George listened aghast as his father proceeded complacently, and with a touch of enthusiasm rarely indulged. He was sitting by an open window, at some distance from Mr. Houghton, the darkness concealing his face. He now began to realize the truth of Mrs. Willoughby's belief and Bodine's conviction, that he might find as much trouble at home as elsewhere. It quickly became clear to him that he must reveal the truth at once, but how to set about it he scarcely knew, and he hesitated like one on the brink of icy water. What he considered a bright thought struck him, and he said, "Speaking of marrying, you never told me how you came to marry mother." "Oh!" replied the old man dreamily, "I was almost brought up to marry her. She was the daughter of a near neighbor and dear friend of my father's. Your mother and I played together as children. I scarcely think we knew when our mutual affection changed into love--it all came about so gradually and naturally--and the union gave the deepest satisfaction to both families. Ah! George, George, your brother's death shortened the life of your mother, and left me very sad and lonely. I can never forgive this people for the irreparable injuries they have done to me and mine. I know you cannot feel as I do; but love of country and your affection for me should lead you to stand aloof from those who are still animated by the old, diabolical spirit which caused the death of such brave fellows as your brother, and broke the hearts of such women as your mother." His son's distress was so deep that he buried his face in his hands. "I don't wonder that your feelings are touched by my reminiscences, George," and the old man wiped tears from his own eyes. "Oh, father!" cried the son, springing up, and placing his hand on the old man's shoulder, "I'm going to test your love for me severely. You are right in saying I cannot feel as you do. I did not know that you felt so strongly. I've given my love to a Southern girl." Moments of oppressive silence followed this announcement, and the old man's face grew stern and rigid. "Father, listen patiently," George began. "She is not to blame for the past, nor am I. If you only knew how good and noble and lovely she is--" "Who is she? What is her name?" "Ella Bodine." "What! A relative of that double-dyed rebel in my office?" "His daughter." "George Houghton!" and his father sprang up, and confronted his son with a visage distorted by anger. Never had the youth called forth a look like that, and he trembled before the passion he had evoked. "Father," he said entreatingly, "sit down. Do not look at me so, do not speak to me till you are calm. Remember I am your son."