There is everywhere
the tense atmosphere of unusual circumstance, the anxiety and excitement
of war._
_Amelia, a slight, flaxen-haired girl of nineteen, comes in. She brushes
off the hay with which she is covered, and goes to packing a bag with a
secret, but determined, air. The Mother passes the window and appears in
the doorway. She is old and work-worn, but sturdy and stoical. Now she
carries a heavy load of wood, and is weary. She casts a sharp eye at
Amelia._
_Mother:_
What are you doing, girl? [_Amelia starts and puts the bag in the
cupboard._] Who's going away? They haven't sent for Arno?
_Amelia:_
No.
_Mother:_ [_Sighs, and drops her load on the hearth._]
Is the hay all in?
_Amelia:_
Yes. I put in the last load. All the big work on our place is done, and
so--[_Looks at her mother and hesitates. Her mother begins to chop the
wood into kindling._] I'll do that, Mother.
_Mother:_
Let be, girl. It keeps me from worrying. Get a bite to eat. What were
you doing with that bag? Who were you packing it for?
_Amelia:_ [_With downcast eyes._]
Myself.
_Mother:_ [_Anxious._]
What for?
_Amelia:_
Sit down, Mother, and be still while I tell you--
[_Pushes her mother into a chair.
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