SCENE. _Before the door of the Parsonage. Trunks, boxes, and various articles of furniture, scattered about the yard. Two men coming down the path_.

(_George Grey enters_.)

_George_. Those trunks in the forward team. Make haste. We've no time to lose. This box in the wagon where the children are.--Carefully--carefully, though.

(_A Soldier enters_.)

_Sol_. Hurra, hurra, the house there! Are you ready? Ten minutes more.

_George_. Get out. What do you stand yelling there for? We know all about it.

_Sol_. But your brother, the Captain, says, I must hurry you, or you'll be left behind.

_George_. Tell my brother, the Captain, I'll see to that. We want no more hurrying. We have had enough of that already, and much good it has done us too. Stop, stop,--not that. We must leave those for the Indians to take their tea in.

_Workman_. But the lady said----

_George_. Never mind the lady. Well, Annie, are you ready? Don't stand there crying; there's no use. We may come back here again yet, you know.

Many a pleasant sunrise we may see from these windows yet. Heaven defend us, here is this aunt of ours.--What on earth are they bringing now?

(_A Lady in the door with a couple of portraits, followed by others bringing baskets and boxes, etc_.)

_Lady_. That will do, set them down; now, the Colonel and his lady, on the back room wall, just over against the beaufet. Stop a moment. I'll go with you myself.

_Betty_. (In, the door.) Lord 'a mercy! Here it is broad day-light. What are we waiting for? I am all ready. Why don't we go?

_George_. I tell you, Aunt Rachael, the thing is impossible. This trumpery can't go, and there's the end of it. St. George and the Dragon----

_Miss Rachael_. Never mind this young malapert--do as I bid you.

_Betty_. Lord 'a mercy, we shall all be murdered and scalped, every soul of us. Bless you--there it is in the garret now!--just hold this umberell a minute, Mr. George,--think of those murderous Indians wearing my straw bonnet. Lord bless you! What are you doing? a heaving my umberell over the fence, in that fashion!

_George_. These women will drive me mad I believe. Let that box alone, you rascal. Lay a finger on that trumpery there I say, and you'll find whose orders you are under; as for the Colonel and his lady, they'll get a little drink out of the first puddle we come to, I reckon.

[_Goes out_.

_Miss R_. (_Coming from the house_.) That will do. That is all,--in the green wagon, John----

_Ser't_. But the children----

_Miss R_. Don't stand there, prating to me at a time like this. Make haste, make haste!

How perfectly calm I am! I would never have believed it;--just tie this string for me, child, my hands twitch so strangely,--they say the British are just down in the lane here, with five thousand Indians, Annie.

_Annie_. It is no such thing. Aunt Rachael. The British are quietly encamped on the other side of the river; three miles off at least.

_Miss R_. I thought as much. A pretty hour for us to be turned out of house and home to be sure. Not a wink have I slept this blessed night.

Hark! What o'clock is that? George, George! where is that boy? Just run and tell your mother, Annie, just tell her, my dear, will you, that we shall all be murdered. Maybe she will make haste a little. Well, are they in?

_Ser't_. The pictures? They are in,--yes'm. But Miss Kitty's a crying, and says as how she won't go, and there's the other one too; because, Ma'am, their toes--you see there's the trunk in front gives 'em a leetle slope inward, and then that chest under the seat--If you would just step down and see yourself, Ma'am.

_Miss R_. I desire to be patient.

[_They go out_.

(_Annie sits on the bench of the little Porch, weeping.

Mrs. Gray enters from within_.)

_Annie_. Shall I never walk down that shady path again? Shall I enter those dear rooms no more? There are voices there they cannot hear. From the life of buried years, ten thousand scenes, all vacancy toother eyes, enrich those walls for us; the furniture that money cannot buy, that only the joy and grief of years can purchase. They will spoil our pleasant home,--will they not, mother?

_Mrs. G_. Pleasant, ay, pleasant indeed, has it been to us. G.o.d's will be done. Do not weep, Annie. We have counted the cost;--many a safe and happy home there will be in the days to come, whose light shall spring from this forgotten sorrow. G.o.d's will be done.

_Annie_. Mother, they are all ready now; is Helen in her room still?

_Mrs. G_. Go call her, Annie. Hours ago it was I sent her there. I thought she might get some little sleep ere the summons came. Call her, my child. How deadly pale she was!

[_Annie goes in_.

DIALOGUE III.

SCENE. _A Chamber partly darkened, the morning air steals faintly through the half-open shutters. Helen before the mirror, leaning upon the toilette, her face buried in her hands, her long hair unbound, and flowing on her shoulders_.

(_Annie enters_.)

_Annie_. Helen! Why, Helen, are you asleep there? Come, we are going now. After keeping us on tiptoe for hours, the summons has come at last.

Indeed, there is hardly time for you to dress. Shall I help you?

_Helen_. (_Rising slowly_.) G.o.d help me. Bid my mother come here, Annie.

_Annie_. What ails you, Helen?--there is no time,--you do not understand me,--there is not one moment to be lost. Let me wind up this hair for you.

_Helen_. Let go!--Oh G.o.d----

_Annie_. Helen Grey!

_Helen_. It was a dream,--it was but a foolish dream. It must not be thought of now,--it will never do. Bid my mother come here, I am ready now.

_Annie_. Ready, Helen!--ready?--in that dressing-gown, and your hair--see here,--are you ready, Helen?