“Pray, how do you propose to prevent it?”

“I’ll call him out.”

Arthur’s laugh rang out mockingly upon the still night air.  “Southern gentlemen accept a challenge only from gentlemen; and as for Travilla, besides being a dead shot, he’s too pious to fight a duel, even with his own class.”

“He’ll meet me in fair fight, or I’ll shoot him down, like a dog, in his tracks.”  The words, spoken in low tone, of concentrated fury, were accompanied with a volley of horrible oaths.

“You’d better not try it!” said Arthur; “you’d be lynched and hung on the nearest tree within an hour.”

“They’d have to catch me first.”

“And they would, they’d set their bloodhounds on your track, and there’d be no escape.  As to the lady having been your fiancee—­she never was; she would not engage herself without my brother’s consent, which you were not able to obtain.  And now you’d better take yourself off out of this neighborhood, after such threats as you’ve made!”

“That means you intend to turn informer, eh?”

“It means nothing of the kind, unless I’m called up as a witness in court; but you can’t prowl about here long without being seen and arrested as a suspicious character, an abolitionist, or some other sort of scoundrel—­which last you know you are,” Arthur could not help adding in a parenthesis.  “So take my advice, and retreat while you can.  Now out o’ the way, if you please, and let me pass.”

Jackson sullenly stood aside, letting go the rein, and Arthur galloped off.

In the meantime, the older members of the family at the Oaks were quietly enjoying themselves in the library, where bright lights, and a cheerful wood-fire snapping and crackling on the hearth, added to the sense of comfort imparted by handsome furniture, books, painting, statuary, rich carpet, soft couches, and easy chairs.

The children had been sent to bed.  Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore sat by the centre table, the one busy with the evening paper, the other sewing, but now and then casting a furtive glance at a distant sofa, where Mr. Travilla and Elsie were seated side by side, conversing in an undertone.

“This is comfort, having you to myself again,” he was saying, as he watched admiringly the delicate fingers busied with a crochet needle, forming bright meshes of scarlet zephyr.  “How I missed you when you were gone! and yet, do you know, I cannot altogether regret the short separation, since otherwise I should have missed my precious budget of letters.”

“Ah,” she said, lifting her merry brown eyes to his face for an instant, then dropping them again, with a charming smile and blush, “do you think that an original idea, or rather that it is original only with yourself?”

“And you are glad to have mine? though not nearly so sweet and fresh as yours.”  How glad he looked as he spoke.

“Ah!” she answered archly, “I’ll not tell you what I have done with them, lest you grow conceited.  But I have a confession to make,” and she laughed lightly.  “Will you absolve me beforehand?”