—­“Dear are her charms to me,
  Dearest her constancy,
    Aileen aroon—­”

“Never mind any more of that silly song!” exclaimed Celia, imprisoning Ailsa’s arms from behind.

  “Youth must with time decay,
    Aileen aroon,
  Beauty must fade away,
    Aileen aroon—­”

“Don’t, dear! please——­”

But Ailsa sang on obstinately: 

  “Castles are sacked in war,
  Chieftains are scattered far,
  Truth is a fixed star,
    Aileen aroon.”

And, glancing back over her shoulder, caught her breath quickly.

“Celia!  What is the matter, dear?”

“Nothing.  I don’t like such songs—­just now——­”

“What songs?”

“I don’t know, Ailsa; songs about war and castles.  Little things plague me. . . .  There’s been altogether too much talk about war—­it gets into ev’ything, somehow.  I can’t seem to he’p it, somehow——­”

“Why, Celia! You are not worrying?”

“Not fo’ myse’f, Honey-bud.  Somehow, to-night—­I don’t know—­and Curt seemed a little anxious.”

She laughed with an effort; her natural gaiety returned to buoy her above this indefinable undercurrent of unrest.

Paige and Marye came in from the glass extension where their father was pacing to and fro, smoking his bedtime cigar, and their mother began her invariable running comment concerning the day’s events, rallying her children, tenderly tormenting them with their shortcomings—­undarned stockings, lessons imperfectly learned, little household tasks neglected—­she was always aware of and ready at bedtime to point out every sin of omission.

“As fo’ you, Paige, you are certainly a ve’y rare kind of Honey-bird, and I reckon Mr. Ba’num will sho’ly catch you some day fo’ his museum.  Who ever heard of a shif’less Yankee girl except you and Marye?”

“O mother, how can we mend everything we tear?  It’s heartless to ask us!”

“You don’t have to try to mend ev’ything.  Fo’ example, there’s Jimmy Lent’s heart——­”

A quick outbreak of laughter swept them—­all except Paige, who flushed furiously over her first school-girl affair.

“That poor Jimmy child came to me about it,” continued their mother, “and asked me if I would let you be engaiged to him; and I said, ’Certainly, if Paige wants to be, Jimmy.  I was engaiged myse’f fo’ times befo’ I was fo’teen——­’”

Another gale of laughter drowned her words, and she sat there dimpled, mischievous, naively looking around, yet in her careful soul shrewdly pursuing her wise policy of airing all sentimental matters in the family circle—­letting in fresh air and sunshine on what so often takes root and flourishes rather morbidly at sixteen.

“It’s perfectly absurd,” observed Ailsa, “at your age, Paige——­”

“Mother was married at sixteen!  Weren’t you, dearest?”