“I shall not, nor can I treat either of you as a child,” she continued, “and must therefore appeal only to your own good sense, to make a peace.  I know it can be nothing serious; but, it is painful to me to see even an affected coldness among my children.  Think, Maud, that we are on the point of a war, and how bitterly you would regret it, should any accident befall your brother, and your memory not be able to recall the time passed among us, in his last visit, with entire satisfaction.”

The mother’s voice trembled; but tears no longer struggled about the eyelids of Maud.  Her face was pale as death, and it seemed as if every ordinary fountain of sorrow were dried up.

“Dear Bob, this is too much!” she said eagerly, though in husky tones.  “Here is my hand—­nay, here are both.  Mother must not think this cruel charge is—­can be true.”

The major arose, approached his sister, and impressed a kiss on her cold cheek.  Mrs. Willoughby smiled at these tokens of amity, and the conversation continued in a less earnest manner.

“This is right, my children,” said the single-hearted Mrs. Willoughby, whose sensitive maternal love saw nothing but the dreaded consequences of weakened domestic affections; “and I shall be all the happier for having witnessed it.  Young soldiers, Maud, who are sent early from their homes, have too many inducements to forget them and those they contain; and we women are so dependent on the love of our male friends, that it is wisdom in us to keep alive all the earlier ties as long and as much as possible.”

“I am sure, dearest mother,” murmured Maud, though in a voice that was scarcely audible, “I shall be the last to wish to weaken this family tie.  No one can feel a warmer—­more proper—­a more sisterly affection for Robert, than I do—­he was always so kind to me when a child—­and so ready to assist me—­and so manly—­and so everything that he ought to be—­it is surprising you should have fancied there was any coldness between us!”

Major Willoughby even bent forward to listen, so intense was his curiosity to hear what Maud said; a circumstance which, had she seen it, would probably have closed her lips.  But her eyes were riveted on the floor, her cheeks were bloodless, and her voice so low, that nothing but the breathless stillness he observed, would have allowed the young man to hear it, where he sat.

“You forget, mother”—­rejoined the major, satisfied that the last murmur had died on his ears—­“that Maud will probably be transplanted into another family, one of these days, where we, who know her so well, and have reason to love her so much, can only foresee that she will form new, and even stronger ties than any that accident may have formed for her here.”

“Never—­never”—­exclaimed Maud, fervently—­“I can never love any as well as I love those who are in this house.”