The cook and gardener rushed in, hearing the uproar of this battle and separated the combatants, or rather the persecutor and his victim, for Gwynne was helpless under his elder's hailing blows. They were old servants, for the Gwynnes possessed among other ill-assorted traits, a faculty for enlisting the lifelong fidelity and affection of their underlings. "My Lord, Mr. Gwynne, whatever is the matter?" said the cook; she took him on her knee and staunched his bleeding nose with her apron. "Mr. Sam, for shame! You'd oughtn't to hit your little brother." Gwynne would not explain the cause of the quarrel, nor, for that matter, would Sam; he went off whistling harshly. "He said Miss Gwynne was crazy," I volunteered. "It's a lie," blubbered Gwynne. "It's a lie, ain't it, Hannah?" "S-h-h, you mustn't say that naughty word--there now--now," said the cook soothingly, and she and the gardener exchanged a meaning glance. FOOTNOTES: [1] Judge Lewis, whom I have quoted more than once in this history, had a way of saying with prodigious gravity that the Gwynnes as a family were not without some of the weaknesses of genius; a remark which they innocently liked to repeat until Gwynne Peters, the only one of them all who ever discovered the slightest sense of humour, pointed out its ambiguity.--M. S. W. [2] Caroline, poor woman, only died the other day, at nearly ninety, I think; she must have outlived the "last of the Gwynnes" upwards of thirty years.--M. S. W. CHAPTER TWO Mrs. Peters died rather suddenly the spring of the Centennial year. That, or the fact that hers was the first funeral I ever went to, has served to fix the date in my memory. Gwynne, who would be seventeen his next birthday, came home from college; Sam came home too, of course, but not from college. He never showed much aptitude for learning, nor stayed longer than six months in any of the numerous schools to which he was sent one after another. At the time of his mother's death he was away on a fishing-trip in Canada, they said. The boys came home, there was a gathering of the Gwynne clan; that sombre south parlour, dedicated to such ceremonies, was once more opened, the white covers came off the chairs, revealing them stark and stiff bluish rosewood and black horsehair. Otherwise the house seemed nowise different; it was never a cheerful place. We drove out to the funeral with Mrs. Oldham, who could not afford either to own or hire a carriage herself, and was always benevolently remembered by her friends on these occasions. In spite of, or it may be, because of a gift she had of rich and spicy talk, Mrs. Oldham was one of the people whom no one ever forgets or overlooks.