Among the first who started into action at the country’s call, was Philip Helmstedt, who set about raising a company of volunteers in his own neighborhood, and at his own expense. This enterprise took him frequently from home, and kept him absent for many days at a time. At last, about the middle of July, he had formed and equipped his troop of one hundred men, and was prepared to march them to obtain his commission from Mr. Madison. Mrs. Helmstedt had watched his preparations for departure with the mournful resignation of one whom sorrow had accustomed to submission. He was to join his men at Belleview, and take one of the larger packets bound up the Potomac River to the capital. On the morning of his departure, Mrs. Helmstedt had risen early to superintend the final arrangements for his comfort. And they breakfasted alone at an early hour. Their child had not left her chamber, her father having taken leave of her on the evening previous. When breakfast was over, and the servants had withdrawn from the room by their master’s order, Mr. Helmstedt approached his wife, and seating himself beside her on the sofa, said: “Marguerite! we are about to part. God knows for how long. It may be years before we meet, if, indeed, we ever meet again, Marguerite!” “I know how long it will be--until we meet in the spirit world!” thought Mrs. Helmstedt; but she spoke not, only looked lovingly, mournfully in the face of her departing husband. “Marguerite, shall not this painful feud of years come to an end between us?” “There is not, there never has been, there never can be a feud between us, dearest Philip. It was my bitter misfortune not to be able to comply with your just requirements. In view of that, you fixed my fate and I accepted it. There is no feud, dearest husband.” “Marguerite, I cannot endure the thought of leaving you for so long a time, restricted to the narrow confines of this island, and yet I cannot do otherwise unless----” “Dearest Philip, I have grown accustomed to confinement on this island, and do not----” She paused abruptly. “Marguerite, you were about to say that you do not care about it; but you never uttered an untruth in your life, and could not be betrayed into doing so now. Marguerite, you do care; you care bitterly about the restraint that is placed upon your motions. Dear Marguerite, you know the conditions of peace and freedom. Will you not, even at this late day, accept them?” “Oh, Mr. Helmstedt, had it been possible for me to have accepted these conditions, I should have done so, not for my own advantage, but for your satisfaction, thirteen years ago! Since that time nothing has happened to render the impossible possible.” “Then I am to understand, Marguerite, that you still hold out in your resistance?” said Mr. Helmstedt, more gloomily than angrily. She did not reply at first, except by a steady, mute, appealing look from her dark, mournful eyes. But as Mr. Helmstedt still looked for a reply, she said: