boiling heat, and that, did he once slip the leash of his passions, it
would go hard with Richard Brithwood.

The latter came up to him with clenched fist. "Now mark me, you--you
vagabond!"

Ursula March crossed the room, and caught his arm, her eyes gleaming
fire.

"Cousin, in my presence this gentleman shall be treated as a gentleman.
He was kind to my father."

"Curse your father!"

John's right hand burst free; he clutched the savage by the shoulder.

"Be silent. You had better."

Brithwood shook off the grasp, turned and struck him; that last fatal
insult, which offered from man to man, in those days, could only be
wiped out with blood.

John staggered. For a moment he seemed as if he would have sprung on
his adversary and felled him to the ground--but--he did it not.

Some one whispered,--"He won't fight. He is a Quaker."

"No!" he said, and stood erect; though he was ghastly pale, and his
voice sounded hoarse and strange--"But I am a Christian. I shall not
return blow for blow."

It was a new doctrine; foreign to the practice, if familiar to the ear,
of Christian Norton Bury. No one answered him; all stared at him; one
or two sheered off from him with contemptuous smiles. Then Ursula
March stretched out her friendly hand. John took it, and grew calm in
a moment.

There arose a murmur of "Mr. Brithwood is going."

"Let him go!" Miss March cried, anger still glowing in her eyes.

"Not so--it is not right. I will speak to him. May I?" John softly
unclosed her detaining hand, and went up to Mr. Brithwood. "Sir, there
is no need for you to leave this house--I am leaving it. You and I
shall not meet again if I can help it."

His proud courtesy, his absolute dignity and calmness, completely
overwhelmed his blustering adversary; who gazed open-mouthed, while
John made his adieu to his host and to those he knew. The women
gathered round him--woman's instinct is usually true. Even Lady
Caroline, amid a flutter of regrets, declared she did not believe there
was a man in the universe who would have borne so charmingly such a
"degradation."

At the word Miss March fired up. "Madam," she said, in her impetuous
young voice, "no insult offered to a man can ever degrade him; the only
real degradation is when he degrades himself."

John, passing out at the doorway, caught her words. As he quitted the
room no crowned victor ever wore a look more joyful, more proud.

After a minute we followe