he was led or
supported.

But no one spoke of Adriana, and people generally seemed inclined to
avoid Peter; even his intimates only gave him a passing "good-night"
as they went rapidly onward. At length, Peter began to understand. "I
believe they are dumb with envy," he thought, and his thoughts had a
touch of anger. "Of course, it is better to be envied than pitied; but
I wish they did not feel in that way. It is disappointing. Bless my
little Yanna! There are many who would not mind her being behindhand
with God; who cannot bear her to be beforehand with the world. It is
queer, and it is mean; but I'll say nothing about it; a man can't
wrangle with his neighbors, and be at peace with his God at the same
time--and it is only a little cloud--it will soon blow over."

He had scarcely come to this conclusion when he was accosted by an
impertinent busybody, who said some sharp things about Mr. Harry
Filmer's reputation, and the imprudence of Adriana Van Hoosen being
seen driving with the young man.

"Go up to the Filmers' house, and say to them what you have said to
me," answered Peter, and his face was black with anger.

"I was not thinking of the Filmers, Peter. I was thinking of your
daughter."

"You have daughters of your own, William Bogart. Look after them. I
will take care of my Adriana. She was driving with Miss Filmer, and
not with Mr. Filmer; but that does not make a mite of difference. Miss
or Mister, I can trust Adriana Van Hoosen. She is a good girl, thank
God!"

Then still sharper words passed; for the accuser was a peevish,
ill-natured man; and his shrugs, and sneering mouth, as well as his
suspicious words, roused the Old Adam in Peter, and he felt him firing
his tongue and twitching his fingers. Bogart was a younger man than
himself; but Peter knew that he could throttle him like a cur; or
fling him, with one movement of his arm, into the dust of the highway.
Fortunately, however, Bogart's prolixity of evil words gave Peter
pause enough for reflection; and when he spoke again, he had himself
well in hand, though his eyes were flashing and his voice was stern.

"Bogart," he said, "you are a member of the Dutch Reformed Church; and
you have doubtless a Bible somewhere in your house. Go home and read,
'_With the froward, Thou wilt show Thyself forward_.' That is a
dreadful Scripture for an ill-tongued man, Bogart. As for me, I will
not answer you. He shall speak for me, and mine." And with this sens