of resting upon a person with a positively unhuman coldness; her voice also had at these times a distinctly unhuman quality in its tones.  She had apparently no conception of any necessity of controlling her feelings, or the expression of them.  If she were pleased, if all things went precisely as she liked, if all persons ministered to her pleasure, well and good,—­she would be graciously pleased to smile, and be good-humored.  If she were displeased, if her preferences were not consulted, if her plans were interfered with, woe betide the first person who entered her presence; and still more woe betide the person who was responsible for her annoyance.

As soon as Stephen’s eyes fell on her face, on this occasion, he felt with a sense of almost terror that he had made a fatal mistake, and he knew instantly that it must be much later than he had supposed; but he plunged bravely in, like a man taking a header into a pool he fears he may drown in, and began to give a voluble account of how he had found Mrs. Philbrick sitting on their stone wall, so absorbed in looking at the bright leaves that she had not even seen the house.  He ran on in this strain for some minutes, hoping that his mother’s mood might soften, but in vain.  She listened with the same stony, unresponsive look on her face, never taking the stony, unresponsive eyes from his face; and, as soon as he stopped speaking, she said in an equally stony voice,—­

“Mrs. Philbrick, will you be so good as to take off your bonnet and take tea with us?  It is already long past our tea-hour!”

Mercy sprang to her feet, and said impulsively, “Oh, no, I thank you.  I did not dream that it was so late.  My mother will be anxious about me.  I must go.  I am very sorry I came in.  Good-evening.”

“Good-evening, Mrs. Philbrick,” in the same slow and stony syllables, came from Mrs. White’s lips, and she turned her head away immediately.

Stephen, with his face crimson with mortification, followed Mercy to the door.  In a low voice, he said, “I hope you will be able to make allowances for my mother’s manner.  It is all my fault.  I know that she can never bear to have me late at meals, and I ought never to allow myself to forget the hour.  It is all my fault”

Mercy’s indignation at her reception was too great for her sense of courtesy.

“I don’t think it was your fault at all, Mr. White,” she exclaimed.  “Good-night,” and she was out of sight before Stephen could think of a word to say.

Very slowly he walked back into the sitting-room.  He had seldom been so angry with his mother; but his countenance betrayed no sign of it, and he took his seat opposite her in silence.  Silence, absolute, unconquerable silence, was the armor which Stephen White wore.  It was like those invisible networks of fine chains worn next the skin, in which many men in the olden time passed unscathed through years of battles, and won the reputation of having charmed