And he had something now to think about. He was not greatly surprised that Ralph Tryon should seek his life. Knowing the character of the man for all that was cruel and reckless and wicked, and remembering the antagonism that had existed between them from the very first of their acquaintance, he could find nothing surprising in this desire for dire and deadly vengeance. What he wondered at was that the villain should have applied to his mother. How had he dared to broach such a subject to her? Could there be any mistake? Had Donald Rodney been deceived or had he entirely misunderstood? In his heart he was forced to the confession that he had no respect for his mother, or no respect for her character, nor could he esteem her. Oh, if his mother could be but a memory, as was his father, how much of misery might have been spared him! In the name of mother there was something sacred--something that quickened his pulses and elevated his feelings. But in his own case, when he descended from the empty name to the living reality, the sacredness vanished, and a sense of repulsion took the place of calmer feeling. He could not tell what to think--what to fear. He must wait and let time determine. The thought occurred to him of seeking rest at the village. Why should he sleep again beneath the old roof? Would he not be safer at the inn? Would not that be the best and surest way of settling the whole matter? But it would not answer. He could offer no excuse without opening his parent’s eyes to the truth--to the fact of his having received warning. No, he would go on, and make the best of it. He was sustained by a wondrous sense of power. Never in his life had he felt more secure than at that moment, and yet he did not doubt that a severe struggle--a dark ordeal--was before him. Surely, the glory of Cordelia’s love, with all its possibilities for future joy and gladness, had not dawned upon him only to be swallowed up in a dire calamity at the hands of a pirate chief! No, no; he would not, he could not believe it! He walked on and entered the cottage, turning at once into the comfortably furnished living-room as soon as he had deposited his cap and light cloak in the narrow hall. He found the supper-table set, and his mother was evidently awaiting his coming, as he had told her that he would be at home to the evening meal. The kettle was steaming on the crane; the teapot was on the hob; while a pan of newly baked rolls was set up against a flat-iron before the fire to keep warm. “Am I late, mother?” the new-comer asked cheerily. “Not at all, Percy. Supper is all ready: but I have not waited long. I didn’t expect you before.” Never had she spoken more pleasantly, and never had she appeared more kind. Once she really smiled, though there was but little of warmth or light in it. If she had looked him straight in the face; if she had turned to him frankly and trustingly--he would certainly have cast old Donald’s dark suspicions to the winds.