Brent closed the door and went back to the breakfast table. The cakes were stone cold, but that mattered little. He found no appetite and, after a mouthful, got up and set to traversing the broad kitchen. “Aye,” he muttered, “it is an agitator’s war. The rest follow like sheep. Presently there’ll be a slaughter, and then it will be a mess. Faugh! Widows crying and the English ministry very ugly. Why can’t they use peaceful means?” His wife came back. “The cakes are cold, and you have eaten nothing, Isaac. I’ll make fresh ones.” “No, I’m not hungry. It’s the cursed bullets I think about. Imagine a man of Gorham’s age and condition shouldering a musket. There’ll be suffering before night, I fear.” He crossed to the window and looked upon the road. There were fewer men passing his house, but farther away on the main road to Charlestown Neck he saw the dust rolling higher under the feet of the gathering artisans and farmers. It only served to increase his restlessness. He ranged from bookshelf to hearth like one sorely perplexed. “Who’s to stanch the bleeding, I should like to know?” Presently he heard his wife moving in the bedroom and afterwards the sound of ripping cloth emerged. “What’s that?” he called. The door opened and she stood with her hands holding a table spread. “I’m tearing linen,” said she. “Aye, I guess that’s right. They put their faith in me. If the fools will fight, it is part of the bargain I must patch them up.” And thereupon he clapped his hat to his head and reached for his instrument case. His wife held out the bandage strips she had torn and these he stuffed into the case. For a little while they stood undecided in the center of the room. It was quite as if he were going out on such a call as he had answered a thousand times before. “You have everything, Isaac?” “Why, yes, I believe so.” “Better sit to a bite of breakfast. It may be after dinner before you reach home.” “Not hungry.” He paused on the doorsill and groped for a word. It was unusual for him to do this; just as unusual as it was for the woman to stand and wait for him to go. A call was a call and the years had drilled them to the exigencies of a doctor’s life. A silent, tempered couple, given more to work than to affection. And yet the doctor, looking toward the rising dust, seemed puzzled. Finally he flung out an arm. “Take care of yourself.” “This is the day for you to visit Missis Hammersley, Isaac.” “That is not serious. She must wait.” Presently he was on the horse, riding toward Charlestown Neck. * * * * *