sounds of spluttering and boiling, and a young man was in the act of
endeavoring to lift it amid cries of remonstrance.

"Have a care, Francis," cried a pretty, roguish-looking girl in a gray
homespun gown, brandishing a wet towel as she spoke; "hot lead will be
your portion if you dare trifle with that boiling pot. What are we to do
with it, Miss Euphemia?" as that lady came forward in haste; "a few
drops of water flirted out of my towel and must have fallen inside, for
't is spluttering in terrific fashion."

"Shall I lift it off the fire?" asked the young man, whose name was
Francis Plunkett.

"Certainly," said Miss Euphemia, inspecting the now tranquil kettle;
"here are the moulds all greased; gently, now," as she put a small ladle
inside the pot; "now move it slowly, and put the pot here beside me on
the table."

"Will they really turn out bullets?" asked another girl in a whisper, as
Sally Tracy moved a second big pot with the intention of hanging it on
the fire, but was prevented by a tall, silent young man, who stopped his
occupation of sorting out bits of lead to assist her.

"Thank you, Josiah," said Sally. "Turn out bullets, Dolly?--why, of
course, when they come out of the moulds. What did you suppose we were
all about?"

Dolly Trumbull (who was on a visit to the Wolcotts') looked shy and
somewhat distressed, and promptly retired into a corner, where she
resumed her conversation with her cousin, Josiah Huntington; and