Astonishment was in my face, not chagrin, but she misread me, for the triumph died out in her eyes, and, “Oh!” she said; “I did not mean to win—­truly I did not,” offering her hands in friendly amend.

But at my quick laugh she brightened, still holding my hands, regarding me with curious eyes, brilliant as amethysts.

“I was afraid I had hurt your pride—­before these silly children—­” she began.

“Children!” shouted Ruyven.  “I bet you ten shillings he can outcast you yet!”

“Done!” she flashed, then, all in a breath, smiled adorably and shook her head.  “No, I’ll not bet.  He could win if he chose.  We understand each other, my cousin Ormond and I,” and gave my hands a little friendly shake with both of hers, then dropped them to still Ruyven’s clamor for a wager.

“You little beast!” she said, fiercely; “is it courteous to pit your guests like game-cocks for your pleasure?”

“You did it yourself!” retorted Ruyven, indignantly—­“and entered the pit yourself.”

“For a jest, silly!  There were no bets.  Now frown and vapor and wag your finger—­do!  What do you lack?  I will wrestle you if you wait until I don my buckskins.  No?  A foot-race?—­and I’ll bet you your ten shillings on myself!  Ten to five—­to three—­to one!  No?  Then hush your silly head!”

“Because,” said Ruyven, sullenly, coming up to me, “she can outrun me with her long legs, she gives herself the devil’s own airs and graces.  There’s no living with her, I tell you.  I wish I could go to the war.”

“You’ll have to go when father declares himself,” observed Dorothy, quietly polishing her hatchet on its leather sheath.

“But he won’t declare for King or Congress,” retorted the boy.

“Wait till they start to plague us,” murmured Dorothy.  “Some fine July day cows will be missed, or a barn burned, or a shepherd found scalped.  Then you’ll see which way the coin spins!”

“Which way will it spin?” demanded Ruyven, incredulous yet eager.

“Ask that squirrel yonder,” she said, briefly.

“Thanks; I’ve asked enough of chatterers,” he snapped out, and came to the tree where we were sitting in the shadow on the cool, thick carpet of the grass—­such grass as I had never seen in that fair Southland which I loved.

The younger children gathered shyly about me, their active tongues suddenly silent, as though, all at once, they had taken a sudden alarm to find me there.

The reaction of fatigue was settling over me—­for my journey had been a long one that day—­and I leaned my back against the tree and yawned, raising my hand to hide it.

“I wonder,” I said, “whether anybody here knows if my boxes and servant have arrived from Philadelphia.”

“Your boxes are in the hallway by your bed-chamber,” said Dorothy.  “Your servant went to Johnstown for news of you—­let me see—­I think it was Saturday—­”