We discussed the state of trade, and now and then I read aloud bits from the Boston “Packet” of two weeks back, or my mother spoke of their September voyage, and of what would be needed for it, a voyage being looked upon as a serious affair in those times. “I found your doors hospitably open,” said the captain, appearing, “and the servant said I should find you here; so I have taken my welcome for granted, and am come to make my most humble excuses to Mrs. Wynne.” We all rose as he drew near, my mother saying in my ear as he approached, “It is Arthur Wynne. Now, Hugh, take care!” This newly found cousin was, like all of us, tall, but not quite so broad as we other Wynnes. He was of swarthy complexion from long service in the East, and had black hair, not fine, but rather coarse. I noticed a scar on his forehead. He shook hands, using his left hand, because, as I learned, of awkwardness from an old wound. But with his left lie was an expert swordsman, and, like left-handed swordsmen, the more dangerous. “We are glad to see thee, Cousin Wynne,” said my mother. Seeing the marks of my handiwork still on his cheek, I took his greeting with decent cordiality, and said, “Sit down; wilt thon smoke a pipe, Cousin Arthur?” He said he did not smoke, and set himself, with the address of a man used to a greater world than ours, to charm those whom no doubt he considered to be quite simple folk. In a few minutes the unpleasantness of the situation was over. He and my father were at one about politics, and I wisely held my peace. He let fall a discreet sentence or two about the habits of soldiers, and his own regrets, and then said, laughing: “Your son is not quite of your views as a Friend in regard to warfare.” “My son is a hasty young man,” said my father, and I felt my mother’s touch on my arm. Our cousin was in no way upset by this. He said, “No, no, cousin; he is young, but not hasty. I was fitly dealt with. We are hot-blooded people, we Wynnes. The ways of Friends are not our ways of dealing with an injury; and it was more--I wish to say so--it was an insult. He was right.” “There is no such thing as insult in the matter,” said my father. “We may insult the great Master, but it is not for man to resent or punish.” “I fear as to that we shall continue to differ.” He spoke with the utmost deference. “Do you go to Wyncote? I hear you are for England in the autumn.” “No; I shall be too full of business. Wyncote has no great interest for me.” “Indeed? It might perhaps disappoint you--a tumble-down old house, an embarrassed estate. My brother will get but a small income when it falls to him. My father fights cocks and dogs, rides to hounds, and, I grieve to say, drinks hard, like all our Welsh squires.” I was surprised at Ms frank statement. My mother watched him curiously, with those attentive blue eyes, as my father returned; “Of a certainty, thou dost not add to my inducements to visit Wyncote. I should, I fear, be sadly out of place.”