her estate, not only as a usurper, but as the representative of the man
who had slain her husband. She never alluded to his existence, and had
always contrived, in her rides and walks, to avoid any point from which
she could obtain so much as a distant view of the square, ugly house
which formed a blot on the fair landscape. She still spoke of the estate
as if it extended to its original boundaries, and ignored absolutely the
very existence of Zephaniah Whitefoot, and all that belonged to him. But
when her son and Jabez grew to man's estate, at about the same period,
they necessarily at times crossed each other's paths; and as in them the
prejudices and enmities of their elders were somewhat softened, they
would, when they met on the road, exchange a passing nod or a brief "Good
morning."

Another generation still, and the boys of the two houses met as friends.
Thanks to his mother's successful rebellion, John Whitefoot grew up a
hearty, healthy boy, with a bright eye, a merry laugh, and a frank, open
bearing.

"One would think," his grandfather remarked angrily one day, as the boy
went out, whistling gaily, to fetch in a young colt Jabez was about to
break, "that John was the son of a malignant, or one of the men of
Charles Stuart, rather than of a God-fearing tiller of the soil."

"So long as he fears God, and walks in the right way, he is none the
worse for that, father," Jabez said stoutly; "and even you would hardly
say that his mother has failed in her teachings in that respect. I do not
know that, so long as one has the words of Scripture in his heart, he is
any the better for having them always on his lips; in other respects, I
regret not that the boy should have a spirit and a fire which I know I
lack myself. Who can say what may yet take place here! The Stuarts are