“Thou art a fool, Gainor, to talk such wicked nonsense before this boy. It is not worth an answer. I hear no good of Hugh of late. He hath been a concern to James Pemberton and to my friend, Nicholas Wain, and to me--to me. Thy gambling and idle redcoats are snares to his soul. He has begun to have opinions of his own as to taxes, and concerning the plain duty of non-resistance. As if an idle dog like him had any right to have an opinion at all!” “Tut! tut!” cried Miss Wynne. “I am not idle,” I said, “if I am a dog.” He turned and seized me by the collar. “I will teach thee to answer thy elders.” And with this he shook me violently, and caught up a cane from a chair where he had laid it. And now, once again, that disposition to be merry came over me, and, perfectly passive, I looked up at him and smiled. As I think of it, it was strange in a young fellow of my age. [Illustration: “I WILL TEACH THEE TO ANSWER THY ELDERS” Page 84 Hugh Wynne] [Transcriber’s Note: In the illustration, two men and a woman stand in a room. One of the men is holding a stick over his head; the woman has grabbed his hand at the wrist. The other man looks on.] “Wouldst thou laugh?” he cried. “Has it gone that far?” and he raised his stick. My Aunt Gainor jerked it out of his hand, and, standing, broke it over her knee as if it had been a willow wand. He fell back, crying, “Gainor! Gainor!” “My God! man,” she cried, “are you mad? If I were you I would take some heed to that hot Welsh blood. What would my good Marie say? Why have you not had the sense to make a friend of the boy? He is worth ten of you, and has kept his temper like the gentleman he is.” It was true. I had some queer sense of amusement in the feeling that I really was not angry; neither was I ashamed; but an hour later I was both angry and ashamed. Just now I felt sorry for my father, and shared the humiliation he evidently felt. My aunt turned to her brother, where, having let me go, he stood with set features, looking from her to me, and from me to her. Something in his look disturbed her. “You should be proud of his self-command. Cannot you see that it is your accursed repression and dry, dreary life at home that has put you two apart?” “I have been put to scorn before my son, Gainor Wynne. It is thy evil ways that have brought this about. I have lost my temper and would have struck in anger, when I should have reflected, and, after prayer, chastised this insolence at home.” “I heard no insolence.” “Go away, Hugh, and thou, Gainor. Why dost thou always provoke me? I will hear no more!” “Come, Hugh,” she said; and then: “It seems to me that the boy has had a good lesson in meekness, and as to turning that other cheek.” “Don’t, Aunt Gainor!” said I, interrupting her. “Oh, go!” exclaimed my father. “Go! go, both of you!” “Certainly; but, John, do not mention my news or my London letter.” “I shall not.” “Then by-by! Come, Hugh!” VI