Tom’s laughter woke all the echoes around.
“Forgive these tears,” he said, as he wiped his eyes, “and now to business. You know not, perhaps, my gentle brother, that we have a centenarian, or as Caddy says, a centinal among us?”
“A centinal?” said Frank, stretching himself out on the floor where he had fallen.
“A centenarian, or centinal, whichever you choose, most noble kinsman, and she lives on the outskirts of this town. Her name—a most admirable one—is Patience. Her granddaughter’s—another admirable one—Faith.
“Patience has the rheumatism. Faith has no shoes. They want to see some fire-works, and hear some Fourth of July—being centinals they naturally would.
“What say you? Shall we and our faithful clan, instead of swelling the ranks of the militia on the green, march to the humble cottage behind the hill, and gladden the hearts of old Patience and young Faith with a pyr-o-tech-nic display?”
“Good!” said Frank, who always followed the lead of his elder brother.
And “Good!” echoed Caddy; “but don’t spend all your money for fire-works. Give some to Aunt Patience, ’cause she’s the only centinal we’ve got.”
“And she’ll never be another,” said Tom,
“‘While the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave,