body to Dinah and Rose.

"One brown hen spotted with white," he read; "one yellow hen, spotted
with brown. A black hen. A duck."

He had never seemed to Winthrop so narrow, so given up to little
details, as now.

On the fourth day Winthrop (perhaps having found pride, in spite of the
dignity it carried with it, rather unfruitful) suddenly resolved to
overpower the dumb opposition, make himself master of this ridiculous
situation--"ridiculous" was his own term for it. Margaret was evidently
determined not to see him alone; after their long acquaintance, and
their relationship (he insisted a good deal upon this rather uncertain
tie), she should not be allowed to treat him in that way; _he_ would not
allow it. Of what, then, was she afraid?

It came across him strongly that he should like to ask her that question
face to face.

He rode down to the house on the point. He found her in the
sitting-room, the blacks coming and going as usual.

"Go away, all of you," he said, authoritatively. "Find some work to do
in another room for half an hour; I wish to speak to your mistress."

Margaret looked up as she heard this imperative command. She did not
contradict it, she could not come to an open conflict with him before
her own servants. He knew this.

Closing the door after the negroes, who, in obedience to the thorough
master's voice which had fallen upon their ears, had shuffled hurriedly
out in a body, Winthrop came over to the writing-table where she was
seated. She had kept on with her writing.

"You don't care any more about that list, about any of these trifling
things, than I do," he began; "why do you pretend to care? And why do
you make it so impossible for me to speak to you? What are you afraid
of?"

She did not answer. And he did not get the satisfaction he had
anticipated from his question, because her face was bent over her paper.

"Why are you going north?" he went on, abruptly.

"I need a change."

"You cannot live all alone in New York."

"I shall not be in New York. And I could easily have a companion."

"Your best companion is Aunt Katrina. I admit that she is selfish; but
she is growing old, and she is ill. Who, after all, is nearer to you?"

"No one is nearer. I have always been alone."

"That is cynical--and it is not true." He paused. "Every one likes you."

"Well they may! When have _I_ been--permitted myself to be disagreeable?
When have _I_ ever failed to be kind? I have always re