clinging around his neck. In this attitude they remained quiet for
some moments, slightly rocking from side to side like a metronome;
a movement, I fancy, peculiarly bucolic, pastoral, and idyllic, and
as such, I wot, observed by Theocritus and Virgil.

At these supreme moments weak woman usually keeps her wits about
her much better than your superior reasoning masculine animal; and,
while the gallant captain was losing himself upon her perfect lips,
Miss Thankful distinctly heard the farm-gate click, and otherwise
noticed that the moon was getting high and obtrusive. She half
released herself from the captain's arms, thoughtfully and
tenderly--but firmly. "Tell me all about yourself, Allan dear,"
she said quietly, making room for him on the wall,--"all,
everything."

She turned upon him her beautiful eyes,--eyes habitually earnest
and even grave in expression, yet holding in their brave brown
depths a sweet, childlike reliance and dependency; eyes with a
certain tender, deprecating droop in the brown-fringed lids, and
yet eyes that seemed to say to every man who looked upon them, "I
am truthful: be frank with me." Indeed, I am convinced there is
not one of my impressible sex, who, looking in those pleading eyes,
would not have perjured himself on the spot rather than have
disappointed their fair owner.

Capt. Brewster's mouth resumed its old expression of discontent.

"Everything is growing worse, Thankful, and the cause is lost.
Congress does nothing, and Washington is not the man for the
crisis. Instead of marching to Philadelphia, and forcing that