Romney avowed his intention of spending the afternoon in his boat on the river. Peggy thought it an excellent plan, and purposed retiring to her room unless Mistress Huntoon had need of her. Mistress Huntoon had _no_ need of her. In fact, in reviewing last night's events she felt that Peggy had treated her son rather badly, and she was inclined to make the culprit feel it, too. It must be admitted that justice is never so unrelenting as when Rhadamanthus has been up overnight. On another occasion excuses might have been found for the girl, but this morning she was pronounced unquestionably vain and presumably heartless,--in short, Elizabeth Huntoon was out of temper. It was not much better with her husband. He was uneasy over the approaching visit of William Claiborne, and annoyed with himself that he had not had the wit to devise an excuse. He knew well Claiborne's insubordinate temper, and had no mind to be drawn into any of his schemes. Peggy alone worked away at her stitching in exasperating content. At length Romney could bear it no longer. He rose, thrust his hands into his pockets and rushed out, opening the door with his head as he went, like a goat butting a wall. Peggy smiled, and the smile brought a frown to the face of her hostess. "Romney is not over well this morning, I fear," said his mother. "I thought he was not behaving well--I mean not behaving as if he were well." "He hath much to try him." "That is hard to believe, in this beautiful home and with thee for a mother." Elizabeth tapped the floor with her slipper. "'Twere well for young men if a mother's love sufficed them." "Ho! ho!" laughed Humphrey, roused from his abstraction by the tilt between the two women. "Faith, good wife, I felt the need of another love than my mother's, and I look not to see Romney more filial than I." "Oh, you may make a jest of me," began Elizabeth, stiffly; but there was a catch in her voice which led Peggy to throw down her netting, and run across the room to kneel beside her. "_I_ need a mother's love more than any," she whispered. Elizabeth's anger weakened. "Tell me where Romney has gone and I will follow and strive to make my peace." For answer Mistress Huntoon pointed through the window to where Romney sat on the edge of the wharf vexing the placid breast of the York River by a volley of pebbles, flipped between his thumb and forefinger. As the boy sat thus idly occupied, his hand full of pebbles, his head full of bitter thoughts, his heart of a curious numbness, he felt a light touch on his shoulder, but he did not turn. "Master Huntoon!" No answer. "Romney!" "Ay." "Of what art thou thinking?" "Nothing." "And what dost thou think of when thou art thinking of nothing?" "A woman's promise." "Hath some woman promised thee aught and failed thee?" "Ay, it comes to the same thing. Eyes may speak promises as well as lips."