persisted in making so disgraceful an alliance, she would disinherit
him at once. Ben knew she was in earnest, and so fell back upon the
Crimean war as a last resort. "He would go immediately--would start
that very day for New York--he had money enough to carry him there,"
and he painted so vividly "death on a distant battle-field, with a
ferocious _Russian_ rifling his trousers' pocket," that his mother
began to cry, though she still refused to relent.

"Choose, mother, choose," said he. "It's almost car time--Rosamond or
the war," and he drew on his heavy boots.

"Oh Benjamin, you, will kill me dead."

"I know it. I mean to. Rosamond or the war!" and he buttoned up his
coat preparatory to a start.

"Do, Ben, listen to reason."

"I won't--I won't;--Rosamond or the war! I shall rush into the
thickest of the fight, and be killed the first fire, of course, and
black is _so_ unbecoming to you."

"Stop, I entreat. You know you are afraid of cannons;" this was said
beseechingly.

"Thunder, mother! No, I ain't! Rosamond or the war--choose quick. I
hear the whistle at East Granby."

He left the room--went down the stairs, out at the door, through the
yard, and out into the avenue, while his distracted mother looked