of all her shame and mortification. And lastly she thought of her
father, and began to hate everybody. But above all and through
all, in her vague fears for her father, in her passionate
indignation against the baron, in her fretful impatience of Allan,
one thing was ever dominant and obtrusive; one thing she tried to
put away, but could not,--the handsome, colorless face of Major Van
Zandt, with the red welt of her riding-whip overlying its cold
outlines.


III


The rising wind, which had ridden much faster than Mistress
Thankful, had increased to a gale by the time it reached
Morristown. It swept through the leafless maples, and rattled the
dry bones of the elms. It whistled through the quiet Presbyterian
churchyard, as if trying to arouse the sleepers it had known in
days gone by. It shook the blank, lustreless windows of the
Assembly Rooms over the Freemasons' Tavern, and wrought in their
gusty curtains moving shadows of those amply petticoated dames and
tightly hosed cavaliers who had swung in "Sir Roger," or jigged in
"Money Musk," the night before.

But I fancy it was around the isolated "Ford Mansion," better known
as the "headquarters," that the wind wreaked its grotesque rage.
It howled under its scant eaves, it sang under its bleak porch, it
tweaked the peak of its front gable, it whistled through every
chink and cranny of its square, solid, unpicturesque structure.
Situated on a hillside that descended rapidly to the Whippany