“I have dared to raise my hand against a tyrant,” cried Tom, forgetting caution in his ardor for the cause. “If King George does not know how to govern a free people it’s high time he was learning.” The Tory’s face grew dark with wrath; but before he could speak, a boy, who seemed a few years Tom’s senior, stepped through the doorway. “Just a moment, father,” said he. “Don’t speak while you are angry; it will only create ill blood between relatives, and that should not be.” This was Mark Harwood, the planter’s only son; he was a thick-set youth with a far from prepossessing face, and a sly manner. His father looked at him for a moment, in surprise; he must have seen something in the glance which was directed secretly at him, for he held his peace, though the anger did not die out of his face. Mark Harwood descended the steps, with outstretched hand. “Tom,” said he, with great cordiality in his voice, but a lurking look of craft in his eyes that the other did not like, “I’m very glad to see you.” Tom took the offered hand. “Thank you,” said he. “You are very good, Mark.” “Not at all. But tie up your horse and come in; we must have you join us; as you have seen, we are entertaining some friends, rare good fellows who will be glad to meet you.” “Thank you, Mark, but I think I had best be riding homeward.” “I cannot permit that!” Mark took him by the shoulder in a very friendly fashion and continued, earnestly: “If we were to allow you to go now there would always be a feeling of estrangement between us; you would feel that you were not welcome here, and we should feel that we had, in an angry moment, offended you. Come, don’t let us have a mere matter of politics step in between us.” “I’ll not, Mark.” Tom gripped the other’s hand warmly. Then he turned to the planter. “If in a moment of heat, Mr. Harwood,” he continued, “I answered you unbecomingly, I beg your pardon.” “Say nothing more about it,” said Harwood. Tom tied his horse under the window, as he expected to remain but a few moments; he did not catch the looks that passed between father and son as he did so; if he had he would not, probably, have crossed their doorsill with so light a heart. As he followed them through the wide hallway, which ran directly through the middle of the house and contained an immense fireplace capable of accommodating great back logs that would last for weeks in the coldest winter, Tom happened to glance in at a partly open doorway. He caught sight of a beckoning finger; without hesitation he stepped aside, pushed open the door and entered. In a moment he was eagerly pounced upon by a dark-eyed girl of about his own age, or perhaps a year or so older. “Oh, Tom,” she cried, “I am so glad to see you.” “I thought I’d have to go away without catching a glimpse of you, Laura,” he returned. “And it was to see you, more than anything else, that I came.” She laughed and looked pleased.