undrel, sir. You know well enough I can't cut you out of the estate,
since you are the eldest, so you think to take advantage of me."

"Never fear, sir," cried Tom, his lips white with anger and his eyes
ablaze. "You shall ask me back to Riverview yourself ere I return there;
yes, and beg my wife's pardon for insulting her."

"Then, by God, you'll never return!" snorted his father, and without
waiting to hear more, Tom stalked from the room and from the house. I
think even then his father would have called him back, had the boy given
him the chance, and his face was less red than usual when he heard the
street door slam.

Of course there was a great to-do immediately. Tom's mother interceded
for him, and I doubt not a single word on his part would have won full
pardon from his father, but one was no less stubborn than the other, and
the word was never spoken. When Mistress Patricia heard of the quarrel,
she straightway informed her lover that she would never marry him and
ruin his inheritance, and returned to her home above Charles City, taking
her old reprobate of a father with her, where he died not long
afterwards, perhaps finding life not worth living when there remained no
one who would take his wagers.

At the close of the session, the Stewart coach rolled back to Riverview,
but young Tom did not ride beside it. He remained at Williamsburg, and
managed to pick up a scanty practice as an attorney, for he had read a
little law in want of something better to do, and to fit himself for his
coming honors as a member of the House of Burgesses. And at Riverview his
father moped in his office and about his fields, growing ever more
crabbed and more obstinate, and falling into a rage whenever any one
dared mention Tom's name before him.

It was in the spring of 1734 that Tom Stewart mounted his horse and rode
out of Williamsburg across the Chickahominy, to try his fortune once more
with Patricia Wyeth. The winter had been a hard one for a man brought up
as Tom had been, and that suit of peach-bloom velvet had long since been
converted into bread. Yet still he made a gallant figure when, on the
evening of an April day, he cantered up the road to Patricia's home, and
I dare say the heart of the owner of those bright eyes which peeped out
upon him from an upper window beat faster when they saw him coming. But
it was a very demure little maiden who met him at the great door as he
entered, and gave him her hand to kiss. She