But the nation looked too long; the mirage closed in; fort, sea, the flag itself, became unreal; the lone figure on the parapet turned to a phantom.  God’s will was doing.  Who dared doubt?

“There seems to be no doubt in the South,” observed Ailsa Paige to her brother-in-law one fragrant evening after dinner where, in the dusk, the family had gathered on the stoop after the custom of a simpler era.

Along the dim street long lines of front stoops blossomed with the light spring gowns of women and young girls, pale, dainty clusters in the dusk set with darker figures, where sparks from cigars glowed and waned in the darkness.

Windows were open, here and there a gas jet in a globe flickered inside a room, but the street was dusky and tranquil as a country lane, and unilluminated save where at far intervals lamp-posts stood in a circle of pale light, around which a few moths hovered.

“The rebels,” repeated Ailsa, “appear to have no doubts, honest or otherwise.  They’ve sent seven thousand troops to the Charleston fortifications—­the paper says.”

Stephen Craig heard his cousin speak but made no response.  He was smoking openly and in sight of his entire family the cigar which had, heretofore, been consumed surreptitiously.  His mother sat close to his shoulder, rallying him like a tormenting schoolgirl, and, at intervals, turning to look back at her husband who stood on the steps beside her, a little amused, a little proud, a little inclined to be critical of this tall son of his who yesterday had been a boy.

The younger daughters of the house, Paige and Marye, strolled past, bareheaded, arms linked, in company with Camilla and Jimmy Lent.

“O dad!” called out Paige softly, “Jim says that Major Anderson is to be reinforced at once.  There was a bulletin this evening.”

“I am very glad to hear it, sweetheart,” said her father, smiling through his eye-glasses.

Stephen bent forward across his mother’s shoulder.  “Is that true, father?”

“Camilla’s brother has probably been reading the Tribune’s evening bulletin.  The Herald bulletin says that the Cabinet has ordered the evacuation of Fort Sumter; the Times says Major Anderson is to be reinforced; the World says that he abandoned the fort last night; and they all say he has been summoned to surrender.  Take your choice, Steve,” he added wearily.  “There is only one wire working from the South, and the rebels control that.”

“Are you tired, Curt?” asked his wife, looking around and up at him.

He seated himself and readjusted his eye-glasses.

“No, dear—­only of this nightmare we are living in”—­he stopped abruptly.  Politics had been avoided between them.  There was a short silence; he felt his wife’s hand touch his in the darkness—­sign of a tender respect for his perplexity, but not for his political views.