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Max was still gloomy and taciturn—his heart lacerated,
his eyes red and heavy with want of sleep. He had been
revolving all through the long wretched hours of the
weary night the events of the day before; and he could
come to but one conclusion, to but one opinion of his
cousin's feelings. She had openly preferred Mr. Emberton
in purchasing her presents—she had manifested
throughout the day her satisfaction at being thrown with
that gentleman instead of with himself, she had consummated
her mortifying neglect and indifference toward
himself by something worse than all. She had made
those sincere and tearful verses he had given her, a jest,
a subject for merriment and laughter, and with whom?
That bitterly detested rival! The young man felt his
heart becoming sour and acrid, and the change forbode
no good to that rival, so successful.

Doctor Courtlandt slipped the note brought by Monsieur
Pantoufle into his pocket, and said with a smile to his
son:

“Good-morning, Max! how goes it to-day.”

“I feel dull, sir.”

“Come, come! cheer up. If you look so badly I shall
never be willing to trust you with the commission I am
about to.”

“What is that, sir?” said the young man, gloomily.

“See this letter.”

Max took it. It bore the New York post mark, and
was directed in a large commercial hand.

“Your books, sir?”

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“Yes, they have arrived, and I am very anxious to get
them on.”

Max made no reply

“I am afraid to trust them to the cars without some
one to take care of them,” continued Doctor Courtlandt.

“Some one, sir?” repeated Max.

“And I can not go myself,” finished the Doctor.

Max raised his heavy eyes to his father and said gloomily:

“You must excuse me, sir; I really can not go. I
am kept here.”

Doctor Courtlandt looked hurt, and was silent.

“I mean, my dear father,” Max said, tremulously,
“that I am not fit for the commission—besides I really
am kept here.”

The Doctor was silent still.

There was nothing so fearful to the young man in the
whole universe as his father's displeasure. And for the
very simple reason that this displeasure was never manifested
harshly, in word or tone, did Max on this occasion
feel an instinctive dread of that obstinate silence with
which the Doctor had met his excuses.

“Could no one else go, sir?” asked he, in a low tone.

“I do not wish you to do what is distasteful to you,
my son,” said the Doctor, turning away.

“Distasteful! oh, sir, I would cut off my hand if you
wished me to. Could you doubt it!”

“I do not ask so much.”

“Father—”

“Enough, my son—if you do not wish to go to New
York—”

“I will go,” murmured Max, “I did not mean to refuse
to go, sir.”

“That is my brave boy,” said the Doctor, cheerfully,
“why the trip will do you good. You are looking a little
pale, and this renders the haste I am in to get my

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valuable library, and the consequent hurry you must be in,
somewhat disagreeable.”

“Are you in haste, sir?”

“To receive them? Yes. They may be damaged
lying in the Custom-house.”

“Command me, sir.”

“Well—then I command you,” replied the Doctor with
his fond smile, and looking with his large tender eyes so
full of majesty and profound affection, at his son, “I
command you to go and pack up your valise to take the
afternoon train—”

“To-day, sir!”

“Have you not time to reach Martinsburg? It is
scarcely nine o'clock.”

Max saw from his father's tone that any further opposition
would be distasteful to him, and with a sound between
a sigh and a moan, he replied:

“Well, sir—I will go to-day then. I ask only a few
moments to write a line which I will trouble you to have
delivered to-day.”

“Certainly—certainly,” said Doctor Courtlandt, “go
at once and write.”

Max went to his chamber and sat down at his writing
desk. That “line” was to be written for the eyes of Mr.
Robert Emberton. After a moment's reflection, during
which his face assumed an expression of coldness and
gloom which would have much afflicted Doctor Courtlandt
had he seen it, the young man wrote as follows:

“Sir—I write to say that I shall be unavoidably absent
from Virginia for a week or more. This explanation
of my sudden departure I am called upon to make after
what passed yesterday. There was no possibility of mistaking
your meaning on that occasion—and I now make
you as ample amends for my departure as I am able to
do, by accepting your challenge in advance. Permit me

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to add that I disapprove of mortal combat on trifling
grounds, and do not on this occasion consent to the meeting
because any person—whether a lady or not—would
ridicule me in the event of my refusal. I believe I should
have enough of independence to meet the eyes of the
whole world and return them their scornful laugh, did I
choose to refuse an encounter of this description. No,
sir; believe me, young as I am, I should never be moved
by such opinion, whether it were the scorn of men, or that
more dreadful thing the contemptuous pity of women.
I meet you willingly because you have placed yourself in
my way, and because I hate you. There is an honest
word—if it is not very Christian.

“I handle the sword well, and for that reason waive the
choice of weapons. The choice lies with yourself. But
all arrangements will necessarily await my return.

Having penned this warlike epistle, the young man
neatly folded it, and sealed it—to omit nothing—with
the old Courtlandt coat of arms, venerable relic of antediluvian
Courtlandts, dead and gone many a day, after
doing many things of a description very similar, and
equally as unchristian as that just performed by their
descendant; then directing it succinctly to “Mr. Robert
Emberton, at the Glades,” he left it lying on his table;
this done, he hastily packed up his traveling valise, took
it under his arm and went down to his father.

Breakfast was a mere ceremony on the part of both
father and son; and, in an hour, Max was pursuing his
way through the deep snow to Martinsburg, there to take
the cars for New York

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