Winnie and Bobsey were inclined to take the children of neighbors into their confidence, and to have them around, but I said that this would not do at all—that when soldiers were breaking camp the great point was to do everything as secretly and rapidly as possible. Thenceforward an air of mystery pervaded all our movements.
Bobsey, however, at last overstepped the bounds of our patience and became unmanageable. The very spirit of mischief seemed to have entered his excited little brain. He untied bundles, placed things where they were in the way, and pestered the busy mother with so many questions, that I hit upon a decided measure to keep him quiet. I told him about a great commander who, in an important fight, was strapped to a mast, so that he could oversee everything. Then I tied the little fellow into a chair. At first he was much elated, and chattered like a magpie, but when he found he was not to be released after a few moments he began to howl for freedom. I then carried him, chair and all, to one of the back rooms. Soon his cries ceased, and tender-hearted Mousie stole after him. Returning she said, with her low laugh, "He'll be good now for a while; he's sound asleep."
And so passed the last day in our city rooms. Except as wife and children were there, they had never appeared very homelike to me, and now they looked bare and comfortless indeed. The children gloated over their appearance, for it meant novelty to them. "The old camp is about broken up," Merton remarked, with the air of a veteran. But my wife sighed more than once.
"What troubles you, Winifred?"
"Robert, the children were born here, and here I've watched over them in sickness and health so many days and nights."
"Well, my dear, the prospects are that in our new home you will not have to watch over them in sickness very much. Better still, you will not have to be so constantly on your guard against contagions that harm the soul as well as the body. I was told that there are rattle-snakes on Schunemunk, but greater dangers for Winnie and Merton lurk in this street—yes, in this very house;" and I exulted over the thought that we were about to bid Melissa Daggett a final good-by.
"Oh, I know. I'm glad; but then—"
"But then a woman's heart takes root in any place where she has loved and suffered. That tendency makes it all the more certain that you'll love your new home."
"Yes; we may as well face the truth, Robert. We shall suffer in the new home as surely as in the old. There may be stronger sunshine, but that means deeper shadow."