lawyer had commended, had secured the young girl’s most withering contempt; and he saw how she contrasted him with her father and Mr. Lane,—­yes, even with little Strahan.  In her bitter words he heard the verdict of the young men with whom he had associated, and of the community.  Throughout the summer he had dwelt apart, wrapped in his own self-sufficiency and fancied superiority.  His views had been of gradual growth, and he had come to regard them as infallible, especially when stamped with the approval of his father’s old friend; but the scathing words, yet ringing in his ears, showed him that brave, conscientious manhood was infinitely more than his wealth and birth.  As if by a revelation from heaven he saw that he had been measuring everything with the little rule of self, and in consequence he had become so mean and small that a generous-hearted girl had shrunk from him in loathing.

Then in bitter anger and resentment he remembered how he was trammelled by his oath to his mother.  It seemed to him that his life was blighted by this pledge and a false education.  There was no path to her side who would love and honor only a man.

At last the mere physical manifestations of passion and excitement began to pass away, and he felt that he was acting almost like one insane as he entered the house.

Mrs. Merwyn met him, but he said, hoarsely, “I cannot talk with you to-night.”

“Willard, be rational.  You are wet through.  You will catch your death in these clothes.”

“Nothing would suit me better, as I feel now;” and he broke away.

He was so haggard when he came down late the next morning that his mother could not have believed such a change possible in so short a time.  “It is going to be more serious than I thought,” was her mental comment as she poured him out a cup of coffee.

It was indeed; for after drinking the coffee in silence, he looked frowningly out of the window for a time; then said abruptly to the waiter, “Leave the room.”

The tone was so stern that the man stole out with a scared look.

“Willard,” began Mrs. Merwyn, with great dignity, “you are acting in a manner unbecoming your birth and breeding.”

Turning from the window, he fixed his eyes on his mother with a look that made her shiver.

At last he asked, in a low, stern voice, “Why did you bind me with that oath?”

“Because I foresaw some unutterable folly such as you are now manifesting.”

“No,” he said, in the same cold, hard tone.  “It was because your cursed Confederacy was more to you than my freedom, than my manhood,—­more to you than I am myself.”

“O Willard!  What ravings!”

“Was my father insane when he quietly insisted on his rights, yielding you yours?  What right had you to cripple my life?”

“I took the only effective means to prevent you from doing just that for yourself.”