_Mrs. G_. Ay, ay, we should have been in Albany ere this. In these wild times, Annie, every chance-blown straw that points at evil, is likely to prove a faithful index; and if it serve to nerve the heart for it, we may call it heaven-sent indeed. Annie,--hear me calmly, my child,--the enemy, so at least goes the rumor, are nearer than we counted on this morning, and--hush, not a word. _Annie_. She is but dreaming. Just so she murmured in her sleep last night; twice she waked me with the saddest cry, and after that she sat all night by the window in her dressing-gown, I could not persuade her to sleep again. Tell me, mother, you say _and_--and what? _Mrs. G_. I cannot think it true, 'tis rumored though, that these savage neighbors of ours have joined the enemy. _Annie_. No! no! Has Alaska turned against us? Why, it was but yesterday I saw him with Leslie in yonder field. 'Tis false; it must be. Surely he could not harm us. _Mrs. G_. And false, I trust it is. At least till it is proved otherwise, Helen must not hear of it. _Annie_. And why? _Mrs. Grey_. She needs no caution, and it were useless to add to the idle fear with which she regards them all, already. Some dark fancy possesses her to-day; I have marked it myself. _Annie_. It is just two years to-morrow, mother, since Helen's wedding day, or rather, that sad day that should have seen her bridal; and it cannot be that she has quite forgotten Everard Maitland. Alas, he seemed so noble! _Mrs. G_. Hush! Never name him. Your sister is too high-hearted to waste a thought on him. Tory! Helen is no love-lorn damsel, child, to pine for an unworthy love. See the rose on that round cheek,--it might teach that same haughty loyalist, could he see her now, what kind of hearts 'tis that we patriots wear, whose strength they think to trample. Where are you going, Annie? _Annie_. Not beyond the orchard-wall. I will only stroll down the path here, just to breathe this lovely air a little; indeed, there's no fear of my going further now. [_Exit_. _Mrs. G_. Did I say right, Helen? It cannot be feigned. Those quick smiles, with their thousand lovely meanings; those eyes, whose beams lead straight to the smiling soul. Principle is it? There is no principle in this, but joy, or else it strikes so deep, that the joy grows up from it, genuine, not feigned; and yet I have found her weeping once or twice of late, in unexplained agony. Helen! _Helen_. Oh mother! is it you? Thank God. I thought---- _Mrs. G_. What did you think? What moves you thus? _Helen_. I thought--'tis nothing. This _is_ very strange. _Mrs. G_. Why do you look through that window thus? There's no one there! What is it that's so strange? _Helen_. Is it to-morrow that we go? _Mrs. G_. To Albany? Why, no; on Thursday. You are bewildered, Helen! surely you could not have forgotten that. _Helen_. I wish it was to-day. I do.