“Friday,” said Ruyven, looking up from the willow wand which he was peeling.

“He never came back,” observed Dorothy.  “Some believe he ran away to Albany, some think the Boston people caught him and impressed him to work on the fort at Stanwix.”

I felt my face growing hot.

“I should like to know,” said I, “who has dared to interfere with my servant.”

“So should I,” said Ruyven, stoutly.  “I’d knock his head off.”  The others stared.  Dorothy, picking a meadow-flower to pieces, smiled quietly, but did not look up.

“What do you think has happened to my black?” I asked, watching her.

“I think Walter Butler’s men caught him and packed him off to Fort Niagara,” she said.

“Why do you believe that?” I asked, angrily.

“Because Mr. Butler came here looking for boat-men; and I know he tried to bribe Cato to go.  Cato told me.”  She turned sharply to the others.  “But mind you say nothing to Sir Lupus of this until I choose to tell him!”

“Have you proof that Mr. Butler was concerned in the disappearance of my servant?” I asked, with an unpleasant softness in my voice.

“No proof,” replied Dorothy, also very softly.

“Then I may not even question him,” I said.

“No, you can do nothing—­now.”

I thought a moment, frowning, then glanced up to find them all intently watching me.

“I should like,” said I, “to have a tub of clean water and fresh clothing, and to sleep for an hour ere I dress to dine with Sir Lupus.  But, first, I should like to see my mare, that she is well bedded and—­”

“I’ll see to her,” said Dorothy, springing to her feet.  “Ruyven, do you tell Cato to wait on Captain Ormond.”  And to Harry and Cecile:  “Bowl on the lawn if you mean to bowl, and not in the hallway, while our cousin is sleeping.”  And to Benny:  “If you tumble or fall into any foolishness, see that you squall no louder than a kitten mewing.  Our cousin means to sleep for a whole hour.”

As I rose, nodding to them gravely, all their shy deference seemed to return; they were no longer a careless, chattering band, crowding at my elbows to pluck my sleeves with, “Oh, Cousin Ormond” this, and “Listen, cousin,” that; but they stood in a covey, close together, a trifle awed at my height, I suppose; and Ruyven and Dorothy conducted me with a new ceremony, each to outvie the other in politeness of language and deportment, calling to my notice details of the scenery in stilted phrases which nigh convulsed me, so that I could scarce control the set gravity of my features.

At the house door they parted company with me, all save Ruyven and Dorothy.  The one marched off to summon Cato; the other stood silent, her head a little on one side, contemplating a spot of sunlight on the dusty floor.

“About young Walter Butler,” she began, absently; “be not too short and sharp with him, cousin.”