That evening, Sylvia, who had been gently thrumming to herself at
the window, began singing "Bonnie Peggie Alison." Her father
looked at De Courcy, who caught his glance, then lowered his eyes,
and turned to leave the room.

"Stop, De Courcy," said the former; "I've heard a piece of news
about thee to-day, which I want thee to make clear."

"Shall I go, father?" asked Sylvia.

"No; thee may stay to give De Courcy his memory. I think he is
beginning to need it. I've learned which way he rides on Seventh-
day evenings."

"Father, I am old enough to choose my way," said De Courcy.

"But no such ways NOW, boy! Has thee clean forgotten? This was
among the things upon which we agreed, and you all promised to keep
watch and guard over yourselves. I had my misgivings then, but for
five years I've trusted you, and now, when the time of probation is
so nearly over--"

He hesitated, and De Courcy, plucking up courage, spoke again.
With a strong effort the young man threw off the yoke of a
self-taught restraint, and asserted his true nature. "Has O'Neil
written?" he asked.

"Not yet."