once, and induced her to turn to some trifling piece of household duty
to conceal her emotion. These symptoms were not lost upon her son, whose
suspicions and anger had been aroused by the familiarity of Gascoyne.
Making some excuse for leaving the room, towards the conclusion of the
meal, he followed his mother to an outhouse, whither she had gone to
fetch some fresh milk.

"Mother," said Henry, respectfully, yet with an unwonted touch of
sternness in his voice; "there is some mystery connected with this man
Gascoyne that I feel convinced you can clear up--"

"Dear Henry," interrupted the widow, and her cheek grew pale as she
spoke, "do not, I beseech you, press me on this subject. I cannot clear
it up."

"Say you _will_ not, mother," answered Henry, in a tone of
disappointment.

"I would if I dared," continued the widow. "The time may come when I--"

"But why not now," urged the youth, hastily. "I am old enough, surely,
to be trusted. During the four visits this man has paid to us, I have
observed a degree of familiarity on his part which no man has a right to
exhibit towards you; and which, did I not see that you permit it, no
man would _dare_ to show. Why do you allow him to call you 'Mary?' No
one else in the settlement does so."

"He is a very old friend," replied the widow, sadly. "I have known him
from childhood. We were playmates long ago."