“There is no use, in any case, to disturb the harmony of a festive evening, my son; all complaints may well be deferred until the morning, when I shall be ready to hear them,” replied Mr. Middleton, smiling, and never suspecting how serious the offense of Alfred Burghe had been.

“And now,” he continued, turning towards the band, “strike up the music, professor!  The summer evenings are short, and the young people must make the most of this one.  Walter, my son, you are to open the ball with your cousin.”

“Thank you very much, uncle; thank you, Walter, but my hand is engaged for this set to Ishmael Worth; none but the winner of the first prize for me!” said Claudia gayly, veiling the kindness that prompted her to favor the mortified youth under a sportive assumption of vanity.

“Very well, then, where is the hero?” said Mr. Middleton.

But Ishmael had suddenly disappeared, and was nowhere to be found.

“Where is he, Walter?  He was standing by you,” said Claudia.

“I had my arm around him to prevent mischief, and I released him only an instant since; but he seems to have slipped away,” answered Walter, in surprise.

“He has gone after Alfred! and there will be mischief done; and no one could blame Ishmael if there was!” exclaimed Claudia.

“It was young Worth, then, that Burghe assailed?” inquired Mr. Middleton.

“Yes, uncle! and if Mr. Burghe is permitted to come to the house after his conduct this evening, I really shall feel compelled to write to my father, and request him to remove me, for I cannot, indeed, indeed, I cannot expose myself to the shock of hearing such language as he has dared to use in my presence this evening!” said Claudia excitedly.

“Compose yourself, my dear girl; he will not trouble us after this evening; he does not return to school after the vacation; he goes to West Point,” said her uncle.

“And where I hope the discipline will be strict enough to keep him in order!” exclaimed Claudia.

“But now someone must go after Ishmael.  Ring for Jovial, Walter.”

“Father, old Jovial will be too slow.  Had I not better go myself?” asked Walter, seizing his hat.

Mr. Middleton assented, and the young man went out on his quest.

He hunted high and low, but found no trace of Ishmael.  He found, however, what set his mind at ease upon the subject of a collision between the youths; it was the form of Alfred Burghe, stretched at length upon the thick and dewy grass.

“Why do you lie there?  You will take cold.  Get up and go home,” said Walter, pitying his discomfiture and loneliness; for the generous are compassionate even to the evil doer.

Alfred did not condescend to reply.

“Get up, I say; you will take cold,” persisted Walter.

“I don’t care if I do!  I had as lief die as not!  I have no friends! nobody cares for me,” exclaimed the unhappy youth, in the bitterness of spirit common to those who have brought their troubles upon themselves.