bed, and his unusually high,
straight collar took a knack of falling over. Moreover, he was
frequently seen to ride up the Street Road, in the direction of Fagg's
Manor, towards those valleys where the brick Presbyterian church
displaces the whitewashed Quaker meeting-house.

Had Henry Donnelly not occupied so high a seat, and exercised such
an acknowledged authority in the sect, he might sooner have received
counsel, or proffers of sympathy, as the case might be; but he heard
nothing until the rumors of De Courcy's excursions took a more definite
form.

But one day, Abraham Bradbury, after discussing some Monthly-Meeting
matters, suddenly asked: "Is this true that I hear, Henry,--that thy son
De Courcy keeps company with one of the Alison girls?"

"Who says that?" Henry asked, in a sharp voice.

"Why, it's the common talk! Surely, thee's heard of it before?"

"No!"

Henry set his lips together in a manner which Abraham understood.
Considering that he had fully performed his duty, he said no more.

That evening, Sylvia, who had been gently thrumming to herself at the
window, began singing "Bonnie Peggie Alison." Her father looked at De
Courcy, who caught his glance, then lowered his eyes, and turned to
leave the room.

"Stop, De Courcy," said the former; "I've heard a piece of news about
thee to-day, which I want thee to make clear."

"Shall I go, father?" asked Sylvia.

"No; thee may stay to give De Courcy his memory. I think he is beginning
to need it. I've learned which way he rides on Seventh-day evenings."

"Father, I am old enough to choose my way," said De Courcy.

"But no such ways NOW, boy! Has thee clean forgotten? This was among
the things upon which we agreed, and you all promised to keep watch and
guard over yourselves. I had my misgivings then, but for five years I've
trusted you, and now, when the time of probation is so nearly over--"

He hesitated, and De Courcy, plucking up courage, spoke again. With
a strong effort the young man threw off the yoke of a self-taught
restraint, and asserted his true nature. "Has O'Neil written?" he asked.

"Not yet."

"Then, father," he continued, "I prefer the certainty of my present life
to the uncertainty of the old. I will not dissolve my connection with
the Friends by a shock which might give thee trouble; but I will slowly
work away from them. Notice will be taken of my ways; there will be
family visitations, warnings, and the usual routine of dis