and I smiled grimly to myself,--"I saw how unjustly and harshly we had
always used you, and I made up my mind to be very good to you when next
we met, as some slight recompense."

"And is it for that only you are kind to me, Dorothy?" I asked. "Is it
not a little for my own sake?"

"Hoity-toity," she cried, "an you try me too far, I shall withdraw my
favor altogether, sir. My cheeks burn still when I think what might have
happened at the ball the other night, when you so far forgot yourself as
to grab at me like a wild Indian. 'Twas well I had my wits about me."

"But, indeed, Dorothy," I protested, "'twas all your fault. You had
plagued me beyond endurance."

"I fear you are a very bold young man," she answered pensively, and when
I would have proved the truth of her assertion, sent me packing.

So the week passed, the day came when we were to leave Williamsburg, and
at six o'clock one cool October morning, the great coach of the
Washingtons rolled westward down the sandy street, the maples casting
long shadows across the road. And on the side where Mistress Dorothy sat,
I was riding at the window.




CHAPTER VIII

A RIDE TO WILLIAMSBURG