A supper of oysters, crabs, biscuits, and such-like Maryland dainties, was eaten merrily enough. Rhoda was a little reserved, but chatted pleasantly with Patsey, Joe, and the one or two whom she knew; Lettice was full of fun, and was as sportive as a kitten, ready to go crabbing, or to row out into the creek whose waters reflected a gorgeous sunset sky, to tease her Cousin Joe, or her Brother James, till finally she dropped down on the sands in quite a thoughtful mood, listening to Becky’s lazy voice as she inquired of Rhoda, “Do you go fox-hunting, Miss Kendall?”
“No, I do not,” was the reply. “I ride sometimes, but we are not much given to the chase.”
“Oh!” Becky lifted her eyebrows. “It’s very exciting, and we all think it’s great fun. Shall you stay long enough to go this fall when the season begins?”
“I hardly know; it will depend upon my father’s plans. He is in Washington now.”
“Is he getting ready to fight?”
“I hope not,” Rhoda returned severely.
“Oh, don’t you want war? We all do; we think it must come. Isn’t it funny, Mr. Dean? Miss Kendall doesn’t approve of the war.”
“That’s because she’s from Massachusetts,” Mr. Dean made reply, having reasons of his own for wanting to please Miss Becky.
Rhoda bit her lip, but James came to the rescue. “Look here,” he said; “it seems to me that it’s pretty early to be flinging at Massachusetts. The war’s hardly begun, and if she wants to be cautious, what’s that to us? I think her Revolutionary record will stand investigation. We know well enough how she gave everything to the cause; her men didn’t spare themselves, neither did her women. I say it’s too early, Dean, to criticise.” He had moved closer to Rhoda, and she looked up at him gratefully. “Perhaps we are the ones who are wrong, after all,” James continued.
Stephen Dean gave a low whistle. “Whew!” he exclaimed, “I thought you were hot foot for war.”