across London pride and none-so-pretty and forget-me-not"--

His daughter smiled, and asked him some idle question about the May-apple
and the Judas-tree. The master of Westover was a treasure house of
sprightly lore. Within ten minutes he had visited Palestine, paid his
compliments to the ancient herbalists, and landed again in his own coach,
to find in his late audience a somewhat _distraite_ daughter and a friend
in a brown study. The coach was lumbering on toward Williamsburgh, and
Haward, with level gaze and hand closed tightly upon his horse's reins,
rode by the window, while the lady, sitting in her corner with downcast
eyes, fingered the dogwood blooms that were not paler than her face.

The Colonel's wits were keen. One glance, a lift of his arched brows, the
merest ghost of a smile, and, dragging the younger man with him, he
plunged into politics. Invective against a refractory House of Burgesses
brought them a quarter of a mile upon their way; the necessity for an act
to encourage adventurers in iron works carried them past a milldam; and
frauds in the customs enabled them to reach a crossroads ordinary, where
the Colonel ordered a halt, and called for a tankard of ale. A slipshod,
blue-eyed Cherry brought it, and spoke her thanks in broad Scotch for the
shilling which the gay Colonel flung tinkling into the measure.

That versatile and considerate gentleman, having had his draught, cried to
the coachman to go on, and was beginning upon the question of the militia,
when Haward, who had dismounted, appeared at the coach door. "I do not
think that I will go on to Williamsburgh with you, sir," he said. "There's
some troublesome business with my overseer that ought not to wait. If I
take this road and the planter's pace, I shall reach Fair View by sunset.
You do not return to Westover this week? Then I shall see you at
Williamsburgh within a day or two. Evelyn, good-day."