"Very well; I will take care that henceforth you have no opportunity to
do either."

These words--the first in the passionately vibrant tones of my
sister-in-law, and the latter in the deeper and more restrained accents
of an angry man--startled me from my nap. I had been dozing in my
hammock on the front piazza, behind the honeysuckle vine. I had been
faintly aware of a buzz of conversation in the parlor, but had not at
all awakened to its import until these sentences fell, or, I might
rather say, were hurled upon my ear. I presume the young people had
either not seen me lying there,--the Venetian blinds opening from the
parlor windows upon the piazza were partly closed on account of the
heat,--or else in their excitement they had forgotten my proximity.

I felt somewhat concerned. The young man, I had remarked, was proud,
firm, jealous of the point of honor, and, from my observation of him,
quite likely to resent to the bitter end what he deemed a slight or an
injustice. The girl, I knew, was quite as high-spirited as young
Murchison. I feared she was not so just, and hoped she would prove more
yielding. I knew that her affections were strong and enduring, but that
her temperament was capricious, and her sunniest moods easily overcast
by some small cloud of jealousy or pique. I had never imagined, however,
that she was capable of such intensity as was revealed by these few
words of hers. As I say, I felt concerned. I had learned to like
Malcolm Murchison, and had heartily consented to his marriage with my
ward; for it was in that capacity that I had stood for a year or two to
my wife's younger sister, Mabel. The match thus rudely broken off had
promised to be another link binding me to the kindly Southern people
among whom I had not long before taken up my residence.