The Indian summer night was mild.  It was at tine very height of the festivities that Dorothy Carvel and Mr. Daniel Boone were making their way together to the porch when the giant gate-keeper of Kenilworth Castle came stalking up the steps out of the darkness, brandishing his club in their faces.  Dorothy screamed, and even the doughty Daniel gave back a step.

“Tom Catherwood!  How dare you?  You frightened me nearly to death.”

“I’m sorry, Jinny, indeed I am,” said the giant, repentant, and holding her hand in his.

“Where have you been?” demanded Virginia, a little mollified.  “What makes you so late?”

“I’ve been to a Lincoln meeting,” said honest Tom; “where I heard a very fine speech from a friend of yours.”

Virginia tossed her head.

“You might have been better employed,” said she, and added, with dignity, “I have no friends who speak at Black Republican meetings.”

“How about Judge Whipple?” said Tom.

She stopped.  “Did you mean the Judge?” she asked, over her shoulder.

“No,” said Tom, “I meant—­”

He got no further.  Virginia slipped her arm through Clarence’s, and they went off together to the end of the veranda.  Poor Tom!  He passed on into the gay drawing-room, but the zest had been taken out of his antics for that night.

“Whom did he mean, Jinny?” said Clarence, when they were on the seat under the vines.

“He meant that Yankee, Stephen Brice,” answered Virginia, languidly.  “I am so tired of hearing about him.”

“So am I,” said Clarence, with a fervor by no means false.  “By George, I think he will make a Black Republican out of Tom, if he keeps on.  Puss and Jack have been talking about him all summer, until I am out of patience.  I reckon he has brains.  But suppose he has addressed fifty Lincoln meetings, as they say, is that any reason for making much of him?  I should not have him at Bellegarde.  I am surprised that Mr. Russell allows him in his house.  I can see why Anne likes him.”

“Why?”

“He is on the Brinsmade charity list.”

“He is not on their charity list, nor on any other,” said Virginia, quickly.  “Stephen Brice is the last person who would submit to charity.”

“And you are the last person who I supposed would stand up for him,” cried her cousin, surprised and nettled.

There was an instant’s silence.

“I want to be fair, Max,” she said quietly.  “Pa offered them our Glencoe House last summer at a low price, and they insisted on paying what Mr. Edwards gave five years ago,—­or nothing.  You know that I detest a Yankee as much as you do,” she continued, indignation growing in her voice.  “I did not come out here with you to be insulted.”

With her hand on the rail, she made as if to rise.  Clarence was perforce mollified.

“Don’t go, Jinny,” he said beseechingly.  “I didn’t mean to make you angry—­”