Her lips
were not moving, and no sound came from the little dry throat, but from
the depths of her heart rose the old, old cry of love.
"Lord have mercy on my darling brothers, and keep them safe--let no harm
come to them--and Dick, too--brave and strong!"
The house below was stirring with the rush of hurrying feet in the
corridors and the clatter on the narrow stairs that led to the roof.
They crowded to the edge and gazed seaward. The hum of voices came now
from every house. Women were crying. Some were praying. Men were talking
in low, excited tones.
Jennie paid no attention to the people about her. Her eyes were fixed
on those tongues of flame that circled Sumter.
Anderson was firing now, his big guns flashing their defiant answer to
Beauregard's batteries. Jennie watched the lurid track of his shells
with sickening dread.
A man standing beside her in the gray dawn spoke.
"A waste of ammunition!"
The cannon boomed now with the regular throb of a great human pulse. The
sobs and excited cries and prayers of women had become a part of the
weird scene.
A young mother stood beside Jennie with a baby boy in her arms. He was
delighted with the splendid display and the roar of the guns.
He pointed his fingers to the circling shells and cried:
"'Ook, mamma, 'ook!"
The mother made no answer.
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