As the vessels drew away from Boston I was surprised to hear not a single expression of regret. On all of the forty or more vessels there were crowded, in addition to the soldiers, over a thousand men and women who were leaving the land of their birth for a country that was new, strange, and practically unknown. Behind them, on the slopes that rose from the city, through the lifting mist of the morning, many could distinguish the outlines of the farms they had cleared by long and patient toil. The white of their comfortable homes stood out sharply against the grey ground about them and the green forest behind. In the making of these clearings and homes, men and women had grown old; neither the suns of summer nor the storms of winter had turned them aside from their great purpose of living honestly, of passing the result of years of toil on to their children, and then lying down to sleep in the hillside cemeteries with their fathers. But the plans slowly being matured through the years had been rudely broken in upon. War had come. And now, though they might have remained; though history afforded, as Duncan Hale affirmed, no parallel for their action in leaving as they did; though no sword had been lifted up to drive them hence; though no law but the law of their own consciences bound them, they were sailing away. And while they looked back with interest, I could not see on the many faces about me a single evidence of pain at the going. Many of the men were old, and must begin in the new land, where they had begun here fifty years ago; but, as was fitting in the pioneers of a new way for many thousands of their countrymen who were to follow them during the war and after its close, they looked back that day upon the receding shores of Massachusetts without regrets, and when the homes and farms could no longer be seen on the grey, cold slopes, they turned dry eyes and resolute faces to the sea and the pure March north wind. If the country to which they went would be new, the flag, at least, would be the old one. As soon as we were well away from Boston, a feeling of buoyancy possessed us. The sun shone brilliantly; this, together with the wide stretch of sparkling sea about us, the shouting from ship to ship, the feeling of freedom after so many weary months of restraint in the besieged city, all tended to render us unexpectedly happy. Social distinctions vanished. One in our loyalty, we resolved to be one in everything. My mother moved about among the farmer women from the country, and at times talked even gaily with them. Elizabeth romped the decks with children of her age from the hillsides, while Duncan Hale and Doctor Canfield, both of whom were on our ship, discussed plans for the future with the men. On the afternoon of the third day after sailing we entered Halifax harbour. I was standing by Duncan Hale.