It was now a little past the children’s bedtime, so they bade good-night, and went within doors. Grace and Harold and Mr. Leland withdrew from the porch also, and the captain and Lucilla had it to themselves. They paced back and forth, arm in arm, conversing in rather subdued tones.

“You heard from Chester to-day?” he said inquiringly.

“Yes, sir; such a bright, cheerful letter. He is very well, prospering with his business, and enjoying himself morning and evenings at Ion, where they are most kindly insistent on entertaining him until my return. He has been out to Sunnyside and reports that everything is in fine order there—indoors and out. He says he will be delighted to see his wife when she returns, but hopes she will stay in the north until the weather is cooler.”

“That is all very satisfactory,” said her father. “I am glad you have so kind and affectionate a husband, and I hope to be able to return you to him in a very few weeks.”

“I am glad of that, since the return will not separate me, to any great extent, from the dear father who does so much to make my life bright and happy,” she said, with a sweet and loving smile up into his face. “Oh, father, how much easier and happier life seems to be to us than it was to those poor fellows who fought the battles of the Revolution through such poverty and suffering. It makes my heart ache to read and to think of the bleeding of their bare feet on the snow as they marched over it, and to know that they were in rags and sometimes had little or nothing to eat.”

“Yes,” said her father, “I feel very much as you do about it. I wish I knew they were all Christians, therefore happy in heaven now.”

“So do I, father,” she sighed, “but it seems to me one of the very dreadful things about war is its sending so many to death with no time for preparation, and probably in the heat of passion with their foes.”

“That is true,” he said. “War is a dreadful thing; always very wicked on one side, if not on both. The Revolutionary War was right and commendable on the side of our forbears—resisting tyranny as they were—and we, their descendants, are reaping from it the rich fruit of freedom.”

“And it is rich fruit!” exclaimed Lucilla in joyous tones.

“Sounds quite like Fourth of July, sis,” laughed a manly voice behind her, and turning she found Max standing there.

“Will three be as good company as two?” he asked, in the same lively tone in which he had spoken before.

“Better,” replied their father; “at least in this instance; and the porch is wide enough for three to walk abreast.”

“And it won’t hurt Lu to take one of my arms as well as yours, sir,” said Max, offering it.

“Well, I will; it isn’t every day now that I get the chance,” she responded, slipping her hand into it. “Now I think we will have a fine promenade.”

“What report can you give of wife and daughter at the present moment, Max?” asked the captain.

“Oh, they are doing finely. Eva says she feels quite well enough to be up and about if that tyrannical doctor didn’t forbid it. And our baby is good as gold—and a great deal more valuable,” he added, with a happy laugh.

“She’s prettier than gold this one of her aunts thinks,” laughed Lucilla. “And what a treasure she will be in Sunnyside, our sweet, pretty home.”

“Yes, I hope so. It is very good of you to give her such a royal welcome.”

“Ah, if only her father could be with us all the time!” sighed Lucilla.

“Perhaps in that case his companionship might, at times, grow wearisome,” laughed Max. “‘Blessings brighten as they take their flight,’ and perhaps it may be so with brothers and husbands.”

“A remark I should advise you not to make in Eva’s hearing,” she returned in mirthful tones.

“Ah, she would know just how to appreciate it,” said Max. Then, turning to their father, “I was much interested in your account of Morgan, sir,” he said. “He was a grand man and did a great deal to win the independence of these United States, now the greatest, grandest country the sun shines upon.”

“He did, indeed,” the captain said emphatically, “and deserves to be remembered with love and gratitude. He was a very successful leader in those times of our country’s sore distress; and he could not have been had not God given him wisdom and skill in answer to prayer. My son, I hope you will follow his example in that.”

“Such is my purpose, my dear father, and has been my practice thus far,” Max returned with emotion. “Trusting in God it seems to me is the only thing that can enable one to go calmly and composedly to the post of duty when that lies where the messengers of wounds and death are flying thick and fast.”

“Yes, I think so,” assented the captain. “Washington, our great and successful commander-in-chief, was a man of prayer—raised up, I have no doubt, by a kind Providence, for the work that he did. And there were other praying men among our leaders. It was a fearful struggle, but God helped us and enabled us to become the free, strong nation that we are.”

“Oh, how thankful we ought to be!” exclaimed Lucilla. “It seems to me it was a very ridiculous idea that this great, big country should be governed by that little one away across the ocean; especially as she wanted to be so tyrannical; for it is certainly true that ‘taxation without representation is tyranny.’”

“Yes,” said Max. “An Englishman, arguing with me the other day about it, said it was so small a tax that the colonists were decidedly foolish to make such a fuss and go to war to avoid it. I told him it was principle which made them so determined; because if they allowed the English Parliament to impose a small tax without the consent of the colonies, they might—and would be very likely to—go on and levy other and much heavier ones. The colonists were a free-born people, and meant to remain free; preferring even death to slavery.”

“Yes, indeed!” exclaimed Lucilla; “and that last word of yours, Max, reminds me that George III. highly approved of the slave trade and wanted it carried on; and it seems as if he was by no means averse to enslaving the whites of this country.”

“Quite desirous to do so; even to the setting of the savages to the butchering of women and children,” added Max. “But all that being so long in the past, he in his grave, and our liberties secure, it is hardly worth while now to rake up the faults and failings of the poor, crazy old king.”

“His granddaughter has proved a much better and wiser sovereign,” said Lucilla. “Women do sometimes do better than men.”

“At some things-things not requiring much physical strength, for example,” the captain said, with an amused glance down into his daughter’s face.

“Yes, father, it is certainly true that men excel us in physical strength; but is that any reason why women should be paid less for their work and taxed quite as heavily on their property—if they happen to have any?” she concluded with a laugh.

“No, I think not,” was his smiling rejoinder. “Ah, what is wrong, I wonder!” as at that instant the man in charge of the Dolphin was seen coming with swift strides up from the wharf toward the house. They stood still, watching him in silence till he drew near enough for speech; then the captain asked, “What is it, Mr. Bailey?”

“Oh, Captain Raymond, I have a dreadful piece of news for you,” was the reply, in a tone that spoke of disturbed feeling; “news from Buffalo that President McKinley has been shot.”

“Shot intentionally? murdered?” asked the captain, in tones that spoke astonishment and horror.

“Yes, sir; the work of an anarchist of unpronounceable name. If I had my way anarchists should be promptly expelled from this land and forever excluded from it.”

“Is McKinley dead?” asked Max.

“No; but the wound is supposed to be mortal; noted surgeons are attending him but have hardly a hope of being able to save his life.”

“And what have they done with his murderer?” asked Max. “Torn him limb from limb?”

“That’s what would have been done by the crowd in building and street, if the police hadn’t been able to keep them off till they could get him into prison.”

“It was what he deserved,” said Max hotly and with emotion; “but the police did their duty; every criminal has a right to trial by judge and jury.”

The voices of those on the porch had been somewhat raised by excitement, attracting the attention of those of the family who were within doors, and bringing them out to learn what was going on. There were questions and answers, expressions of grief and horror and queries as to what had and would be done with the assassin, what hope might be entertained of the President’s recovery, and should he die, would Roosevelt make a good and competent successor?—that last query coming from the ladies. The gentlemen at once expressed the opinion that he would, but also the hope that McKinley would be spared and restored to health and strength.