“You have got it bad this time,” Peter said, suggesting the doctor, and more quinine and cholagogue, and a dose of Warburg’s Tincture.

The Colonel declined them all.  What he needed was another blanket, and to be let alone.  Peter brought the blanket and left him alone, while he faced this new trouble which bore no resemblance to malaria.  He was just beginning to be more hopeful of the future, and had his plans all laid, and knew what he should do and say, and now this new complication had arisen and brushed his scheme aside.  He had sown the wind and was reaping a cyclone, and he swore to himself, and hardened his heart against the innocent cause of his trouble, and thought once of suicide as he had on the St. John’s the year before.  He spent money, just the same, upon his handsome grounds; but it was only for the pride he had in keeping them up, and not for any pleasure he had in them.  He never picked a flower, or sat on any of the seats under the trees, and, unless the day was very hot, was seldom seen upon his broad piazza, where every day Peter spread rugs and placed chairs because his master liked to see them there, if they were not used.  His library was his favorite place, where he sat for hours reading, smoking, and thinking, no one knew of what, or tried to know, for he was not a man to be easily approached, or questioned as to his business.  If he had malaria it clung to him year after year, while he grew more reserved and silent, and saw less and less of the people.  Proud as Lucifer they called him, and yet, because he was a Crompton, and because of the money he gave so freely when it was asked for, he was not unpopular; and when the town began to grow in importance on account of its fine beach and safe bathing, and a movement was made to change its name from Troutburg to something less plebeian, Crompton was suggested, and met with general approval.  No one was better pleased with the arrangement than the Colonel himself, although he did not smile when the news was brought to him.  He seldom smiled at anything, but there was a kindling light in his eyes, and his voice shook a little as he thanked the committee who waited upon him.  To be known as “Col.  Crompton of Crompton” was exceedingly gratifying to his vanity, and seemed in a way to lift the malarious cloud from him for a time at least.

It was more than three years since Tom Hardy’s letter had thrown him into a chill, and everything as yet was quiet.  Nothing had come from the South derogatory to him, and he had almost made himself believe that this state of things might go on for years, perhaps forever, though that was scarcely possible.  At all events he’d wait till the storm burst, and then meet it somehow.  He was a Crompton and had faith in himself, and the faith was increased by the compliment paid by his townspeople; and as he was not one to receive a favor without returning it, he conceived the idea of giving an immense lawn-party, to which nearly everybody should be invited.  He had shut himself up too much, he thought—­he must mingle more with the people, and build around himself a wall so strong that nothing in the future could quite break it down.