would have cured her of such whims."

"What say you to the charge, my pretty sister?" cried the captain gayly;
"did Peyton strive to make you hate your king, more than he
does himself?"

"Peyton Dunwoodie hates no one," said Frances, quickly; then, blushing
at her own ardor, she added immediately, "he loves you, Henry, I know;
for he has told me so again and again."

Young Wharton tapped his sister on the cheek, with a smile, as he asked
her, in an affected whisper, "Did he tell you also that he loved my
little sister Fanny?"

"Nonsense!" said Frances; and the remnants of the supper-table soon
disappeared under her superintendence.




CHAPTER III


'Twas when the fields were swept of Autumn's store,
And growing winds the fading foliage tore
Behind the Lowmon hill, the short-lived light,
Descending slowly, ushered in the night;
When from the noisy town, with mournful look,
His lonely way the meager peddler took.
--WILSON.