"Ah! just wait. Within a month I may be waving a flag in Cuba. This sound of revelry by night may be the last that I shall hear for a long time. My uniform may not be as becoming to me as this costume," and Tom threw back his head and strutted a few steps, as if to display to the best advantage the artistic costume that Mr. Weston had designed for him,—a most effective one with its crimson doublet, slashed sleeves, and long, silk trunk hose.
"Oh, don't talk about war," cried Brenda, almost pettishly, while Nora, whose sparkling eyes and bright smile showed that she, at least, had enjoyed the evening, said gently, "Come, Brenda, there are Agnes and Ralph beckoning to us; I suppose they wish to count us all to see that we are safe and sound before they start for home."
A little bantering, a word or two of good-bye to passing friends, and the merry group started for home, never, although they knew it not then,—never to be together again as they had been that evening.
In the next few weeks war news was of chief importance, and Brenda, never a newspaper reader, now turned to the daily papers with great interest.
One afternoon she came into Julia's room at the Mansion with her eyes suspiciously red.
"You haven't been crying?"
"Oh, no, not exactly crying, but—"
At this time a tell-tale tear fell, and Brenda dabbed her eyes fiercely with a crumpled handkerchief.
"There, there, tell me all about it," said Julia.
"Oh, it's nothing. Only I've just been at a meeting at the State House."