Philip's answer to this brought about some dispute as to whether the name rebels, in its ordinary sense, could properly be applied to those colonists who had what he termed grievances. We both showed heat, I the more, until he, rather than quarrel, fell into silence. We had turned back into the town; choosing a roundabout way for home, that we might observe the effect of the messenger's news upon the citizens. In a few streets the narrow footways were thronged with people in their churchgoing clothes, and many of these had already gathered into startled groups, where the rider who came in such un-Sabbath-like haste had stopped to justify himself, and satisfy the curiosity of observers, and ask the whereabouts of certain gentlemen of the provincial assembly, to whom he had letters. We heard details repeated, and opinions uttered guardedly, and grave concern everywhere expressed. By the time we had reached home, Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield were already there, discussing the news with my mother, in the presence of the two daughters and Tom. We found them all in the parlour. Margaret stood in the library doorway, still holding her novel in her hand, her finger keeping the page. Her face showed but a languid interest in the tragedy which made all the others look so grave. "You've heard the news, of course?" said Mr. Faringfield to us as we entered, curiously searching Philip's face while he spoke. "Yes, sir; we were the first in the town to hear it, I think," replied Phil. "Tis a miracle if we do not have war," said Mr. Faringfield. "I pray not," says my mother, who was a little less terrified than Mrs. Faringfield. "And I won't believe we shall, till I see it at our doors." "Oh, don't speak of it!" cried Mrs. Faringfield, with a shudder. "Why, ladies," says Philip, "'tis best to think of it as if 'twere surely coming, and so accustom the mind to endure its horrors. I shall teach my wife to do so." And he looked playfully over at Margaret. "Why, what is it to me?" said Margaret. "Tis not like to come before we sail, and in England we shall be well out of it. Sure you don't think the rebels will cross the ocean and attack London?" "Why, if war comes," said Phil, quietly, "we shall have to postpone our sailing." "Postpone it!" she cried, in alarm. "Why? And how long?" "Until the matter is settled one way or another." "But it won't come before we sail. 'Tis only seven weeks. Whatever happens, they'll riddle away that much time first, in talk and preparation; they always do." "But we must wait, my dear, till the question is decided whether there's to be war or peace. If we come round to the certainty of peace, which is doubtful, then of course there's naught to hinder us. But if there's war, why, we've no choice but to see it out before we leave the country." I never elsewhere saw such utter, indignant consternation as came over Margaret's face.