y say?"

"He spoke strongly for patience, moderation, peace--I am going to
Lauderdale after supper."

"To see Judith?"

"No. To talk to Fauquier.... Maury Stafford is at Silver Hill." He
straightened himself, put down the ash stick, and rose to his feet. "The
bell will ring directly. I'll go upstairs for a moment."

Margaret Cleave put out a detaining hand. "One moment--Richard, are you
quite, quite sure that she likes Maury Stafford so well?"

"Why should she not like him? He's a likable fellow."

"So are many people. So are you."

Cleave gave a short and wintry laugh. "I? I am only her cousin--rather a
dull cousin, too, who does nothing much in the law, and is not even a
very good farmer! Am I sure? Yes, I am sure enough!" His hand closed on
the back of her chair; the wood shook under the sombre energy of his
grasp. "Did I not see how it was last summer that week I spent at
Greenwood? Was he not always with her?--supple and keen, easy and
strong, with his face like a picture, with all the advantages I did not
have--education, travel, wealth!--Why, Edward told me--and could I not
see for myself? It was in the air of the place--not a servant but knew
he had come a-wooing!"

"But there was no engagement then. Had there been we should have known
it."

"No engagement then, perhaps, but certainly no discouragement! He was
there again in the autumn. He was with her to-day." The chair shook
again. "And this morning Fauquier Cary, talking to me, laughed and said
that Albemarle had set their wedding day!"

His mother sighed. "Oh, I am sorry--sorry!"

"I should never have gone to Greenwood last summer--never have spent
there that unhappy week! Before that it was just a fancy--and then I
must go and let it bite into heart and brain and life--" He dropped his
hand abruptly and turned to the door. "Well, I've got to try now to
think only of the country! God knows, things have come to that pass that
her sons should think only of her! It is winter time, Mother; the birds
aren't mating now--save those two--save those two!"

Upstairs, in his bare, high-ceiled room, his hasty toilet made, he stood
upon the hearth, beside the leaping fire, and looked about him. Of
late--since the summer--everything was clarifying. There was at work
some great solvent making into naught the dross of custom and habitude.
The glass had turned; outlines were clearer than they had been, the
light was strong, and striking from a changed angle. T