"They have been arguing about the right of parliament to tax the
colonies, I believe, my dear, and _over-persuaded_ each other,
that's all. It _is_ odd, Robert, that Mr. Woods should convert
your father."

"No, my dearest mother, it is something even more serious than that."
By this time, the disputants, who sat opposite each other, were fairly
launched into the discussion, again, and heeded nothing that
passed--"No, dearest mother, it is far worse than even _that_.
Pliny, tell my man to brush the hunting-jacket--and, see he has his
breakfast, in good style--he is a grumbling rascal, and will give the
house a bad character, else--you need not come back, until we ring for
you--yes, mother, yes dearest girls, this is a far more serious matter
than you suppose, though it ought not to be mentioned idly, among the
people. God knows now they may take it--and bad news flies swift
enough, of itself."

"Merciful Providence!" exclaimed Mrs. Willoughby-"What _can_ you
mean, my son?"

"I mean, mother, that civil war has actually commenced in the colonies,
and that the people of your blood and race are, in open arms, against
the people of my father's native country--in a word, against me."

"How can that be, Robert? Who would _dare_ to strike a blow
against the king?"

"When men get excited, and their passions are once inflamed, they will
do much, my mother, that they might not dream of, else."