n the past centuries of free manners
and easy morals that had prevailed in remote parts of the South, there
must have been many white persons whose origin would not have borne too
microscopic an investigation. Family trees not seldom have a crooked
branch; or, to use a more apposite figure, many a flock has its black
sheep. Being a man of lively imagination, Tryon soon found himself
putting all sorts of hypothetical questions about a matter which he had
already definitely determined. If he had married Rena in ignorance of
her secret, and had learned it afterwards, would he have put her aside?
If, knowing her history, he had nevertheless married her, and she had
subsequently displayed some trait of character that would suggest the
negro, could he have forgotten or forgiven the taint? Could he still
have held her in love and honor? If not, could he have given her the
outward seeming of affection, or could he have been more than coldly
tolerant? He was glad that he had been spared this ordeal. With an
effort he put the whole matter definitely and conclusively aside, as he
had done a hundred times already.

Returning to his home, after an absence of several months in South
Carolina, it was quite apparent to his mother's watchful eye that he
was in serious trouble. He was absent-minded, monosyllabic, sighed
deeply and often, and could not always conceal the traces of secret
tears. For Tryon was young, and possessed of a sensitive soul--a
source of happiness or misery, as the Fates decree. To those thus
dowered, the heights of rapture are accessible, the abysses of despair
yawn threateningly; only the dull monotony of contentment is denied.

Mrs. Tryon vainly sought by every gentle art a woman knows to win her
son's confidence. "What is the matter, George, dear?" she would ask,
stroking his hot brow with her small, cool hand as he sat moodily
nursing his grief. "Tell your mother, George. Who else could comfort
you so well as she?"

"Oh, it's nothing, mother,--nothing at all," he would reply, with a
forced attempt at lightness. "It's only your fond imagination, you best
of mothers."

It was Mrs. Tryon's turn to sigh and shed a clandestine tear. Until
her son had gone away on this trip to South Carolina, he had kept no
secrets from her: his heart had been an open book, of which she knew
every page; now, some painful story was inscribed therein which he
meant she should not read. If she could have abdicated her e