did. Something was interesting her more than his probable visit--what

could it be? Not the theatre--not the naval ball. Sappha was used to such affairs; he had never known them put the whole house out of temper before. For by this time he had decided the atmosphere was one of bad temper, without considering for a moment that it was possibly his own bad temper.

Suddenly he rose and said he must go; and no one asked him to remain longer. Sappha felt the constraint of her father’s presence, and did not accompany him to the hall. Mrs. Bloommaert was opening and shutting drawers and doors upstairs, and the judge only gave to his “Good-night, judge,” a civil equivalent in “Good-night, Mr. Murray.” As he was leaving the house he saw Mr. St. Ange approaching it, and instead of advancing to meet him he turned southward towards Stone Street. Of this cowardly step he was soon ashamed, and he went back and forced himself to pass the Bloommaert house. It had a more happy aspect. Some one had stirred the logs, and the dancing flames showed through the dropped white shades. There was a movement also in the room; the sound of voices, and once he could have sworn he heard Sappha laugh. Did he not know her laugh among a thousand? It was like the tinkle of a little bell.

For at least a quarter of an hour he tormented himself with the pictures his imagination drew of what was passing behind that illuminated screen. Then he went gloomily to his room and sat down with jealousy, and began to count up his suspicions. A miserable companion is jealousy! And a miserable tale of wrongs she gave him to reckon up. But at least he reached one truth in that unhappy occupation--it was, that the engagement between Sappha and himself ought to be immediately made public. All their little misunderstandings, all his humiliations, had come through their relationship being kept secret. He felt that he was missing much of the pleasure of his wooing; certainly he was deprived of the _éclat_ that it ought to have brought him. It was all wrong! All wrong! And it must be put right at once. He promised himself he would see to that necessity the first thing he did in the morning.

With this promise his insurgent heart suffered him to sleep a little, yet sleep did him no good. He awoke with the same consuming fever of resentment. He could not eat, nor yet drink; he had no use for anything but thought: jealous thought, with that eternal hurry of the soul that will not suffer rest--thoughts of love and sorrow, starting in every direction from his unhappy heart, to find out some hope, and meeting only suspicion, anger, and despair. It was his first experience of that egotistical malady,

“whose torment, no men sure But lovers and the damned endure.”

And he was astonished and dismayed at his suffering.

But few men suffer patiently; they are usually quick for their own relief, and accordingly very early the following morning Leonard made an excuse for calling on Sappha. Mrs. Bloommaert had gone, however, to Nassau Street, and he did not need to urge the excuse prepared. He launched at once into his wrongs and his sufferings; and indeed the latter had left some intelligible traces. Sappha was moved by his pale face and troubled eyes to unusual sympathy; but this did not suffice. He felt that the only way to prevent a recurrence of the night’s suffering was to insist upon a public acknowledgment of his rights as her accepted lover, and he told Sappha this in no equivocal words.

She was distressed by his passion and evident distraction, but she would not listen for a moment to his proposal to explain their position to her father that night. And his eager entreaties finally roused in her something like anger. “You are too selfish, Leonard,” she said, “and please do not make your love for me the excuse for your selfishness. You must be happy, no matter who is unhappy. Could you have picked out in the whole year a time more unpropitious, more inopportune, than this very week? Every person who has any patriotic feeling gives up all their interest to our country for the next few days. Christmas and New Year’s holidays have claims we cannot forget. It is my father’s holiday, his great holiday, when he throws all business cares from his mind. My mother has all manner of little domesticities and household hopes and fears and duties to attend to. Have at least a little patience! Wait until the New Year’s feast is over.”

“And give St. Ange another ten days full of delightful opportunities.”

“St. Ange! What do you mean, Leonard? Surely you are not jealous of St. Ange. He has given you no cause whatever.”

“At first he behaved with all the honour imaginable; but lately I have seen a change. He is no longer influenced by a belief in our engagement. Naturally he thinks, if it had existed, you or I would have shown some signs of so close a relationship. I have been held back on every hand, and you have not been as seclusive and exclusive as you might have been.”

“Oh, Leonard! How can you?”

“You have been very kind and familiar with St. Ange. He comes here quite as much as I do. He goes out with your grandmother and mother, and often your father is seen walking on the Battery with him. He never walks with me. I do not like it. It is too much suffering! I cannot endure it.”

“I heard mother come in. I will go and speak to her, Leonard.”

“Do. She must see how reasonable I am.”

But the moment Sappha entered her mother’s room she was met by a rebuff. Mrs. Bloommaert just looked in her face, and understood; and before she had spoken half a dozen words she said with an air of resolve and annoyance. “Now, Sappha, I will hear nothing about Leonard. He has been quite unreasonable lately, and he was in a bad temper last night. Oh, yes, he was! I know bad temper when I see it.”

“But, mother, this is important. He is really determined.”

“Do not tell me what he is determined on, for I shall certainly repeat all you say to your father.”

“He wants, dear mother, he wants----”

“Just what he cannot have; what he has no right to have--yet. He promised you to wait. I know he did. Do not tell me anything, Sappha, because I shall feel it my duty to tell your father all you say--just at this time too! It is too bad! It is exceedingly selfish and inconsiderate; and I am astonished at Leonard Murray.”

“I do not think you ought to call Leonard ‘selfish and inconsiderate.’ He is very unhappy.”

“When all the city is happy and rejoicing! Can he not put aside his own happiness for a while and rejoice with every one else? We are going to keep Christmas for the Christ’s sake; we are going to honour the brave men who have done our country such honour; we are going, all of us, to think of our country and forget ourselves; and Leonard must take this very time to urge some bit of pleasure that will be his, and his only, that no one else must share----”

“You forget me, mother.”

“No. I am sure you are no party to anything that is so selfishly personal. I think you would put the general good, and the general happiness, before your own satisfaction.”

Then Sappha answered, “I hope you judge me rightly, mother; and I will be very firm with Leonard. Yet he seems so miserable.”

“He is nursing some silly idea that in some way or other he is being wronged. This notion blots all other ideas out of recognition; he is, as I said before, suffering from selfishness; and selfishness is the worst-tempered of all vices.”

“At any rate, he is wretched. Come and speak to him, mother.”

“No, I will not. I have other things to do. Of course he is wretched! he ought to be, for bad temper, fortunately, bites at both ends. My advice to you is, be a little cross yourself. Dear me! How tiresome men in love are!”

To this last exclamation Sappha closed the door. She walked slowly downstairs, she lingered, she seemed unable to come to any decision. But in the midst of her uncertainty she listened to her heart, and what her heart said to her was this: “It can never be wrong to be kind.” So strengthened, and even counselled, by this suggestion, she went back to her lover. He was walking about the room in a fever of self-torment, and as the door opened he turned inquiringly. And it was the loveliest of Sapphas he saw. She met him in all her charms; her eyes had a sunny radiance, her mouth was all smiles, she looked as if there was not a care in the wide world--a healing, lovesome woman, wonderfully sweet and comforting.

“Dearest one,” she said softly, “sit here beside me. Let me have your hand, Leonard, and listen to me. My mother says this is the very worst time in all the year to speak to my father. He is so full of public affairs, and you know, just now, they ought to come before any private ones. Ought they not, dear?”

“Yes, of course, but----”

“Well, there can be no ‘but’ for a few days. Christmas is Christ’s feast--we cannot presume to put ourselves before Christmas; and then come all the honours, and feasts, and public rejoicings for our dear country. You would not put yourself, nor even Sappha, before America, her honour and freedom? And so I think, with mother, we must wait until after the New Year before we say a word about ourselves. Dear, a few months, a few weeks ago, you were so happy with my assurance only. Is it less sweet now than then?”

And as she spoke more and more tenderly, aiding her words with loving glances and the light pressure of her little hand, softer thoughts flowed in, and the enchanter, love, usurped the place of every evil passion. Leonard finally promised to be happy, and to let others be happy; and he kissed this agreement on her lips. Alas!

“Man, only, clogs with care his happiness, And while he should enjoy his part of bliss, With thoughts of what might be, destroys what is.” DRYDEN.

And when Sappha had watched and smiled him out of sight she turned in with a sigh and a sudden depression of spirit. She had won Leonard to her wish and way, but anger is always self-immolation, and for a time at least Leonard had fallen in her esteem, for she was compelled to disapprove of much that he had said; and the more we judge, the less we love.

The whole affair seemed trifling to Mrs. Bloommaert; it was an annoyance in the midst of events of far more importance, and had to be got out of the way--that was all. But to Sappha it was different. She had forgiven Leonard, but unhappy is the lover whom a woman forgives; and Sappha was herself quite conscious that some virtue had gone out of her life. It was not a little event to Sappha, for there are no little events with the heart.

Fortunately Annette and St. Ange came in, and Sappha was compelled to meet them on the level of their joyous temper. They had finished decorating madame’s house, and their arms were full of box and feathery hemlock and the blooms of many-coloured everlasting flowers and great bunches of the vermilion berries of the darling pyracantha shrub. They were tingling with the Christmas joy, and their ringing laughter, their jokes and snatches of song, their quips and mock reproofs of their own mirth, filled the house with the electric atmosphere of Merry Christmas. Negroes were chattering among them, raising ladders, and running messages, and the tapping of the little hammers, and the cries of admiration as the room grew to a fairy bower, was far better than the music of many instruments--it was the music of the heart.

“We ought to have had holly,” said St. Ange. “There is always holly in Christmas decorations.”

“The pyracantha berries are just as pretty,” answered Mrs. Bloommaert, “and the pyracantha is a rapid grower, and can be cut with impunity--even with profit to the bush; but to cut holly! that is rather a cruel business. It is almost as bad as flinging the Christmas tree into the streets when it has done its whole duty.”

“But, aunt Carlita, what else can be done? It is too big to keep, and----”

“I will tell you. In Germany, the home of the Christmas tree, they give it house room until Shrove Tuesday, then it is formally burned.”

“Well,” said Sapphira, “we are not going to have a Christmas tree this year; my father likes far better the _Yule Klap_.”

“What an outlandish name!” exclaimed St. Ange.

“Truly so, but then, such a delightful custom!” replied Annette. “To-morrow night you will have to do your part in the Yule Klap; I hope you are prepared.”

“But then, I know not.”

“My aunt will tell you all about it.” And Mrs. Bloommaert said: “Come now, it is easy enough. The judge will open the Christmas room, and then every one will throw their gifts into the room, crying ‘_Yule Klap_’ in a disguised voice. The gifts may be rich or poor, but they must be wrapped in a great number of coverings, and each cover be addressed to a different person, but the person whose name is on the last cover gets the gift. The gifts are to be strictly anonymous. So then no thanks are to be given, and there can be no envious feelings awakened.”

“That is charming,” cried St. Ange. Then he was in a hurry to leave, but Mrs. Bloommaert insisted that he should stay and drink a glass of hot negus ere he went into the cold air. While the negro boy was bringing in a tray full of Christmas dainties, and Sappha spicing the Portugal wine, they finished the dressing of the room; and then sat down round the fire to refresh themselves.

And very soon St. Ange began to talk of certain Christmas feasts he had spent in Europe--in Madrid, at the Christmas turkey fair, amid glorious sunshine, the flower girls selling camillas and violets; everywhere colour, beauty, music, barbarism, and dirt. At Rome in the antique fish market, always brilliantly lighted with large torches on Christmas Eve. “For I assure you,” he said, “the sumptuous fish supper of that night is beyond anything that can be conceived of here.”--at Naples, where Christmas is kept with confectionery, and the Toledo is a feast of sugar and sweets.

“Are then the Neapolitans so fond of confectionery?” asked Annette. “They must be very children,” she added.

“They are children among sweets,” he answered. “A Neapolitan noble told me that the king was ever fearing revolution; ‘but,’ he added, ‘if he will only present every Neapolitan with a box of sweets a revolution will be impossible.’”

“I do not think a box of sweets to every American would have prevented our Revolution,” said Sappha.

Every one laughed heartily at the idea, and then she pictured Washington and Putnam, and her grandfather Bloommaert’s reception of these peace offerings. And the scene was so funnily enacted that no one could help laughing heartily at it. Yet in the very climax of the hilarious chorus Sappha had a heavy heart; her mirth was only from the lips outward. However, it seemed only too real to Leonard, who entered suddenly while the peal of laughter was at its height. And he was so totally unexpected that the moment’s sudden silence which followed was the most natural consequence; especially as it ended in a rush of inquiries and exclamations.

“So glad to see you!”

“Come and sit down, and have a glass of hot negus.”

“What good fortune sent you?”

“Is there any strange news?” And then Mrs. Bloommaert’s rather stiff question: “Is anything wrong, Leonard?”

Leonard turned to her at once. “No, indeed,” he answered. “I met the judge at the City Hall and he asked me to bring you this letter. I think he expects to be detained. He was just going on to an important committee. If there is any answer, I will carry it, if you wish me to do so.”

And as Mrs. Bloommaert read the letter Sappha brought him some spiced wine, but he would not take it. He said “he was going back to complete some decorations, whose position required a very clear head and steady foot.” But he knew in his heart that it was no fear of danger made him refuse the proffered cup of good-will. It was jealousy that whispered to him: “The cup was not mingled for you. There was no thought of you in it. Others were expected and prepared for, and you were not even told.” Under the influence of such thoughts he was constrained and quite unlike himself, and an effectual destroyer of happiness. An uncomfortable silence, broken by bungling attempts to restore the natural mirth he had disturbed, were not happy efforts. He made himself an intruder, and then blamed every one else for the position he had taken voluntarily, through his own misconception. Sappha was painfully aware of the constraint, and she wished for once that Annette would open her generally ready stream of badinage. But Annette was busy advising, in a somewhat private detail, St. Ange concerning his part of the game of _Yule Klap_; and St. Ange, having received her instructions while Leonard was waiting, rose when Leonard did, and proposed to walk part of the way with him.

“You will call this evening, will you not?” asked Sappha timidly, as they stood by a little table full of mysterious packages.

“It will be impossible,” he answered. “Every part of the decorations are in my charge, and I have a great deal to attend to.”

“To-morrow is Christmas Eve. You will be here for the _Yule Klap_?”

“If I am wanted!”

“Oh, Leonard! If you are wanted! If you are not present I shall not care for anything, or any one else.”

“Then I will come, dearest.” This conversation had been held, almost in whispers, as Sappha was supposed to be showing Leonard some of the _Yule Klap_ offerings she was preparing. Then the young men went away together, but the ocean between them could not really have set them more apart. St. Ange made several attempts to open a conversation on _Yule Klap_. He wanted Leonard’s advice about the gifts most suitable; but Leonard professed both ignorance and indifference concerning a game so childish; and at Vaarick Street St. Ange, having failed completely to evoke anything like friendly intercourse, bid him good-morning. He was worried over his friend’s evident displeasure; and over his own failure to either account for or dispel it. He went westward to Greenwich Street, and having made many purchases in the most fashionable stores, rather wearily returned to his rooms at the City Hotel. He was depressed and had a premonition of trouble.

After this little cloud the Christmas festivities went on with unalloyed pleasure. Madame and Annette were to stay at the Bowling Green house until Saturday, and when the judge saw his mother’s delight in her anticipated visit to the theatre on Christmas night he had no heart to say one opposing word. But Sappha was not now so eager. She felt sure that in Leonard’s present temper he would not like her to be the guest of St. Ange, and she resolved to forego the pleasure. “I shall have a little headache in the morning, and it will grow worse towards night, and I shall beg to be left at home that I may sleep it away. I do not think it will be wrong,” she mused. “There is not room in the box St. Ange has taken but for six; and if there was room, I am sure Leonard would not accept the invitation to join us. Well, then, it is better to make an excuse than to make trouble. Why did not Leonard rent a box? He might have thought of it just as well as St. Ange. I wish I knew what it is best, what it is right, to do.”

To such troubled thoughts she fell asleep, and when she awoke in the morning the weather had settled the matter for her. It was bitterly cold, and a furious snowstorm was blocking up the pathways and making a visit to the theatre beyond a safe or pleasant probability. Madame sadly admitted the condition, but the day went happily forward; and about two o’clock Leonard and St. Ange and Peter arrived, and the judge opened the Christmas room, and then there was two hours of pure mirth--of surprise without end; of beautiful gifts whose donors were to speculate about; half-guesses sent into conscious faces; questions asked with beaming eyes; all the delightful uncertainties which love could make, and love alone unravel. The Christmas dinner followed, and after it a dance, which madame, with Peter for her partner, opened. Every one joined in it, and the merriest of evenings was thus inaugurated. So nobody regretted the theatre, not even madame, for she had been privately informed by St. Ange that the box was reserved for the great naval performance on the seventh of January; and that it would be one far more worth seeing, one never to be forgotten. And madame kept this bit of anticipatory pleasure as a little secret, and was as gay as a child over it.

Leonard also was in his most charming mood, and Sappha was divinely happy; her beauty was enchanting, and her manner so mild and sweet that she diffused on all hands a sense of exquisite peace and felicity. For Leonard had whispered to her such words of contrition and devotion as erased totally and forever the memory of his unworthy temper and suspicions. And after that confession there could be only sorrow for his fault, and delight in pardoning and forgetting it.

All throughout the following week he preserved this sunny mood. He was undoubtedly very busy, for the naval dinner was to be given on the twenty-ninth of December, and he was the director of the committee of young men who were turning the great dining room of the City Hotel into a marine palace. It was his taste which colonnaded it with the masts of ships wreathed with laurel and all the national flags of the world--except that of Great Britain. It was Leonard who devised the greensward, in the midst of which was a real lake, and floating on it a miniature United States war frigate.

It was Leonard, also, who hung behind the dais on which Mayor Clinton, Decatur, Hall, and the officers of the navy were to sit, the mainsail of a ship thirty-three feet by sixteen, on which the American eagle was painted, holding in his beak a scroll bearing these significant words: “Our children are the property of our country.” There were many other transparencies to attend to; besides which, every table was to bear a miniature warship with American colours displayed. And to the five hundred gentlemen of New York, who sat down to the dinner served in that room, these were no childish symbols. They were the palpable, visible signs of a patriotism that meant freedom or death, and nothing less.

In the midst of all the business connected with such preparations, in a time when the things wanted were not always procurable, and had to be supplied by the things that could be obtained, Leonard--whose heart was hot in his work of patriotism--was naturally very busy and very much occupied with the work on hand. Yet he found time sufficient to see Sappha often enough to convince her he had not fallen away from the promise he had made her--“to harbour no unworthy suspicions of any one who loved him.”

At length New Year’s Eve arrived. More than three hundred of New York’s loveliest women had been for weeks preparing for it, and all were eager for the pleasure it promised them.

The Bloommaert party, consisting of the judge, Mrs. Bloommaert, Sappha, and Annette, were early arrivals; and Leonard, who was one of the directors, met them at the door. And he looked so noble, and so handsome, and his manner was so fine and gracious, that even Judge Bloommaert was impressed by his personality, and returned his greeting with unusual warmth. But then, as Leonard reflected, any man who failed in politeness, or even in cordiality, in the presence of three such lovely women as Sappha, Annette, and Mrs. Bloommaert, would surely be something less than human.

Mrs. Bloommaert’s beauty was yet in its ripe perfection. She was as the full blown rose that has not yet dropped a single leaf. She wore a gown of white satin covered with a netting of gold thread; and there was a string of pearls round her throat, and a large comb in form the braids and bows of her glossy black hair. She carried in her hand a little fan of exquisite workmanship, and used it with a grace that no woman in the room, old or young, could imitate.

Sappha’s gown was of white satin of so rich a quality that any trimming on it would have been vulgar and superfluous. Her sandals also were of white satin; and in her beautiful, brown hair there was one white rose; and round her slender throat the necklace of pearls which had come to her among the gifts of the _Yule Klap_. Annette was dressed in a slip of pale blue satin, covered with white gauze of the most transparent quality; a very mist of white over a little cloud of pale blue. Her sandals were blue, and she wore a necklace of turquoise stones cut in the shape of stars and united by a tiny ornament of frosted silver. Her hair hung free, and was loosely curled and confined by a simple band of blue ribbon.

And if Sappha, with her “eyes grey-lit in shadowing hair above,” seemed to wear Love’s very vesture with just that touch of pride that made men wonder and revere, Annette was like a Love from Greuze’s dainty brush--a laughing, dancing, teasing, mocking fairy. Achille was constantly hovering around her, and this evident admiration and attention Sappha was careful to point out to Leonard.

The dance begun at nine o’clock, and at eleven supper was served in a room fitted up like the great cabin of a ship of the line; but after supper dancing was resumed, and continued until nearly two o’clock in the morning. Then reluctantly the happy crowd went to their homes to rest, for it was then New Year’s Day, always a busy, fatiguing anniversary--a day which every one felt it a duty to consecrate to friendship and hospitality.

Indeed, in Judge Bloommaert’s household there was barely time for a little sleep before the parlours were crowded with callers; and all of them brought but one topic of conversation--the arrival of the captive British war vessel, the _Macedonian_. For her conqueror had brought her as far as Hell Gate the day previous, in order that she might arrive on the first of January, and be presented to New York as a “New Year’s Gift.” And, as if good fortune was pleased with this honour to her favourite city, the very breeze that was needed sprang up, and at the very moment it was needed; and amid the shouting crowds that lined the banks of the East River, the captive vessel was taken to the Brooklyn Navy Yard.

“I had the heart-ache for her,” said Leonard. “She carried herself so proudly. I bethought me of how she had borne the living fury of the elements, and the living fury of fiery battle, and I lifted my hat a moment to the wounded ship in her humiliation, just as I would have done to any great soldier or sailor, if I saw them marched between shouting enemies, manacled and helpless.” And at these words the judge regarded him silently; and there was a quivering fire in Sappha’s eyes as she said softly: “You felt as the brave always feel in the presence of a fallen enemy. You remember the motto of the old Plantagenet knights--‘Honour to the vanquished!’”

“I remember. You told me that once before. Do you know your brother Peter would not look at her?”

“That was strange,” said Mrs. Bloommaert. “What was the matter with Peter?”

“Peter always looks on a ship as a woman, and he cannot bear to see her in distress.”

“It is a strange feeling, that, between ships and ship men,” said Dr. Smith. “Sailors all give them consciousness and sympathy, and it is a common thing to hear them say of any craft, ‘she behaves well.’ Captain Tim Barnard of the privateer _General Armstrong_, when chasing an enemy, talks to his ship, as an Arabian to his horse; urges her, entreats her to put forth all her speed, makes her promises of additional guns, or a new flag, and, what is more, he firmly believes she understands and obeys him.”

“Well,” answered the judge, “every one I know connected with shipping speaks as commonly and as naturally of the average life of a ship as they do of the average life of a sailor.”

“Once,” said Achille, “when I was in England I watched from the cliff a ship in danger. She flashed out signals of distress, and her minute guns sounded like the cries of some living creature, and as I looked and listened I saw men running to some boats that were lying half-alive on their stocks, and in a moment they were in the raving, raging sea. Boats and men seemed alike eager and pitiful. And the gallant ship! She was like a mother in extremity--if she must go, she entreated that her sons might be saved.”

“Were they?”

“Yes, all of them; but the next morning her figure-head, looking seaward wistfully, was lying on the beach; and her broken rudder beside it. They were sadder than spoken words. No one saw the ship die. She went down to her grave alone--but I think she was glad of that.”

“Come, come then,” said Peter, who had entered during this conversation, “we need not go so far afield for splendid facts. Let us remember the nineteenth of last August, when Captain Isaac Hull wounded to death the fine British man-of-war _Guerrière_. It was seen at once that her case was hopeless, and the _Constitution_ watched by her all night, and removed not only all her men, but also all their private possessions. On the morning of the twentieth she was ready for her grave. A slow match was applied to her magazine, and the _Constitution_ bore away. At a safe distance she hove to, and the officers and men of both ships stood watching. The guns which had been left shotted soon began to go off. They were the death knells of the dying man-of-war. Presently the flames reached the magazine, a mass of wreckage flew skyward. The _Guerrière_ was no more. But William Storey, who was present, told me every man stood bare-headed as she sank, and that her officers wept, while some of her men blubbered like children.”

“Thank you, Peter,” said the judge. “It is a good thing to hear that Hull was so noble to his prisoners.”

“As for that,” continued Peter, “there wasn’t a touch of ill-will on either side, after the fight was over. Storey said the prisoners and captors sat around the fok’sle together, telling yarns, exchanging tobacco and many little courtesies. Hull is too brave a man to fear brave men. Some captains might have handcuffed the crew, not so Hull; and, indeed, every American sailor on the _Constitution_ felt a manly unwillingness to handcuff enemies who had fought so bravely.”

“Sappha,” said the judge, “I have heard Mr. Murray singing with you at intervals this afternoon and evening a verse or two that you were setting to a wonderful bit of music. Try it again, my dear.”

“It is _The March of the Men of Moray_, father. Mr. Murray wrote two or three verses to it about the _Macedonia_. Come, Leonard,” and she struck a few ringing chords and looked inspiration into his bending face. Then out rang the little ballad to the marching music of his clan:

What will they say in England, When the story there is told, Of Commodore Decatur, And his sailor men so bold?

They’ll say it was a gallant fight, And fairly lost and won; So honour to the sailor men, By whom the deed was done!

What will they say in England? They’ll say with grateful lip, Now glory to Almighty God, No Frenchman took the ship!

No Frenchman shot her colours down! The doomed ship had this grace-- To take her death blow from the hands Of men of the English race!

And all good honest men and true Will pray for war to cease; And merchant ships go to-and-fro On messages of peace.

And men-of-war sail on the land, And soldiers plough the sea, Ere brothers fight, who ought to dwell In love and unity.

“Thank you, Mr. Murray,” said the judge. “’Tis a stirring melody!”

“’Tis the march of my forefather’s clan, sir.”

“And you have said for America, and for England, what they deserve. We both love fair play; and I am sure both nations know how to take, either a victory or a defeat, like men, and gentlemen. God make honourable peace between us, and that right early!”

To this pious wish the company remaining, departed; but after Leonard had made his long, sweet adieu, Sappha heard her father gently tapping on the table the time of “_The March of the Men of Moray_,” as in pleasant thoughtfulness he hummed to its music,

“They’ll say it was a gallant fight, And fairly lost and won, So honour to the sailor men, By whom the deed was done!”