How perfectly calm I am! I would never have believed it;—just tie this string for me, child, my hands twitch so strangely,—they say the British are just down in the lane here, with five thousand Indians, Annie.
Annie. It is no such thing. Aunt Rachael. The British are quietly encamped on the other side of the river; three miles off at least.
Miss R. I thought as much. A pretty hour for us to be turned out of house and home to be sure. Not a wink have I slept this blessed night. Hark! What o'clock is that? George, George! where is that boy? Just run and tell your mother, Annie, just tell her, my dear, will you, that we shall all be murdered. Maybe she will make haste a little. Well, are they in?
Ser't. The pictures? They are in,—yes'm. But Miss Kitty's a crying, and says as how she won't go, and there's the other one too; because, Ma'am, their toes—you see there's the trunk in front gives 'em a leetle slope inward, and then that chest under the seat—If you would just step down and see yourself, Ma'am.
Miss R. I desire to be patient.
[They go out.
(Annie sits on the bench of the little Porch, weeping. Mrs. Gray enters from within.)
Annie. Shall I never walk down that shady path again? Shall I enter those dear rooms no more? There are voices there they cannot hear. From the life of buried years, ten thousand scenes, all vacancy toother eyes, enrich those walls for us; the furniture that money cannot buy, that only the joy and grief of years can purchase. They will spoil our pleasant home,—will they not, mother?
Mrs. G. Pleasant, ay, pleasant indeed, has it been to us. God's will be done. Do not weep, Annie. We have counted the cost;—many a safe and happy home there will be in the days to come, whose light shall spring from this forgotten sorrow. God's will be done.
Annie. Mother, they are all ready now; is Helen in her room still?