The light in the sky had gone out. I looked up at the girl before me as she stood gazing into the flame, her features in strong relief, her lips parted, her hair red-gold, and the rounded outlines of her figure softened. I wondered why I had never before known her beauty. Perchance it was because, until that night, I had never seen her heart. I leaped to my feet and seized her hands. For a second she looked at me, startled. Then she tore them away and ran behind the dipping chair in the corner. “Richard, Richard!” she exclaimed. “Did Dorothy but know!” “Dorothy is occupied with titles,” I said. Patty's lip quivered. And I knew, blundering fool that I was, that I had hurt her. “Oh, you wrong her!” she cried; “believe me when I say that she loves you, and you only, Richard.” “Loves me!” I retorted bitterly,--brutally, I fear. “No. She may have once, long ago. But now her head is turned.” “She loves you now,” answered Patty, earnestly; “and I think ever will, if you but deserve her.” And with that she went away, leaving me to stare after her in perplexity and consternation. CHAPTER XVII. SOUTH RIVER My grandfather's defection from St. Anne's called forth a deal of comment in Annapolis. His Excellency came to remonstrate, but to no avail, and Mr. Carvel denounced the rector in such terms that the Governor was glad to turn the subject. My Uncle Grafton acted with such quickness and force as would have served to lull the sharpest suspicions. He forbid the rector his house, attended the curate's service, and took Philip from his care. It was decided that both my cousin and I were to go to King's College after Christmas. Grafton's conduct greatly pleased my grandfather. “He has behaved very loyally in this matter, Richard.” he said to me. “I grow to reproach myself more every day for the injustice I once did him. He is heaping coals of fire upon my old head. But, faith! I cannot stomach your Aunt Caroline. You do not seem to like your uncle, lad.” I answered that I did not. “It was ever the Carvel way not to forget,” he went on. “Nevertheless, Grafton hath your welfare at heart, I think. His affection for you as his brother's son is great.” O that I had spoken the words that burned my tongue! Christmas fell upon Monday of that year, 1769. There was to be a ball at Upper Marlboro on the Friday before, to which many of us were invited. Though the morning came in with a blinding snowstorm from the north, the first of that winter, about ten of the clock we set out from Annapolis an exceeding merry party, the ladies in four coaches-and-six, the gentlemen and their servants riding at the wheels. We laughed and joked despite the storm, and exchanged signals with the fair ones behind the glasses. But we had scarce got two miles beyond the town gate when a messenger overtook us with a note for Mr. Carvel, writ upon an odd slip of paper, and with great apparent hurry: HONOURED SIR,