paraphrasing an old ballad and substituting her own name, while she glanced up laughingly.

"Since we found the making-up process so delightful," returned Jaqueline, "we are anxious to pass it around. You see, now, Marian has no interest in life but to play the part of maiden aunt. Jane will absorb a good deal of her with the most generous intentions. She is a lovely nurse, and I think grandpa's and Mr. Greaves' influence has mostly died out. They were both so narrow and dogmatic about women that they reduced her to a sort of slavery. Mamma has brought her out to a sense of freedom. Single women may be heroic, yet, as I remember, the Revolutionary heroines were married and mothers, most of them, and it is the wife and mother who has the most exquisite happiness."

"What a long speech! We will try and get Ralston well, and then trust good-fortune. There will be no one to interfere this time."

While Ralston lay tossing on a bed of pain, his leg in splints and bandages, events moved on rapidly. The bold exploits and undying courage that had won such brilliant successes on the seas had settled the question of sailors' rights. England virtually admitted this while still haggling with commissioners. And from having no position among nations, from being considered feeble and disunited, and possessing no innate right to establish a commerce of her own, the United States had won the respect of the countries abroad, and to a great degree harmonized the jarring factions at home.

The crowning battle of the war was that of New Orleans, with Jackson's brilliant victory, though some of the preliminaries had been settled before this.

And one day a messenger came rushing into town, swinging his three-cornered hat in one hand and holding the bridle-rein in the other, and cried out in stentorian tones, "Peace! peace! Peace has been declared! Mr. Carroll, American messenger, has arrived with the Treaty of Peace!"

In spite of blackened ruins and heaps of débris, there was a great time in Old Washington. For, indeed, it seemed old now, since it could boast of ruins. Flags were hung out. Neighbors called to one another. Then a coach came thundering along the avenue, another and yet another, and stopped at the Octagon House. Congress presented themselves, at least all who could be gathered on a short notice, to take the news to the President, who had suffered considerably from the exposure and fatigue, and perhaps from the mortification of having been a fugitive flying from the enemy.

The circular vestibule, the white winding stairway that was open to the top, and the drawing room to the right were crowded with guests, felicitating their chief and one another. Animosity, coldness, and blame were forgotten. Peace! peace! like the refrain of some sweet music, went floating around all the space, and Mrs. Madison was much moved with emotion. Strong men thanked God with softened hearts. The conflict was over, and now they knew the bitterness of war.

For this year young Daniel Webster was in the House, and Clay and Calhoun and men who were to have much to do with the nation's destinies later on.

Houses were illuminated, tar barrels were burned, and the streets seemed fairly alive with people. Voices rang with joy.

True, the Treaty was to be discussed and signed, the British troops were to go home, the news to be carried about on the high seas. Ports were to be opened, and "Madison's nightcaps"—barrels that had been hung to protect the rigging of ships—were removed with shouts of joy.

There was a lull in Europe. Prussia drew a long breath. Russia plumed herself on giving the famous Corsican his first blow, while the Battle of Waterloo was the last. France had a king of royal blood again. Spain was repairing her fortunes; while England was counting up her losses and gains, and preparing to shake hands in amity with the young country across the ocean and grow into friendship with it.

CHAPTER XX.

THE OLD STORY EVER NEW.

Jaqueline Carrington's heart ached the first time she was taken out to drive, when destruction met her on every side. There was another sorrowful aspect. Men were getting about on crutches, sitting on the Capitol steps sunning themselves. There was an empty coat-sleeve, some scarred faces, others pale and wan. Yes, they had all escaped marvelously.

She thought herself the happiest woman in the world. No one, she was quite sure, had such a tender and devoted husband or splendid baby. Mother Carrington found her affections quite divided, and the days when Jaqueline came over to Georgetown were gala days.

True, Preston Floyd had been already talked of as a member of the House of Representatives. Roger Carrington had been appointed to an excellent position in the Treasury Department, though he was still a great favorite with Mr. Monroe, and Jaqueline was not jealous. Arthur Jettson had come to be consulting architect, and had still greater plans for the new city. Annis had resumed her school, but she was quite an important little body, and sometimes her mother felt almost as if she had lost her.

Lieutenant Ralston found himself an admired hero. He had been cool and level-headed through those days of the panic; and it was admitted that many of his plans for the defense of the City would have been excellent. A new commission was made out, bearing the name of Captain Ralston; and a position was ready for him, when he could fill it, where his genius would have full scope.

There were many anxious days over his leg. One of the doctors said the wound would never heal, and that presently it would be amputation or his life, and considered the delay a great risk.

"Oh, Collaston," he begged, "don't have me going around on a wooden stump! If I was an admiral, now, I shouldn't mind it, as it would add to the glory. But a poor fellow who can't retire on his fortune—"

"We'll fight to the very last, Phil. If you could have been found sooner!"

"And some poor fellows were found altogether too late. Well, the country has learned a lesson, and perhaps with Paul Jones we have taught other nations a lesson, not to tread on us! Do your very best."

The doctor did it in fear and trembling. For if he cost his patient his life, he knew it would be a great blow to his reputation.

As for the young lad, he soon began to improve. He seemed quite stranded, for his cousin's regiment had re-embarked and was coasting southward. No inquiries had been made about him—indeed, he knew afterward that the cousin had written home that he had been killed at the Battle of Bladensburg and buried on the field. He was a stranger in a strange land.

Ralston had grown very fond of him, and he proved himself an excellent companion. He was one of quite a large household, and his father was a baronet, Sir Morton Stafford. One brother was in the army at home, one in the Church, two sisters were married, and there were four younger than himself to provide for. As soon as he could use his arm he wrote to his father, and Dr. Collaston said cordially, "Consider my house your home until you hear."

"You are very good to take in a stranger this way," he returned with emotion.

Marian remained with Jaqueline when Mrs. Mason went home.

"I have been such a gadabout of late years," Mrs. Mason said, "that father hardly knows whether he has a wife and a home. I must think a little of him."

"I wish you could stay, mamma!" pleaded Annis. "Why can't you move up to Washington? I like it ever so much better. There is so much to see and to do, and we are all together here."

"There is Charles. And Varina."

"But Patty and Jaqueline and the babies seem like a great many more. And the rides and drives—"

"But you have your pony. And papa would take you any time with him."

"I like the crowds of people, and the pretty ladies in their carriages, and the foreign ministers are so fine, and to hear the men when they talk in the House, and the girls give little parties. Oh, mamma, I love you, and I want you here, but—"

Her mother smiled. Yes, life on the plantation was dull. And the jealous little girl was being weaned away.

"We are losing our children fast," she said to her husband.

Marian and Jaqueline by slow degrees slipped into the interchange of thought that real friendship uses. It had not the girlish giddiness of youth; both had learned more of the realities of life.

"But did you ever love Mr. Greaves, Marian?" Jaqueline ventured one afternoon, as she sat with her baby on her lap. He was so lovely that she envied the cradle when she put him in it, and liked to feel his soft warm body on her knees.

"I didn't at first. Oh, Jaqueline, brother Randolph is so different from father! We never begged or teased or coaxed things out of him as you children used to. And mother expected us to obey the instant we were spoken to. Then—I did not know that Lieutenant Ralston had been up until some time afterward. Dolly found out that he had been insultingly dismissed. Papa questioned me about the acquaintance and my visit to brother's, and was awfully angry. Jack, did you plan it?"

"I put things in train, simply. I did not know how they would come out."

"Papa accepted Mr. Greaves for me. I meant to tell him the story and decline his hand. But it was quite impossible. I could never talk freely to him. He did not ask me if I loved him. He had certain ideas about wives. But he was gentlemanly and kind, and I had no liberty at home. I began to think it would be nice to be free, to go out without watching, to write a letter, to have some time of my very own. I had said to papa that I would never marry him, and he replied that I should never marry anybody, then. Suddenly I gave in. I begged papa's pardon for all the dreadful things I had said, and accepted Mr. Greaves as my future husband. But I felt as if I had been turned into stone, as if it was not really my own self. That self seemed dead. I went round as usual, and tried to take an interest in everything, but nothing really mattered. Did you think me queer and strange that Christmas?"

"You certainly were cold, apathetical."

"That is just the word. Papa was formal and dogmatic and arbitrary,—poor papa! it is unfilial to say these things about him,—but mamma always seemed to get along. Mr. Greaves was more gentle, and used to ask what I would like; and I do believe he loved me; pitied me; and I couldn't help feeling grateful. Then when he had the first stroke papa said it would be dishonorable to withdraw, and he should be very angry if I contemplated such a thing. Dolly's marriage was on the carpet. She seemed so young, so—yes, silly," and Marian half hid her blushing face. "Could I ever have been so silly, Jaqueline?"

"We all go through the rose-path of sweetness when we are in love," returned Jaqueline. "I'm silly myself at times. Marian, did you know that Mr. Ralston wrote again?"

"Wrote again—then he did not forget?" She raised her soft eyes, suffused with exquisite surprise.

"He wrote when he thought you were free again. I always felt sure you did not get the letter. He took some precautions, and was confident you must have had it, though grandpa returned it without a word!"

"I never heard from him. Jane said when your engagement was broken—" Marian paused and flushed.

"That he would marry me."

Marian nodded. It had given her a heartache, she remembered. So long as he married no one he did not seem so completely cut off that she must cast him utterly out of her life.

"Well, you see he did not. I think now I could not have married anyone but Roger, if I had waited ten years."

"Then, you know, came Mr. Greaves' death and father's, and mother's failing health. I feel quite like an old woman."

"At five-and-twenty! Nonsense! See how young mamma is!"

"She is lovely, Jaqueline!" with enthusiasm.

"I don't know what papa would do without her."

What a beautiful thing it was to be so dear to anyone that he or she could not do without you!

"You saw Ralston that dreadful morning?"

"Yes." Marian buried her face in her hands. Some feeling of unknown power connected with her youth shook her, thrilled her; yet she strove to put it aside. "I prayed I might not go back to that time," and her voice was tremulous; "then when we all thought him dead I—I let myself go. It is shameful for a woman when a man has forgotten her."

"He has made tremendous efforts to forget—I know that," and the sound like a smile in her voice made Marian's face crimson again. "But I am sure he has not succeeded any better than Roger did. And if he should be unfortunate for life—"

"Then I should want to go to him. No one has any right to order my life now. Would it be very unwomanly?"

"No. And you must go to Patty's. She thinks it so queer, but I said you hated to leave me. Marian, if it comes a second time you will not refuse?"

"I think I hadn't the courage to really refuse the first time," and she smiled.

Jaqueline had more delicacy than to repeat what Annis had said, and had forbidden her to carry anything like gossip, "for a little girl who gossips will surely be an old maid. And you will want a nice husband, I am certain."

"Oh, yes!" cried Annis. "And a lot of pretty babies."

"Then never carry tales."

"But he is always asking me about Marian, and why she doesn't come?"

So they sent word they might be expected on a certain day, and baby and nurse and Annis, as soon as school closed.

How many times, lying here, Philip Ralston had lived over that sweet, foolish, incomprehensible love episode—the obstinate regard, the indignation that had followed it, the hard thrusts with which he had pushed her out of his memory. She had gone only momentarily. Her sweet youth had been spent in devotion to her self-indulgent, inexorable father,—he knew how acrimonious Mr. Floyd could be,—and, then, her stern, rigid mother. Had they taken all her sweetness? He had half looked for some sign when she had finished all her duties. Mrs. Jettson had outlived the romance of it, and lost patience with Marian. Besides, she was absorbed with her own family. There were so many pretty girls, and Marian was getting to be quite an old maid, in the days when girls married so young.

And when he had met her that eventful morning he had probable death before him, and was tongue-tied. Did she think he had forgotten all?

They trooped in together, Patty leading the procession; Jaqueline, still a little pale, but lovelier than ever, with her boy in her arms, and Marian with the lost youth back of her. She was too sincere to affect astonishment; and he had improved—was neither so gaunt nor so ghastly as when he first came. She took his hand—did she make a confession in the pressure? He felt suddenly self-condemned, as if he had misjudged her some way, and humble, as if he had nothing good enough to offer her. But he glanced up in the soft eyes—her life had not been very joyous, she was by no means a rich woman, and if she cared most for home and happiness—

She did not hear what they were saying at first. There was a sound as of rushing water in her ears.

"Oh, yes!" he answered, with an hysterical laugh, "I am to keep my own two legs to go upon. I owe it all to Collaston, who stood between me and surgeons' knives, and brandished his war club until they retreated. I shall lie here in supreme content until he bids me arise and walk."

What was it went over Marian's face. Not disappointment, but an inexplicable tenderness, as if she could have taken up the burden cheerfully, as if she were almost casting about for some other burden.

"Poor girl!" he said to himself; "she has devoted her sweetest years to others, and someone ought to pay her back in love's own coin."

Stafford had improved greatly and gained flesh. He had a fair, rather ruddy English complexion and light hair, with the unusual accompaniment of dark-brown eyes; and, though rather unformed, had a fine physique, which was as yet largely in the bone, but would some day have muscle and flesh.

The loss and ruin of Washington had been news to Ralston, though he had known the march of the vandals was inevitable. Annis interested and amused him in her talk. She was a very pronounced patriot in these days.

Eustace Stafford seemed quite bewitched with her. He came over every afternoon to bring word of Ralston, and perhaps to have an encounter of words with Annis. This day, while there were so many to entertain his friend, he stole off to school to walk home with her, though there was not a cloud in the sky that could give him a shadow of excuse.

She was going to walk some distance with one of her mates. "Perhaps it would tire you," she said mischievously.

"I have been in the house all the morning," was the reply.

"Did they bring the baby? It's the most beautiful baby in the world, isn't it?"

"I haven't seen all the babies in the world—" a little awkwardly.

"But he ought to be able to tell whether one is pretty or not, oughtn't he, Eliza?"

Eliza, thus appealed to, hung her head and said, "Perhaps—" frightened and yet delighted to comment on a young man's taste.

"Perhaps British babies are different," was Annis' rather teasing comment.

"I think babies are a good deal alike—"

"No, they are not," and she put on a pretty show of indignation. "I think you are not capable of judging."

"I am sure I am not," he said with alacrity. "They're kept in a nursery at home, you know, and have a playground out of the way somewheres."

"I am very glad I am not an English child, aren't you, Eliza? Poor things! to be stuck out in a back yard!"

"My aunt and cousin are going to England as soon as traveling is safe," said Eliza, with a benevolent intention of pouring oil upon the troubled waters. "He is going to some college."

"There are fine colleges in England. There are very few here."

"We haven't so many people. Charles—that's my brother—went through Harvard, which is splendid, when he was spending some time in Boston. And he may go to Columbia. That's in New York, where he is at school."

"New York is a large city. The English held it in the Revolutionary War."

"But they had to march out of it," said the patriot. "And they had to march away from Baltimore. And now they will have to march away from the whole United States, after they have done all the harm they could and killed off the people and almost murdered poor Lieutenant Ralston."

"But that is war. I'm sorry there should ever be war. I wouldn't have it if I was a king. But your people declared war," remembering that.

"How could we help it, when our poor sailors were snatched from their own vessels and made to fight against us or be beaten to death? Do you suppose we can stand everything? We were altogether in the right, weren't we, Eliza?"

Eliza glanced furtively at the very good-looking face, scarlet with anger and mortification, and wondered how Annis could get in such a temper with him.

"I don't know about the causes of war," she said hesitatingly. "Some people blame Mr. Madison—"

"There are Tories always. I've heard papa tell how many there were in the Revolutionary War. But, you see, we wouldn't have won if we had not had right on our side," she added triumphantly.

"But Napoleon won in a great many battles," Stafford ventured.

"Perhaps he was right then," with emphasis.

This casuistry nonplussed the English boy. If Annis wasn't so sweet and pretty—

Eliza had to say good-by reluctantly.

"Let us go this way," proposed Annis.

"This way" brought them to the defaced and injured Capitol. Annis' scarlet lip curled.

"It is a shame," he acknowledged. "And—if it will do you any good, I'm awfully sorry that I came over to fight. But, you see, we don't understand. So many people think that after all England did for the Colonies, they had no right to rebel, and that she still has some claims—"

"All she did!" exclaimed the fiery censor. "She persecuted the Puritans, and they came over to a horrid wilderness. She took New York away from the Dutch. And she sent shiploads of convicts over to Virginia to be a great trouble to the nice people who had grants of land. And she said we shouldn't trade anywhere—"

"If the heads of government could understand; or if the people could see how fine and heroic and noble the Americans are, I think they would refuse to come over and fight them. I am glad they are going away. And when I get home I shall tell everybody how brave they are, and of the splendid homes they have made. And perhaps if Captain Ralston hadn't stopped to give me a drink and bandage my wound he might have found a better place of refuge. I know my father will be grateful, for I think he saved my life, and came mighty near losing his own. I shall always be glad I didn't really fight. I was struck before I fired my musket. And Dr. Collaston is just like a brother. I like you all so. I shall hate to go away." The words poured out with confused rapidity.

"I hope you will have the courage to tell the truth," she replied severely. "I have heard that some of the English think we are black, like the slaves they brought over to us. And, do you know, they have been stealing them again and carrying them off to the Bermudas. Or they believe we have turned into wild Indians."

"They don't know," he said again weakly.

"Wasn't Mr. Adams over there a long while—and the great Mr. Benjamin Franklin, and Mr. Jay, and ever so many others? We send a minister to them—not a real preacher," in a gracious, explanatory way that made her more fascinating than ever, "but to discuss affairs; so they ought to know whether we are black or white."

"Oh, they do at court! If I could make you understand—" his boyish face full of perplexity.

"I think I do understand when I see Washington in ruins. And I shall be glad when every Englishman goes back. We don't go over to England and burn and destroy."

He had a vague idea there was something to be said for his side, but he did not just know what. It seemed rather ungrateful, too, as he was a pensioner on the hospitality of her brother-in-law. It was extremely mortifying, since his cousin had been intrusted with money for him. So he was silent, but that did not suit the little lady, who enjoyed the warfare like a born soldier.

She was always "saving up" disgraceful incidents she heard, to tell him.

"You are pretty hard on the young fellow," Roger said to her one day. "We must forgive him a good deal for his devotion to Ralston."

"But think how you and doctor brother went out and gathered up the wounded, and there were some British among them as well. He ought to be very grateful."

"I think he is. And he is a nice lad."

Their skirmishes were very amusing to the family. Patty really admired the young fellow, he seemed such a big, innocent-hearted boy; but she enjoyed posting Annis as to her side of the argument.

"Are you going?" Captain Ralston said to Marian as they were making preparations for departure.

"You—you do not need me," she murmured as, holding her hand, he drew her down nearer the pillow.

"I suppose everybody else does," he declared pettishly. "You never considered me. You did not really care—"

There were tears in her eyes as she tried to turn away.

"Perhaps when the others are all dead and gone, and I am an old man, you may remember what you confessed those two blessed days. Or you may recall it over my grave."

"I deserve it all," she returned meekly. "I tried—oh, yes, I did; but I was weak—"

"Is it too late to go back?"

"Come, Polly!" cried Jaqueline. Sukey, the general factotum at the Carringtons', called Marian "Miss Polly." "Can't be boddered wid no sech outlandish name as Miss Ma'yan—dat kinks my tongue up like a bit a 'yalum,'" she declared.

"Polly—you will come to-morrow?"

"Yes—yes," with a scarlet face. "If you want me."

"I want you. I have a great deal to say to you."

But it took many to-morrows to get it all said. There were rough places and doubts, intensified by the experiences Ralston had gone through, and the nervous strain of not only the long illness, but the almost certainty there had been at one time of his losing his leg. That danger was really over, but a great deal of carefulness had to be observed. And few indeed can bring back the sparkle to the cup of youth, when the freshness is no longer there.

Marian grew more girlish, as if the hands of time were running the other way. The force that had impelled her to middle life was removed. She had gained a certain experience, quite different from the man who had been mixing with the world. But what mattered when they came back to the level of love?

Congress held its session at Blodgett's Hotel. It is true there were heated discussions on the terms of peace, contradictions, and dogmatic assertions. Perhaps the meetings at the Octagon House, and the sweet, affable mistress had much to do with softening asperities. Everybody, it seemed, came, and it was conceded that we had gained a good deal in the respect of foreign nations. Commerce took on a brisk aspect. War vessels came into port, and though they did not lay aside all their defenses,—for the high seas were still infested with privateers,—they took on the cargoes of industry instead of munitions of war. It was found now that we had made strides in manufacturing ordinary goods, though women were delighted with the thought of once more procuring silks, satins, velvets, and lace without extraordinary risks.

Eustace Stafford spent much of his time exploring Washington, taking long walks and numerous drives with the doctor. The beautiful Potomac, the towns along its edge, the falls that in a cold spell had just enough ice to make them wonderful and fairy-like, Port Tobacco that had once been a thriving place, the inlets and creeks and the fine and varied Virginia shore, and the magnificent Chesapeake dotted with islands. And there was Annapolis, destined to grow more famous as years went on.

He had not half explored the country when word came from his father, inclosing a draft to bring him home and reimburse the friends who had sheltered him with such cordiality.

"I am sorry enough to leave you," he said with deep emotion. "I feel like becoming an out-and-out American, but I shall never be a soldier."

"Not in case of necessity?" said Patty with charming archness.

"Of course if I had a home here I should defend it to the last drop of blood in my veins—yes, even against my own kindred," and he blushed with a feeling akin to ardent patriotism that surprised himself. "I think we only need to understand each other's governments better to be good friends. There is something grand here. It may be the largeness of everything, and the aspirations, the sense of freedom, and—well, that certain equality. You are not bound about by rigid limits."

Mr. Carrington said Stafford must go to one levee, though that there were such throngs now that it was hardly comfortable. Ralston insisted that he also must pay his respects to Mrs. Madison, for now he could get about on crutches, but it was not considered safe to bear any great weight upon his injured limb as yet.

It was quite a fine scene, Stafford admitted. There was a great variety in dress, the older men keeping to the Continental style largely, with flowing frills to their shirt fronts and lace ruffles at their wrists, velvet smallclothes and silk stockings, and hair tied with a black ribbon or fastened in a small silk bag.

Some of the younger men wore their hair curling over their shoulders. There were gorgeous waistcoats, the upper part flowered satin, and then a finishing of scarlet that came halfway to the knee, the coats turned back and faced with bright colors. Mrs. Madison was resplendent in her red turban, with nodding ostrich plumes, and the row of short black curls across her white forehead, and her gown of cream satin, of so deep a tint as to be almost yellow, with its abundant trimming of scarlet velvet.

Ralston was quite a hero for his misfortunes and his counsels, which had averted some disaster and would have saved much more if they had been followed. Everybody could see the blunders and the supineness that had really invited such a catastrophe. But peace had softened many of the animadversions, and the charming sweetness of the first lady of the land healed many differences. It was true that the two later years of the administration went far toward redeeming the mistakes of the earlier part.

Annis had plead hard to go, but Jaqueline had not thought it best.

"You and Mr. Stafford will be sure to get in a quarrel," she said laughingly. "There will be plenty of levees for you to attend when you are older. And the Octagon House has not the room of the poor burned mansion. It is always crowded."

Then Eustace Stafford said good-by with great grief to the people he had come to fight, and found among them the warmest of friends. He had not been alone in his experience.

Before Congress adjourned a bomb was thrown into the camp. Since Washington was a heap of ruins and would have to be rebuilt, why not remove it to some more advantageous location?

CHAPTER XXI.

ANNIS.

How near the Capital City came to be handed down in history as Old Washington its denizens of to-day will never know. There were many cogent reasons for changing it. It had grown so slowly; it would require an immense amount of money to rebuild it; the place had never taken root in the affections of the whole country.

But, then, it was the city of Washington and the old worthies who had made the country. There was Florida for the southern point, as well as Maine for the north-eastern; there were the great Mississippi and Louisiana, as well as the lake countries. Was it not nearly the center?

Men like Arthur Jettson set about retrieving their fortunes and showing their faith in the place. Mrs. Madison made it as agreeable as possible to foreign ministers and their wives, and guests from the more important cities. Colonel and Mrs. Monroe added to the attractions. The Capitol was repaired slowly, but it was two years before the White House was undertaken.

The scars were all healed long ago. The broad avenues stretch out with handsome residences, and the streets that little Annis thought so funny because they were "like the A B C of the spelling book one way, and the first lesson in the arithmetic the other way," have filled up the vacant spaces with rows of houses. Tiber Creek is no more, and Rock Creek, which rushed and brawled and overflowed its banks in a freshet, is a dull little meandering stream. Where the Lees and Custises held sway and entertained in a princely manner there is a grave, decorous silence and a City of Heroes, who, having done their duty for liberty and country, sleep well under the green turf. Georgetown has enlarged her borders, and is beautiful. Mount Vernon, with its two hundred years of history, is the nation's heritage. Old Washington is almost forgotten, with here and there a relic and a few old maps one can pore over in the grand Congressional Library. And now it is indeed the City of the Nation, with its many treasures, even if they are modern, its handsome legations, its beautiful circles to commemorate the heroes of later times. And Dolly Madison lived to see many of the improvements, and to be the historic link between the old and the new.

As for Annis Mason, she found it undeniably dull when Eustace Stafford had gone. Even knowledge seemed to lose its charm, and the babies grew commonplace. But, then, in the spring Miss Polly and her lover were married and set up a cozy little home of their own, and really wanted Annis in it.

Then Varina came home—a tall, slim girl, quite vivacious and ever so much better tempered than in her youth; and really rather patronized Annis, who was not a year younger, but quite a little girl, not come to trains nor a great pile of hair on the top of her head, and a cascade of puffs in front, and a comb so big it had to be carried in a bag when you went out of an evening.

Then she had a lover, too—a fine young South Carolinian, who had an immense plantation and no end of slaves, and was going into the new industry of raising cotton.

There was a very general demur. Varina was so young, if she was tall. But, then, Southern girls grew up soon, and many of them were wives at fifteen.

"There must be a year's engagement," her father said. Varina must learn how to manage a household; and girls had a good deal of instruction in housewifely arts in those days, even if there was a regiment of slaves to do everything.

"I'll coax off six months," Varina declared to her lover, and he went away with that comfort.

She was surprised and amused at Annis' book-learning, and teased her considerably. Did she mean to be a schoolmistress?

Charles returned in capital health and spirits and full of ambitious plans. He had not quite decided what he would be, either a chief justice or a minister abroad. He was not sure now that he wanted to be President.

"For people do say such dreadful things about you. And you don't seem to suit anyone. I don't wonder Mr. Madison looks old and thin and careworn."

"Do you remember," said Varina laughingly, "that I used to oppose a marriage between you and Annis? I wasn't going to let her have everything. I used to consider that you belonged to me."

"You had a great way of appropriating everybody."

"What a ridiculous thing I was! And now I have made up my mind that you are just suited to each other. You can still sit on the window ledge and pore over the same book."

"Annis is well enough, but I am sure she wouldn't find Latin and Greek interesting. And by the time I want to marry, Annis will be—well, quite an old woman."

"If you don't marry until you are forty-nine she will have turned the half-century. That would be rather old. I shall be a grandmother before that time."

"All you girls think about is getting married," returned the youth disdainfully.

"We think to some purpose, too, don't we? I wouldn't be an old maid for a fortune!"

Annis was not sure she liked the defection on Charles' part. He assumed a rather lofty air. Louis said he was still a prig, that all the nonsense had not been knocked out of him. But he was a very nice boy, for all that—gentlemanly, refined, and extravagantly fond of his stepmother. There were times when Annis felt inclined to jealousy.

He was going to enter college at Williamsburg.

"It ought to make me proud of my own State, as well as the whole country," he explained impressively to Annis. "And then I shall go to Oxford maybe, or some of the old English places that have the years of antiquity back of them, and stand for all that is highest in knowledge, that have romance and story and grandeur woven into their very stones. Cloistered shades! Think how beautiful they must be. And all the riches of Europe at one's command!"

"If you like that kind of riches," disdainfully. "Wars and bloodshed, rapine and cruelty, grasping and persecution—" Annis paused, out of breath from indignation.

"That's like a girl! You can't distinguish between physical and intellectual progress. All nations have begun on the low round. It is the capability of ascending in the scale that gives them the real grandeur."

"I think they have not ascended very much in the scale," returned Annis rather haughtily, the blackened ruins of the beloved Washington and the day and night of terror before her eyes.

"You are not capable of judging. It is what nations have done in the aggregate. A thousand years have witnessed marvels."

"Still, we haven't gone back to 'Solomon in all his glory.' And Job, you know, had the names of the stars, and understood almost everything."

She had been reading the book of Job aloud to her stepfather, who was always interested in the historical parts of the Bible.

"No one has really settled as to who Job was," said the youth with calm superiority.

"Well, the knowledge is all there," returned Annis. "Some day, thousands of years hence, someone may express doubts about Columbus and John Smith and Washington, but the country will be here."

Girls were not made for argument, and if you went on forever they would have the last word, no matter how inane it might be. Charles thought Annis much changed for the worse, just like other girls, because she no longer hung on his words and paid him a loving deference. Her worship had been something new to the boy, for Varina claimed by force, and was the superior power herself. The others simply petted him. Annis understood and appreciated. But he had outgrown the boyish fervor, and she no longer paid homage to him.

He was too young to know that it was simply lack of admiration, and vanity crying out with the wound.

Annis had quaffed the sweets of admiration herself. A nature less fine and wholesome would have been spoiled by the warm and fond approval of her brothers-in-law, and the preference of others she had met. She was coming to have the dawning self-appropriation of womanhood, and no longer offered her choicest gifts, but felt they must be sought with a certain humility. And there was no humility at all about Charles at that period. They were both too near parallel lines.

Yet it was a busy, happy, engrossing time. Varina took possession of Louis, who was developing much of his father's easy-going nature, but with the ambitions of the new generation and the times; then, his associations had been cast on different lines. It was whispered, too, that a friend of Patty's with whom Annis was a great favorite had cast a glamour over the young lawyer.

Annis solaced herself with the thought that Varina would marry and go away, but all the others would be left, and her dearly beloved Washington. Roger said she would do for an archæologist, she was so fond of exploring ruins. She insisted that Marian and Captain Ralston should make pilgrimages to the little old hut where he had so nearly died, and they found many marks of the battle, that if it had been an ignominious rout, still had in it the better part of valor, when the enemy were overwhelming. Baltimore was glorying in her splendid defense of Fort McHenry, and a girl who could not sing "The Star-spangled Banner" was considered half a Tory.

Though Annis was so young, hardly fifteen, she and Varina had so many invitations to Washington that Mr. Mason suggested they should engage board by the month. Varina was making the best of her time, for she had "coaxed off" six months of the engagement, and her lover was to come soon after Christmas. In the spring Louis was to set up a home of his own.

Varina's marriage was in the old home, which was crowded with relatives and guests. Her mother's wedding gown did duty again, and then it went to Jaqueline as an heirloom. Mr. Woodford was tall and really fine-looking, with a good deal of character in his face, and of good family, ten years older than Varina, which brought him to the prime of young manhood.

"Really!" exclaimed Patty, "I do not see what remarkable grace or virtue in Varina captured so substantial and devoted a lover—though she has improved in temper, and is better-looking; but she will never have the Verney beauty—hardly the Mason. Well, one can't explain half the queer happenings in this world."

Besides the cotton, Mr. Woodford had extensive rice fields. Long ago rice had been brought from Madagascar. In both the Carolinas many industries had been established. Seventy years before, General Oglethorpe had carried to England from Georgia eight pounds of silk to be made into a dress for the queen. It was no wonder England hated to lose her promising colonies.

Varina's marriage was extremely satisfactory. Patricia's had been just a little shadowed by Jaqueline's broken engagement, and the half-superstitious feeling that it brought the best luck to the house for the eldest girl to be married first. But Miss Jaqueline had her own true lover after all, and was happy as a queen.

So Varina took her portion and the family blessing, even that of Aunt Catharine, who was growing stout and felt that she had the burden of half the world on her shoulders, and William and Mary College thrown in. She didn't see how anything could go on without her.

Perhaps to feel of use is one of the great incentives to earnest living.

"And you are to come and make me a long visit, Annis," Varina said cordially. "I shall be sorry for you, left all alone here; and I'll write and tell you everything. And there's Dolly, too, who has the gayest of gay times! They are quite certain to nominate Cousin Preston for representative next year. You see we are getting to be rather famous people."

It was very lonely when they all went away. And now Annis had her mother all to herself. No, not all—that could never be again. For now that there were no children whose future must be considered, and Charles had planned out his own, Randolph Mason, who had always been easy-going, dropped into the softened and indolent ways of prosperous elderly life, and became his wife's shadow.

True, his heart was large enough to take in Annis at every step. But he had grown stout, and was not such an enthusiastic horseman, though the yearly races inspired all Virginians to keep some fine horses. He liked the carriage better, with his wife beside him; and then Annis was alone on the back seat. Of course he had the best right, Annis recognized that.

She sewed and did drawn work and made lace, worked embroidery in gold and silver thread, and helped with her "fitting out."

"But if I should never marry?" she said to her mother.

"Girls do, mostly," was the mother's quiet reply. "And your father insists you shall have as much as the other girls."

So there was spinning, and weaving in the loom room, and bleaching to be considered in the spring, as May dew was esteemed a wonderful whitener of linens and cottons, though they were mostly woven in the Eastern towns. Now and then came gossipy notes from Varina. Charles wrote dutiful letters to his mother, and sent love to Annis. But the Washington households were begging for Annis continually.

"Yes, I would go," said her mother. "It is dull for one girl alone here on the plantation."

"Mamma—don't you want me?" There was a lustrousness like tears in her eyes.

"My dear!" Her mother kissed her fondly. "Of course I want you. But I have so many cares and occupations, and father takes a good deal of my time, and you have so few amusements. It is the difference, dear, between young people and old people. I want your young life to be pleasant."

"I wish we lived in Washington. Why can't papa build on Virginia Avenue, and have a nice garden, and keep horses, and—" What else was there for him to do?

"He has become settled in this life. He was born and reared here, and has his friends and neighbors about him. It would make him unhappy to go away. The slaves are all fond of him, and it is his pride to be a good master. No; he couldn't leave everything. It is the young people who go out and settle in new homes. And that is the way the Lord has ordered it. 'For this cause'—that is, love—'shall a man leave father and mother, and cleave unto his wife.' And the wife does the same thing."

"Mamma," with a faint tint of color, "I do not think I shall ever be married."

Her mother gave a soft little smile.

"You know Varina was always planning, and Patty used to say 'When I am married,' but I feel curious, and—alone. Perhaps I shall stay with you and father always," and she gave a tender little sigh. "Would you want an old maid?"

"Perhaps I shall need you to take care of me, as grandma did Marian."

"But I don't want you to die." She clasped her arms about her mother's neck convulsively.

"Dear, that would give us thirty-odd years. And grandmother was not a very old woman. A great many things may happen in that time. I think you are a little out of spirits and lonesome. You had better go up to Jaqueline's to-morrow. Cato and Jim are going up with a load. Cato can escort you, and they can take a portmanteau in the wagon. Captain Ralston complains that you have quite deserted him."

"And desert you!" half reproachfully.

"I shall have papa. Yes, little girlie, you must go and have a nice time. I shall think of all the pleasure you are enjoying. And we may come up for a few days."

"Oh, mamma—if you will! It would be strange to love anyone better than one's own mother."

But such things had been heard of in the history of womankind.

Annis went up to her beloved Washington. Three homes opened their hospitable doors, and Louis took her to see his new house, just above the ruined pile that was full of storied incident already.

"They are sure to rebuild it," he said. "There is a grant being considered. We have had to fight against considerable odds, but we shall keep our own Washington. Forty or fifty years from this I shall be telling my grandchildren how men flew to arms in her defense, whether they were soldiers or not. And though the treaty has omitted some things, we shall take them and keep them. France is our good ally again. And John Quincy Adams has gone to St. Petersburg to make friends of the Russians."

"Oh, that's the man Charles talks about, who went abroad with his father when he was such a little lad, and had such a hard time, and studied and studied, and went to Holland and everywhere."

"And is a fine diplomat. For a young country we have raised a magnificent crop of men! I hope to be chief justice myself some day."

"And not President?"

"I'll leave that for Charles. A chief justice is appointed for life, and stands on his good behavior. Do you think they will be likely to discharge me, Annis?"

"Oh, I know they won't!" laughingly.

The house was being built only to half of the plan. The rest of the ground was to remain a garden until Louis had increased in wealth. But it was very nice, with spacious rooms. Miss Marcia Ellicot was something of an heiress.

Annis found a difficulty in dividing herself around.

"There ought to be two or three of me," she said.

"And you are not to give me the cold shoulder," declared Mrs. Jettson. "I do believe I was the first one to take a real fancy to you; and do you remember how Rene quarreled with you about the babies? Arthur and Floyd are such big boys now."

A new boy had been added to the household. Babies were warmly welcomed in those days.

She liked Marian's quiet home. Captain Ralston was very fond of her. He had discarded his crutches, but still used a cane.

"And what do you think, Annis?" he said, his eyes alight with amusement. "I've had a letter from someone—just guess!"

"You know so many people," returned Annis with a curious heat in her cheeks.

"Someone you know, too. Your old enemy. My good nurse and friend."

"Oh, that—young Englishman who came over here to fight us," she answered with an indifferent air, though she had been certain in her mind when he first told her to guess.

"Yes; Stafford. He is coming over here to settle. He was converted at the Battle of Bladensburg, and is a ranting, tearing, out-and-out American. Why, you never knew a more ardent patriot! He is going to take the oath of allegiance at once, and find something to do, and do it bravely, earnestly. That is the kind of citizens we want. I think he has had something of a time to convince his people, but his father has given him a small sum of money to start him in life—nothing to what it would cost his father if he stayed at home, he says. Strange how these men keep their sons at home, thinking trade disgraceful, when England would swoop up all the commerce of the earth, forgetting what manner of men make commerce possible."

Annis was silent, yet there was a little heart-beat of exultation. Why she could not have told.

"Well—will you bid him welcome and Godspeed?"

"Why, it is nothing to me," with a pretty air of indifference.

She did not see the dainty flush on Marian's cheek, that came in moments of embarrassment, as if she were still sixteen.

"But, then, you have your country's good at heart?"

"I wish the country well," and she made a pretentious courtesy, drawing up her brows.

Marian had read all the letter. It was proud and manly, but a pretty girl had inspired a part of the resolve.

"I shall take him in hand. He is ready for work—if he has a long line of ancestors with titles."

"Yes." Annis gave a provoking laugh. "You know he does not like fighting."

There was pleasure enough to make her forget all about him, but now and then she caught herself wondering.

Jaqueline was quite restored to health and beauty, and was a favorite with society. Roger was certainly a rising man. The undercurrent of political feeling was that Mr. Monroe would succeed his chief, who would be quite as glad to resign his honors and the flood of criticisms as Mr. Jefferson had been. And though the conduct of the war was caviled at, it was admitted on all sides that it had raised the country in the rank of nations.

So Annis flitted back and forth like a dainty bird, that did not forget the home nest. She did her hair high on her head and had a fringe of fascinating little curls; she wore French heels to her slippers, and a train on grand occasions. She was not handsome, as the elder Mason girls had been, not tall or stately, but sweet and pretty, with just enough of the coquette to make her arch and winsome.

One night at an assembly, where naval men were out in force, someone caught her hand in the change of partners. A young officer, a first lieutenant, she saw by his insignia of rank.

"Oh!" he cried, "you have forgotten me, but I remember you. I saw you across the room, but I was engaged for this dance. I was coming immediately after. It was at the naval ball when Ensign Hamilton came in with the flag. What a night it was! And I was Midshipman Yardley, going out on my first cruise. There—the next figure is waiting."

He handed her gallantly to her new partner.

She went back to Jaqueline. "Oh, Roger!" she cried, "do you remember the young midshipman at the naval ball when there was such an excitement? He is here to-night. I have just been dancing with him. There he is, coming hither."

The smiling young fellow was glad to see Mr. and Mrs. Carrington. Annis excused herself from her next partner, she was so eager to hear him talk. Perhaps he would not have lent dignity to the position of an admiral, for he was not tall nor imposing, but bright and eager and full of spirit and ambition. "After all, it has been a glorious war," he declared. He had been in a number of victories, and quite distinguished himself, they heard afterward; and one sad defeat, when he had been taken prisoner with some other men and made a daring escape, landing on the coast of France, and worked and begged his way home. Now he was stationed at Annapolis for some time.

Annis had to go and dance in the middle of the story, and then he begged the honor. Was she staying with her sister? He should be in town a few days. Could he not call on her?

Jaqueline gave him the invitation.

Captain Ralston was eager to see him, as well. There were so many things to talk over. Such wonderful victories, some such sad defeats, many brave men who had given their lives and left imperishable names behind them. How proud the young fellow was of his country!

And they had to tell the story of Washington with the verve that people do who have lived through an event.

They looked at the ruins, they rode up the Potomac, they went again to Bladensburg. Everything was so near, so vivid.

Lieutenant Yardley decided that Annis was the most charming young girl he had ever met.

"I am a little afraid of most women," he admitted. "You can't always tell just what to say, and sometimes when they praise you you feel silly all over. And some women never rouse to patriotism. But we find so much to say to each other. Oh, I wish I were going to stay in Washington a month! Won't you make some of your relatives bring you over to Annapolis? You have such a splendid lot. Only, do you know, I like your own name, Annis Bouvier, better than I do Annis Mason. It just suits you."

She blushed a little. What a pretty way he had of saying Annis!

But alas! the delight came to an end, and for several days Annis thought Washington as dull as the plantation.

"I am afraid my poor fellow won't stand any chance," said Ralston, with a slow shake of the head. "The lieutenant is delightful, certainly quite dangerous enough to turn any girl's brain."

The "poor fellow" reached Washington one morning, having landed at New York, and spent half a lifetime on the post-roads, he declared. They were all a little startled. It seemed as if he must have grown, he was so tall and manly and fine-looking, and so overjoyed to see them again, so happy at the thought of being an American citizen.

"It is as I said when I was here before—the people do not understand each other. When they come to a time that they can work side by side in anything, you will see something grand accomplished. There is a fine, free air over here that inspirits one. You can begin without being hampered by a thousand petty restrictions. And I am going to prove myself a man."

Dr. Collaston and Patty gave him the warmest welcome, quite as cordial as that of Ralston. But it was queer that when he went there Annis had gone to Jaqueline's; and finally Ralston asked her boldly to come to tea and give Eustace Stafford a word of welcome.

"There isn't anything left for me to say," and the rosy lips pouted as if offended. "You have all been so—so extravagant—or is it exuberant?—in your demonstrations, that I shall seem tame. And why should I be so desperately glad? He would have killed you, Philip, or anyone else, if he hadn't been wounded at once. I'd like you to go and thank the soldier who did it."

"You are a briery little body where he is concerned, Annis. Why, peace would never have been signed if both parties had held out as you do! I think it fine in him to come out so frankly and own he was on the wrong side. Even if you have no Indian blood in your veins, you might come and smoke a figurative pipe of peace—that is, drink a cup of tea and wish him well."

"You know I don't like tea. I should think they would have wanted to throw it overboard. Another of England's tyrannies!"

"I thought you had a tender place in your heart for Marian and me."

"Oh, I can come!" she said pettishly. "I am not afraid of your Englishman."

"I began to think you were," teasingly.

And so she came. But when she greeted Mr. Stafford, who had nothing of the boy left about him, but who met her eyes steadily until hers fell, and whose voice had lost the old deprecating, beseeching tone, a sudden half-terror took possession of her, an indefinable fear that made her angry and yet disarmed her. Oh, she was sure she liked Lieutenant Yardley a hundred times better!

Afterward she said she was tired of all the gayeties, and wanted to go home. The plantation was at its loveliest, and there would be such rides with papa, and she was sure her mother was longing to see her.

But when bees once get a taste for the sweetest honey flowers, they haunt the spot. And Annis Bouvier was no longer a little girl. She felt the strange solemn capabilities within her. Sometimes she clung to her mother, as if not daring to meet them. The mother knew what it meant, and gave her the wordless comfort mothers can give, in a kiss or a clasp of the hand, as one crosses the bridge to womanhood.

Neighboring young men began to haunt the house. The Mason girls had always been favorites. And then down came the young Englishman, who resolved not to lose the prize if earnest wooing could avail. They were both so young. True, he had his fortune to make, but some of the noblest Virginian families had sprung from penniless young sons who had come to the new countries and won not only wealth, but fame. Captain Ralston had found a place for him, and he should live in fair sight of everybody. If he did not make the sort of man they could approve, he should never blame them for refusing him their treasure. All he asked for was time and a fair field.

"He has the making of a man in him," the father conceded to himself, but aloud he said—a little weakly: "Annis is too young to decide. In the end it will be as she desires."

"And I can come now and then as a friend?"

"It may make trouble for Annis later on, but I could not refuse," he said to his wife afterward.

Annis came and sat on his knee in the soft Virginian twilight, dusky sooner than that farther north. The whip-poor-wills called to each other, the mocking bird flung out a note now and then as if he said saucily, "Did you think I was asleep?" and the frogs in the marsh were far enough off to send a strain of quivering music. She put her arms about his neck, and her soft warm cheek touched his.

"Were you very cross and stern, papa?" in the most coaxing of tones.

"No, dear. He is a fine fellow."

"But he came to fight against us."

"Yes. It was a great crime."

"He was sent, and he didn't know any better. Some day we shall know a good deal more about each other."

"Annis, do you love him? Child, don't make a mistake! And don't trifle with him."

"No, I don't love him. We quarreled dreadfully at first. I can't help liking and admiring him. He is so strong and earnest. There are a good many grand men in the world, are there not? And some of them have been poor and have had hard times. I didn't want him to think it was because he was poor."

"No, dear," as she waited for some reply.

"And you know I can't help meeting him at Marian's, and Patty likes him so much, too. It would be very disagreeable to be bad friends?"

"Yes," assented the elder.

"So we are going to be just friends until—well, until I am twenty, perhaps."

"Yes—if you will wait until then."

Annis kissed him.

But that was not the end of love affairs. Lieutenant Yardley insisted upon telling his story. He had carried about with him a child's sweet face, and resolved that if he should survive the deadly strife he would come home and find her. He thought his claim far the best. Had he not fought for the country, her country?

She liked him too. It was hard to decide. And then the lieutenant, being rather fiery, went at his rival in a fierce manner. Dueling was still in vogue.

Annis was alarmed. She sent for the big Englishman. It was curious, but she knew she could make him obey her slightest behest, big and strong as he was.

"You are not to quarrel about me," she began with wonderful dignity. "I do not think I shall marry either of you, or anybody. But if there was a dispute, and you did anything reprehensible, I should never, never see you or speak to you again. Lieutenant Yardley is one of the country's heroes, and you—" How should she put it?

"I am here on sufferance, until I earn the right. Yes, I understand."

She flushed scarlet.

"You are bound over to keep the peace."

"Here is my hand in token of it. I shall never do anything to make you sorry or ashamed of me."

"Papa," she said in a plaintive tone a day or two after Stafford's visit, "should you be very sorry if I—were to—stay single—always?"

"Why, no, dear," and he smiled. "Don't you remember, when Louis and Charles used to dispute about you, I said we would marry off the others, and you should stay here with mother and me?"

"I must be very naughty, to have people disputing about me," and she sighed in a delicious sort of manner. "But I have quite resolved that I will not marry anybody."

They all went up to Washington to attend the wedding of the eldest son. There was only one lover present, and Annis was sincerely glad.

There was much going back and forth, as there always is when families branch out and set up new homes. And presently Charles came home, quite a tall boy, but still delicate-looking, and so much improved that Annis insensibly went back to her old regard for him. He was broader-minded, and took a livelier interest in everything.

He soon found that Annis was a great favorite with all the young people. She wasn't as handsome as Jaqueline, nor as bright and overflowing with fun as Patty; indeed, he could not decide what the charm was. He heard about the two real lovers, and met them both. Secretly he favored Stafford and felt sorry for the lieutenant.

One day they were lounging in the old nook by the creek. He was telling over his plans. He was not anxious now to be President, or even a minister abroad, but he was eager for all the knowledge he could grasp, for all the discoveries that were looming up on the horizon. Uncle Conway had advised him to enter an English university after the coming year.

She was in the low swing, which was a tangle of vines now, and he was curled up in the grass at her feet, as they talked over the past and the future. Then there was a long, sweet silence, such as comes nowhere but in country nooks.

"Annis," he exclaimed regretfully, resignedly, "I do not suppose you ever could marry me?"

She started in surprise. "Oh, Charles!" she cried in pain, "I thought that foolishness was at an end."

"Has it been foolishness? Annis, I don't believe you could understand that boyish passion. I don't understand it myself. You fitted into my life. You liked my old heroes. You never laughed or teased me about them. They were my life then. That was the country I always lived in. And it was very sweet to have you. How jealous I was of Louis! Some of the great intellectual heroes have had just such a love. Last summer I was half ashamed of it; I was growing out of childhood. And now I have gone back to it again."

"Oh, Charles, I am so sorry!" There was anguish in her tone. "You see, I am older, and you will have four or five years abroad, and grow and develop as men do—"

"Yes. I couldn't ask so much of you. And maybe, then, we wouldn't suit. Don't you know how the old slave women put pieces of gowns in their best quilts and cherish them because this was young missy's, and this someone else's? And I'd like to be the piece that you'd go back to in memory, and think how sweet the old times were, even when you have a husband, proud and strong, and that you loved devotedly. And how you bade me hope through all that trying time, and gave me your mother when you loved her so, and kept my little secret, for we never can think it was Varina's fault."

She bent over. Their arms were about each other's necks, and both were crying—tender, loving tears.

The ensuing winter in Washington was one long talked about. The President removed to a place forming part of the notable "Seven Buildings," which had been fitted up for its greater spaciousness. It was the last winter of Mrs. Madison's reign, as in March Colonel Monroe was to be inaugurated. There was a great stir and intellectual activity, a broadening of political life; and as we look back it seems as if there were giants in those days. Thither came the hero of the Battle of New Orleans, General Jackson, with his wife, and many another worthy; even curious visitors from abroad, who acknowledged the grace of Mrs. Madison's brilliant hospitality.

Thenceforward it was to be a new Washington, more truly American perhaps, crystallizing around the points that gave strength and dignity, and proving false many an evil prophecy.

A few, very few, of the old places are left. But the Capitol is the nucleus of a great nation, and the White House reared on the old superstructure holds many memories the country will always cherish.