left alone with her betrothed. A sort of shyness, that she never could get rid of, when left _tête-à-tête_ with her lover, induced her to rise and open the piano. She sang and played, one after another, his favorite songs, and in many of them he joined his voice to hers. At length she struck into the old, yet ever new, beloved and all-inspiring “Star-Spangled Banner.” She had sung the first stanza, and was striking into the chorus with all her heart and soul, expecting him to join her with all the ardor and enthusiasm of his Southern nature, when suddenly he laid his hand upon her shoulder—his hand, that shook as with palsy: “Not that! not that! Oh, my dearest—not that, if you love me!” he exclaimed, in a voice that shook as much as did his hand. She ceased playing, and turned around and looked at him in meek surprise. She had never before in all her acquaintance seen him moved from his gentlemanly self-possession; but now he was terribly shaken. She was alarmed. “Why? Why may I not sing the ‘Star-Spangled Banner’?” she faltered. “I cannot bear it! My dearest, I cannot! Strong man that I thought myself, I cannot!” he exclaimed, with the same half-suppressed, tempestuous emotion. “But, why? Tell me why?” she persisted, with affectionate earnestness. “You have fought gallantly for it; you have shed your priceless blood in its defense; you have won immortal fame under it. Oh, why, then, may I not sing the praises of that glorious banner, so doubly dear to me for your sake?” He was frightfully agitated. “Oh, hush, Erminie, hush!” he cried. “Ah! what has disturbed you so—what?” she exclaimed, rising from the piano and standing by his side. “Some day, better angel of my life, I will tell you all. Not now! I cannot bear to do it; nor could you bear to hear it.” “I can bear all things—all things for your sake! Try me—try me! Say, is your trouble now connected with the dear old flag?”