d hit me a
hard blow, and she knew it.

"And what does Dorothy think of this arrangement?" I asked, with as great
composure as I could muster.

She smiled with a calm assurance which made my heart sink. "Dorothy would
be a fool not to accept him, for he is one of the most eligible gentlemen
in Virginia. Indeed, perhaps she has already done so, for I gave him
leave to speak to her this morning," and she smiled again as she noted my
trembling hands, which I tried in vain to steady. "You seem much
interested in the matter."

I turned from her without replying,--I could trust myself no further. Not
that I blamed her for hating me,--for she loved her son and I was the
shadow across his path,--but she was pressing me further than I had
counted on. I snatched up my hat as I ran along the hall and out the
great door toward the river. Spring was coming, the trees were shaking
out their foliage, along the river the wild flowers were beginning to
show their tiny faces, but I saw none of these as I broke my way through
the brush along the water's edge,--for perhaps even now he was asking
Dorothy to be his wife, and she was yielding to him. The thought maddened
me,--yet why should she do otherwise? What claim had I upon her? And yet
I had builded such a different future for her and me.

I had walked I know not how long when I came out suddenly upon the road
which wound along the bank and finally dipped to the ferry, and here I
sat down upon a log to think. If Dorothy accepted him, I could no longer
stay at Riverview. I must go away to Williamsburg and seek employment in
the campaign, if only as a ranger. It must soon commence, and surely
they would not refuse me in the ranks. As I sat absorbed in bitter
thought, I heard the sound of hoof beats up the road and saw a horseman
coming. I drew back behind a tree, for I was in no mood to talk to any
one, and gloomily watched him as he drew nearer. There seemed something
strangely familiar about the figure, and in an instant I recognized him.
It was Willoughby Newton. In another moment he had passed, his face a
picture of rage and shame. He was riding away from Riverview in anger,
and as I realized what that meant, I sprang forward with a great cry of
joy. He must have heard me, for he turned in the saddle and shook his
whip at me, and for an instant drew rein as though to stop. But he
thought better of it, for he settled again in the saddle, and was soon
out of sight down the road.