“Gone off to see what’s being done. There was no keeping him back. I protest, he’d no business to leave me. If the French came in here, I declare I should die of terror on the spot.” Polly executed another dainty _pas_ on the bare boards. “Hadn’t we best make ready, ma’am, before they come?” she cheerfully asked. “It’s no manner of use, child. They may arrive any moment. Any moment, I tell you! And what on earth shall we do then?” Polly suggested a preference for seeing the French in her frock, rather than in a condition of undress, and after much coaxing she managed to get Mrs. Bryce into the next room. With all possible expedition, she made her morning toilette, flitting lightly about, and wondering what would happen next. Then, discovering that Mrs. Bryce’s maid had fallen into a fit of hysterics over the prospect of “them mounseers a-comin’,” she took the maid’s place. By the time that they both were dressed, Mr. Bryce returned, with a good deal to tell. The whole place was in a grand commotion. An express had been despatched to General Moore at Dungeness Point, telling him of the news received from Folkestone, and informing him that the brigade was already under arms. The volunteers had turned promptly out, also the sea fencibles; and one and all were prepared to do and dare each his utmost in defence of home and country.[2] “Not a dull face to be seen, nor a frightened one, except----” declared Mr. Bryce, rubbing his hands, with a glance at the wan cheek of his usually lively wife. “All the world in high spirits, specially the soldiers. Jack only hopes that nothing may turn back the fleet. ’Tis time Napoleon should have a sharp lesson, he says. Heigho, Polly, you are as fresh as a rose this morning. Come, we’ll have our breakfast while we may. I see no need to starve out of compliment to the First Consul.” “And pray, sir, take me out after,” implored Polly. “Nay, child, you’re safer in here. Perchance you’d be hurt in the bustle. Besides, it maybe, Jack will run in for a word, and he would be vexed to find you gone.” This was a cogent argument, and Polly submitted. She roved about the room, looking much out of the window, and singing under her breath scraps from ballads of the day. First came-- “‘Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lowered, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky. And thousands had sunk on the ground, overpowered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. * * * * * “‘Stay, stay with us--rest--thou art weary and worn; And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay. But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.’” Polly made a break here before her sweet voice took up another strain, more softly uttered:-- “When you’re parted, Polly Oliver, Parted from your own true love, Will you be true, Polly Oliver-- True to your own true love?