may as well own up--I have got something so near heart-sickness here,
that--but never mind--I'll shake it off, or know the reason why. But one
word, James, did you ever think my mother an illiberal woman?"

"Illiberal, Ralph? Your mother!"

"Well, I mean this. Is she a woman to reject beauty and worth, and
everything estimable, because--" James Harrington cut the question short
by laying a hand on his brother's shoulder somewhat heavily.

"Your mother, Ralph, is a woman so much above question in all her
actions and motives, that even these half-doubts in her son are
sacrilegious."

The color rushed up to Ralph's forehead. First he had lost confidence in
Lina--now, in his mother.

"If you have a doubt of your mother, speak it to her," said James more
gently, as he drew on his riding gloves. "After that, I will talk with
you!"

"I wonder what has come over me--James is offended; I never saw him so
grave before," muttered Ralph, as his brother moved down the hall.

"Everything goes wrong. Even Fair-Star started, as if she would spring
at me, when I looked in to see if my mother was up. I will put an end to
this!"

Thus half-passionately, half in thought, he went in search of Lina.

James Harrington mounted his horse and rode away. He wanted the clear
air and freedom of expanse, motion, anything that would distract his
thoughts, and bring back the self-control that had almost departed from
him. He rode at random along the highway leading to the city, down cross
roads and by the shore, sometimes at a sharp gallop, sometimes giving
his well-trained horse the head, till both steed and rider flashed like
an arrow between the stooping branches.

In this wild way he rode, unconscious of his course, and without any
absolute object, save free air and that rapid motion which harmonizes so
well with turbulent feelings. The horse took his own way up hill, along
shore, up hill again, till all at once he came out on a green shelf in
the hills, upon which a single dwelling stood.

He drew up his horse suddenly, for there a little way from the house and
some distance before him, stood two women in eager conversation. One had
her back toward him, but her left hand was in sight, and in it was an
open book, with its leaves fluttering in the wind. The air and dress of
this person reminded him so forcibly of Lina's governess, that he
remained a moment looking earnestly that way; not that her presence on
the hill would have been