"He is a dear," said Ailsa. "I adore him."

"Yes--if he'd only sleep at night. I am very selfish I suppose to
complain; he is so happy and so interested these days--only--I am
wondering--if there ever _should_ be a war--would it break his poor
old heart if he couldn't go? They'll never let him, you know."

Ailsa looked up, troubled:

"You mean--_because_!" she said in a low voice.

"Well _I_ don't consider him anything more than delightfully
eccentric."

"Neither do I. But all this is worrying me ill. His heart is so
entirely wrapped up in it; he writes a letter to Washington every
day, and nobody ever replies. Ailsa, it almost terrifies me to
think what might happen--and he be left out!"

"Nothing will happen. The world is too civilised, dear."

"But the papers talk about nothing else! And uncle takes every
paper in New York and Brooklyn, and he wants to have the editor of
the _Herald_ arrested, and he is very anxious to hang the entire
staff of the _Daily News_. It's all well enough to stand there
laughing, but I believe there'll be a war, and then my troubles
will begin!"

Ailsa, down on her knees again, dabbled thoughtfully in the soil,
exploring the masses of matted spider-wort for new shoots.