I believe that it was about three days after this, when he was abroad upon the plantation, on which he spent most of his time, that Madam Constantia and I came again to blows. Time lay heavy on my hands—he may be thankful who has never known the aimless hours and long tedium of the prisoner—and though I had no prospect of forwarding letters, I thought that I would amuse myself by learning to write with my left hand. It was not a thing to be done in a moment, but Mammy Jacks provided the means and I fell to the task in the leisurely way of an invalid, now scrawling a few words in round hand, now looking away to the purple distances that reminded me of our Cheviots on a fine October day, and now lazily watching the blacks who were trooping past, bringing in the last of the cotton. It was sunny, it was warm, and the slaves in their scanty white clothes with baskets on their heads formed a picture new to me. I was gazing at it, pen in hand, when the girl came through the veranda, glanced my way, and in a twinkling descended on me like a whirlwind. She snatched away the paper that lay under my hand and before, taken by surprise, I knew what she was about, she tore it across and across. “Ungrateful!” she cried. “Have you forgotten your parole, sir? Were Colonel Marion here, you would not dare to do this!” “To do what?” I retorted, rising to my feet. I was as angry as she was. “What should I not dare to do?” “What you are doing!” she rejoined, her eyes sparkling and her breast heaving with excitement. “I am learning to write with my left hand. Why not?” “Why not?” she exclaimed. “And what did you promise Colonel Marion?” She pointed to the paper which she had flung on the ground. “What did you undertake on your honor?” “That I would not communicate with my friends,” I answered sternly. “Nothing more!” “And what are you writing?” she cried. But her tone sank by a note, and uncertainty fluttered in her eyes. “That is my business!” I answered. “What is it to you, pray, what I write? Or see!” I stooped, and with difficulty owing to my stiff arm, I recovered one of the scraps of paper. “See! Satisfy yourself. It is but a tag from the book that you lent me.” She took it. “‘Sure such a various creature ne’er was seen!’” she read mechanically, and with a falling face. “‘Sure—’” she stopped. “Is it sufficiently harmless?” I asked ironically. “Is there dishonor in it? At least I can say this—I know of no one here, Miss Wilmer, to whom the words can be applied. From your father I have met with consistent kindness and attention. And from you equally consistent—but I will not define it. I leave you to judge of that.” She was now as angry, I believe, with herself as with me; but she did not see how she could retract and for that reason, whatever the original cause of her attack, she would not own herself in the wrong. “I believe there is such a thing,” she said stubbornly, “as cipher writing.”