It was near midnight when the refugees set forth for the Center, Mr. Porter himself acting as guide. After that time, the sleepy boys and the entire household having taken themselves to bed, the old house was left to the night, with its silence and its chill dampness that always comes up from the river, that goes on "singing to us the same bonny nonsense," despite our cheer or our sorrow. Again, and yet again through the night, doors opened and two mothers stepped out in the moonlight to listen, hoping--hoping to hear sound of the coming of the boys, but only the lone cry of the whippoorwill was borne on the air. "'Pears like," said Phyllis to Mrs. Porter in the morning, "the whippoorwills had lots to say last night; talked all night so's you couldn't hear nothing 'tall." "Phyllis," said Mrs. Porter, "there was nothing else to hear, but we shall know soon." Polly came down, bringing her checked linen apron full of eggs for breakfast. "I thought, mother," she said, "that you'd leave yourself without an egg yesterday, so I looked out. Isn't it handy to have them in the house? Haven't heard a single cackle this morning yet, but yesterday was a remarkable day everyway. I believe the hens knew the British were coming. Did you ever see such eggs? Wonder if my old lady is awake yet! Guess I'll carry up some hot water for her and find out." Polly poured the water deftly from the big iron tea-kettle hanging from the crane and hurried away with it, only to return with such haste that she tripped on the threshold, broke the pitcher and sent the water over everything it could reach. "Mother," she said, recovering herself, "Parson Leavenworth will be here to breakfast. He's coming down the road with father. My old lady will feel honored, won't she? I know he's come for her. Phyllis, any more hot water to spare? It's so good to take out wrinkles; she'll miss it, I know."