l a great family here together in
Richmond. Why, if you trace it back you'll probably find that every one
of us is blood kin to every other one. Mrs. Markham is a woman of wit
and beauty, and the honour and privilege of which I spoke so jestingly
is a real honour and privilege."

"She is a married woman, my son, and not careful enough of her actions."

Prescott was silent. He felt a marked shyness in discussing such
questions with his mother, but his obstinacy and pride remained even in
her mild presence. A few hours later he put on his cloak and went out in
the twilight, walking swiftly toward the well-kept red brick house of
General Charles Markham. A coloured maid received him and took him into
the parlour, but all was well-ordered and conventional. Mrs. Markham
came in before the maid went out and detained her with small duties
about the room.

Prescott looked around at the apartment and its comfort, even luxury.
Report had not wronged General Markham when it accused him of having a
quarter-master's interest in his own fortunes. It was not her fault that
she became it all wonderfully well, but even as he admired her he
wondered how another would look in the midst of this dusky red luxury;
another with the ease and grace of Mrs. Markham herself, with the same
air of perfect finish, but taller, of more sumptuous build and with a
nobler face. She, too, would move with soundless steps over the dark red
carpet, and were she sitting there before the fire, with the glow of the
coals falling at her feet, the room would need no other presence.

"A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Wise Man," she said.

"My reward should be greater," he said, fibbing without conscience,
"because I was thinking of you."

"In that event we should be starting," she said lightly. "Ben Butler and
the family coach are at the door, and if you deem yourself capable of
it, Sir Knight, I think that I shall let you drive this evening."

"He would be a poor captain who could not guide a vessel with such a
precious cargo," said Prescott gallantly.

"You forget that you are a part of the cargo."

"But I don't count. Again it was you of whom I was thinking."

She settled herself in the phaeton beside him--very close; it could not
be otherwise--and Ben Butler, the Accomack pony, obedient to the will of
Prescott, rattled away through the street. He recalled how long she had
been in reaching the shop by day, and how long also in returning, and
now the sp