and untrustworthy fellow, and she feared my
boatmen companions were weaning me from her. Whereas I kept away from
the house because the Downeses were there. I couldn't stand so much of
them.

But on this evening I was determined that matters should come to a head.
I saw my way clear, I believed, through Paul's vicious attack upon me,
to rid the house of the Downeses for good and all.

As we came up the hill I saw that my mother, and doubtless Mr. Downes,
were in the drawing room. It was long past the dinner hour. I drove
Paul up onto the veranda and towards a French window that opened into
the illuminated room. He began to hang back again.

"S'pose there's somebody there?" he said.

"That'll be the worse for you," I responded, callously. "Come on!"

I unlatched the window, held aside the draperies, and pushed him into
the room before me. My mother and his father were the only persons
present.

"Why, boys! how late you are," said my pretty mother, looking up from
the lacework in her lap. Her fingers were always busy. "Were you
becalmed outside? You must be awfully hungry. Ring for James, Clinton,
and he will fix you up something nice in the pantry." Then she saw
Paul's bound wrists, his bruised face, and our disarranged clothing.
"What is the matter?" she cried, starting to her feet.

Mr. Downes had observed us too, and he broke in with: "What is the
meaning of this outrage, Clinton Webb? My son's wrists lashed together!
How dare you, sir?"

"I tied him up, Mr. Downes," I explained before Paul could get in a
word; "but I turn him over to your now, sir, and if you wish to release
him you may."

"Why--why--Whoever heard of such insolence?" sputtered Mr. Downes. "You
see, Mary, what this young ruffian has done to poor Paul? Stand still,
will you?" he added, jerking Paul around as he tried to untie the cod
line. Paul began to snivel; I reckon his father pulled the line so tight
that it cut into the flesh.

"See what he has done, Mary?" repeated my angry uncle, finally pulling
out his pocketknife and cutting the cord. "Look at Paul's face! What
have I told you about that boy?" and he pointed a bony and accusing
index finger at me.

"Clinton! Clinton!" cried mother. "What have you done?"

Her question cut me to the quick. It showed me how deeply she had been
impressed by Mr. Downes' calumnies. Her first thought was that I was at
fault--that I had been the aggressor.

"You can see what I have done to him," said