le, though lightly undertaken, was fraught with no
inconsiderable consequences for me. I was duly chided and soundly
whipped by my grandfather for the part I had played; but he was inclined
to pass the matter after that, and set it down to the desire for fighting
common to most boyish natures. And he would have gone no farther than
this had it not been that Mr. Green, of the Maryland Gazette, could not
refrain from printing the story in his paper. That gentleman, being a
stout Whig, took great delight in pointing out that a grandson of Mr.
Carvel was a ringleader in the affair. The story was indeed laughable
enough, and many a barrister's wig nodded over it at the Coffee House
that day. When I came home from school I found Scipio beside my
grandfather's empty seat in the dining-room, and I learned that Mr.
Carvel was in the garden with my Uncle Grafton and the Reverend Bennett
Allen, rector of St. Anne's. I well knew that something out of the
common was in the wind to disturb my grandfather's dinner. Into the
garden I went, and under the black walnut tree I beheld Mr. Carvel pacing
up and down in great unrest, his Gazette in his hand, while on the bench
sat my uncle and the rector of St. Anne's. So occupied was each in his
own thought that my coming was unperceived; and I paused in my steps,
seized suddenly by an instinctive dread, I know not of what. The fear of
Mr. Carvel's displeasure passed from my mind so that I cared not how
soundly he thrashed me, and my heart filled with a yearning, born of the
instant, for that simple and brave old gentleman. For the lad is nearer
to nature than the man, and the animal oft scents a danger the master
cannot see. I read plainly in Mr. Allen's handsome face, flushed red
with wine as it ever was, and in my Uncle Grafton's looks a snare to
which I knew my grandfather was blind. I never rightly understood how
it was that Mr. Carvel was deceived in Mr. Allen; perchance the secret
lay in his bold manner and in the appearance of dignity and piety he wore
as a cloak when on his guard. I caught my breath sharply and took my way
toward them, resolved to make as brave a front as I might. It was my
uncle, whose ear was ever open, that first heard my footstep and turned
upon me.

"Here is Richard, now, father," he said.

I gave him so square a look that he bent his head to the ground. My
grandfather stopped in his pacing and his eye rested upon me, in sorrow
rather than in anger, I thought.