“It is my cousin, Arthur Wynne, as thou well knowest. And thou art wicked to mock at an honest gentleman with thy light talk. Thou dost not know the man, this man, my cousin.” “Only a boy would be so foolish or so unfair as to speak thus of one behind his back, and to a woman too, who--” And she paused, confused and angry. I could not tell her what was only suspicion or hearsay as to my cousin’s double statements concerning his father’s estate, or how either she or we were deceived. I had, in fact, lost my head a little, and had gone further than was wise. I would not explain, and I was too vexed to say more than that I would say the same to his face. Then she rejoined softly: “Tell it to me. You are as mysterious as Miss Wynne; and have I not a right to know?” “No,” I said; “not now, at least. Thou mayest tell him if thou wilt.” “If I will, indeed! Every one is against him--you and Mistress Wynne and that impudent boy, Jack Warder, despite his blushes. Oh, he can be bold enough. Isn’t he a dear fellow?” How could one deal with a woman like this? I hesitated, and as I did so, not having ready anything but sad reproaches of her levity, my aunt appeared in the doorway. “Are you two children quarrelling?” she said, in her outspoken way. “You will have time to repent. Here has been your father, sir, to-day, and his affairs in Jamaica are all in a nice pickle, and you and the old clerk are to up and away in the packet for Kingston, and that to-morrow.” “Indeed!” I cried. I was not sorry. “I envy you,” said my lady, as demure as you please. “You will fetch me a feather fan, and come back soon. I hate all those cornets and captains, and now I shall have no one but Jack.” My aunt looked on amused. Her news was true indeed, and with no chance to talk to any one, except to say a mere good-by to Jack, I spent the evening with my father and our head clerk over the business which took me away so hastily. At early morning on a cold day at the close of April, 1774, we were gliding down the Delaware with all sail set. The voyage was long, the winds contrary. I had ample leisure to reflect upon my talk with Darthea. I was sure she must have known she was to me not as other women. Except for the accident of this chance encounter, I might long have waited before finding courage to speak. I had made nothing by it, had scarce had an answer, and should, like enough, have fallen back into the coldness of relation, by which she had so long kept me at a distance. I had been foolish and hasty to speak of my cousin at all; it did but vex her.