He stood a few minutes considering which streets would likely be the quietest road to his home, and seeing Broadway full of marching companies, all more or less musical and vociferous, he turned into Nassau Street, hoping to escape the cheers and attentions which his outspoken sympathy had brought him. For some distance it was comparatively quiet, but between Garden and Beaver streets he saw approaching what appeared to be a full company. They were stepping proudly to the music of “The President’s March,” and the narrow street appeared to Bloommaert’s eyes to be full of their waving flags. There was no outlet for his escape, and he assumed a dignity of bearing and a self-centred air that was usually both arms and armour to him. He hoped to pass unnoticed, but as the company approached it halted at command. His name was spoken. He lifted his eyes perforce and up flew every hat in respectful recognition. What could he do? Some of them were the very men he had addressed and aroused to enthusiasm on the previous Saturday. His noblest nature came to the front. He saluted them in return, wished them “God speed,” and so passed on, but not before he had noticed the happy, triumphant face of their captain, Leonard Murray. “That man again!” he muttered, and he could not dismiss “that man” from his memory during the rest of the walk. He passed his mother’s house but did not enter it, for it was nearing his dinner hour, and he hoped in the society of his wife and daughter to find the restful equipoise he had lost during the morning’s events. As he mounted the steps Sapphira threw open the door. Her face was radiant. She was the incarnation of pleasure. “Father,” she cried, “I am so glad that you have come home early. I have such good news. Mother and I have had such a great honour; you can’t tell how happy we both feel.” Her visible joy was infectious, and Bloommaert flung his annoyance out of memory. “Come, now,” he said cheerfully, “let us hear the good news. Who brought it to you?” “Well, you would never guess, dear father, and I am going to let mother tell you.” They entered the dining room as she spoke, and its cool sweetness was like a breath of heaven. Mrs. Bloommaert rose with a smile. “Gerardus, my dear!” she exclaimed, “you are earlier than I hoped. That is good. Now we shall have dinner.” “But Carlita, first the good news that Sapphira can hardly keep from me.” “Has she not told you?” “No. She says you are to tell me.”