Sir Edward Parkington slept late, the following morning. When he awoke, the sun was high above the Severn, and busy Annapolis was well into another day.

For a while, he lay and watched the golden light as it flickered through the leaves, now here, now there, frisking about on the carpet like a sprite.

"Well, Sir Edward, you are enjoying yourself," he said, with a bit of a smile. "You danced every dance, and you went in to supper with Miss Stirling. Every one, from the Governor down, did his best to entertain you, except that fool Herford, and he is jealous. I compliment you, sir, upon the favorable impression you have made.... But, where the devil, have I seen that fellow Maynadier, before? Somewhere, I am perfectly sure, but where?—where? And I cannot make out whether he recognized only something familiar about me, or whether he did not recognize me at all. At any rate, I hope it was the latter. Herford is one with whom I would best be careful—not for what he knows, but on general principles. He is in love with Miss Stirling, and cannot see she does not care a rap for him. With Maynadier, it is a casual interest, nothing more. He would not cross the street to make sure of her. And, even if he knew I was a masquerader, I question whether he would do more than to warn me out of Maryland. With Herford, it is very different; he would proclaim me, from the State House, as an impostor and a thief—and all because of Mistress Martha Stirling! Well, for that I cannot blame him. She is marvelously pretty, and an arrant flirt. She cares no more for me than she does for Herford; but I can see it, and he cannot. The girl annoys me, too, with her self-complacency; she is so frank withal, and yet so alluring. I do not wonder that she has all the young men, of the town, bound to her chariot's wheels. She has started to bind me.—Good, we shall see who is bound, when the binding cease."

He stretched, and yawned; then arose, dressed himself, and went down to the Coffee-house for breakfast.

"It's a fine day, sir," said Sparrow, as he took his order.

"Now that you draw my attention to it, I observe that it is a very fine day." Then he laughed. "Sparrow, why is it that every innkeeper says the same thing to a guest—a fine day or a nasty day, as the case may be? It is neither informing nor original. Why, the devil, do you not get a new greeting?"

"I don't know, sir—I don't know. It is easy to say, and does not give offense. You are the first, begging your pardon, sir, who ever found fault with it. I used the same in London."

"You come from London?" said Sir Edward, carelessly.

"Three years ago, on Saint Jamina's day last past. I remember I waited on you one night at the Golden Lion."

"Your memory is better than mine," looking at him more closely.

"Like enough—like enough, sir. It is much more natural that I should remember. I dare say, you did not so much as look at me."

Parkington shook his head.

"Who else was in the party?" he said.

"I did not know any of them, sir, you or any of the others. But I knew your face the moment I clapped eyes on it, last evening."

"Oh, I see," breathing easy, again.

His breakfast finished, Sir Edward paid his score, and was escorted to the door by Sparrow, who bowed him out.

For a little while, he watched the people, the tradesmen, mechanics and shopkeepers, who made Church Street and the dock below it the busiest place in America.

This was the business section. All trade was confined within its limits. There was no trespassing on Prince George Street, or King George, or Tabernacle, or Duke of Gloucester, or Charles, or North-East Streets; they were reserved for the aristocracy. The land along them belonged to the Bordleys, the Collohans, the Ogles, and the Lloyds, the Pacas, the Brices and the Taskers, the two Charles Carrolls, the Worthingtons, the Hammonds and the Ridouts. They cared for no intrusion on their privacy; and, on occasion of a rout or ball at their town houses, they roped off the street in which it was located, to keep the common people out.

Presently, Parkington sauntered up Church Street to the Circle, and, attracted by a large placard which was posted on the church, he crossed to read it:

It was a notice by the wardens of the parish.

"All the laws of the Province and the English statutes relating to religious worship, particularly Section 14, Chapter 2, of First Elizabeth, oblige all persons not having a lawful excuse to resort to their parish church or chapel on every Sunday, and on other days ordained to be kept as holy days, and then and there to abide in decent manner during the time of common prayer, preaching or other services of God."

"Rather unusual," said young Mr. Brice's voice, behind him.

"I never saw its like before," said Parkington. "I thought Annapolis was a particularly religious town."

"I guess religion is all right; it is simply the observance of it that has gone to decay. Would not you like to see our Courts in session? Come along."

They cut through School Street and came out on the Public Circle, in the centre of which stood the dilapidated State House.

"This building is a disgrace to the Colony," said Mr. Brice. "It is high time we were getting another."

"We have just as bad in London," said Parkington.

They entered by a hall and went into the court room, opposite to the door of which was the judge's seat, with the full length portrait of Queen Anne, presenting a charter to the City, high above it. Young Brice's father, John Brice, the Chief Justice of the Province, was presiding, in robes of scarlet faced with black velvet, and, as they entered, he was sentencing a man, convicted of manslaughter, to be branded in the hand with the letter M. Immediately after, another was called, who had been convicted of horse stealing, and sentenced to death.

"It seems to me," said Parkington, "that there is no justice in such punishments. There is too much difference in them."

"Horse stealing is a felony;" said Mr. Brice; "and all felonies are punishable with death."

"I know. But why should you hang a man because he stole something? You hang a man for murder, you hang a man for theft; surely, the two crimes do not justify the same punishment."

"I think you are right, and that we will come to it in time. Indeed, I think my father is of the same opinion, though he has no power to change it. Listen to this case; the defendant has plead guilty."

"Mr. Prosecutor," said the judge, "let me have the indictment. John Farrin, stand up. You have plead guilty to as dastardly and cowardly a crime as I have ever known. You have disfigured your wife for life and, possibly, crippled her as well. You have cut off both her ears and one of her toes. I greatly regret that the law is such I cannot inflict adequate punishment upon you. I wish I could send you to prison for ten years. As it is, I will give you the limit. The sentence of the Court is, that you undergo a year's imprisonment, and then to find security for good behavior. Adjourn the Court until two o'clock."

Meanwhile, in the garden of the Governor's residence, Martha Stirling was entertaining visitors. Jane Falconer and Edith Tyler were her particular friends, and they had come over, from their homes on Prince George Street, to discuss the aftermath of the ball, on the previous night.

"Martha," said Miss Falconer, "I do not wonder that Captain Herford was jealous. The way you carried on with Sir Edward Parkington was really scandalous."

"And what was yours, my dear?"

"Mine?"

"Yes, yours," said Miss Stirling; "as I remember, you and Edith were with him just as much as I—or, perhaps, a little less."

Miss Tyler laughed. "A little less!" she said. "He danced with me but once. How many times did he favor you?"

"Oh, two or three."

"Indeed! Six or eight I should say, and nearer the latter than the former."

"That sounds like jealousy."

"Oh, no, it does not!" said Miss Tyler. "I care nothing for Sir Edward, beyond the fact that he is an agreeable partner. Indeed, I do not care enough to flirt with him."

"Nor I," said Miss Falconer.

"Well, girls, I am glad to hear you say so," Miss Stirling observed, "for I intend to flirt with him outrageously."

"Last night, for instance?" said Miss Tyler.

"Last night was only a beginning."

"So far as I observed," said Miss Falconer, "Sir Edward is ready to meet you more than half way."

Miss Stirling laughed. "Such was my observation, too. At the same time, I observed that young Mr. Marbury was exceedingly attentive," looking at Miss Tyler.

"To me, do you mean? Perhaps—but it has gone on so long as not to occasion comment. I am sorry for George—a nice fellow but with impossible parents."

"Who are the Marburys?" said Miss Stirling.

"Nobodies," said Miss Tyler. "So far as I know them, this is their history: Henry Marbury came out from England, as a Redemptioner. They freed him in four years, with the usual allowance of a year's provision of corn, fifty acres of land, a gun, a pistol and ammunition. The land was in the neighborhood of Frederick-Town: there, Marbury went, and his old master supposed that Annapolis had seen the last of him. But Marbury prospered; his fifty acres expanded into two hundred and fifty, and, then, into a thousand, and, then, into five thousand. His personal property grew in proportion; he, himself, possessed Redemptioner and convict servants, by the score. In short, he amassed great wealth. Then, his thoughts turned back to Annapolis; he brought the family here, and installed them in a fine house on Duke of Gloucester Street. Since which time, he has struggled for recognition; while he has not earned it for himself or wife, young George Marbury and his sister Judith are received, and we all like them. They know their parents' limitations but they are not ashamed; to them, they are Marburys, without any claim to social recognition or regard. They have won it for themselves."

"Just as our ancestors won it in the past," observed Miss Falconer. "They may not have been Redemptioners, but that was because there was no one here to buy them."

"Is not that a bit sweeping, Jane?" said Miss Tyler.

"Well, perhaps it is; but I know people in this Colony who forget their ancestors after a few generations."

"And so do I—and, since they wish them forgot, let us forget them."

"It is this about the Marburys—the old people, I mean—which I admire," said Miss Stirling: "they are perfectly natural. They may use some large words improperly, or fracture a canon of good taste, but they are genuine withal. They are not snobs. As for George Marbury and Judith, I have met none in Annapolis who are nicer. Young Mr. Marbury told me, last night, they are considering the entertaining of a large company at a country house, somewhere, which they have bought recently. He seemed a bit timid about it, rather fearful that those he asked might be averse to coming. I promptly said, if he and his sister should ask me, I would come."

"Oh! there will be no trouble on that score—we all will come," said Miss Falconer. "It is Hedgely Hall, over in St. Mary's County. The last Saxton died about two years ago, and it was sold to the Marburys by his executors. It is on the banks of the Patuxent, and as pretty a place as there is in the Colony."

"Exit the Saxtons, enter the Marburys," said Miss Tyler, sententiously.

"Why, Edith!" exclaimed Miss Falconer. "I never imagined you disliked the Marburys."

"And I do not," said Miss Tyler, "I do not; but it grieves me to see the old families dying out and the new ones coming in."

"Which being the case, however, and we unable to prevent it, what do you say to a row on the river?" Miss Stirling broke in.

They went down to the wharf at the foot of the garden. A word to the boat-master, and, presently, the Governor's barge shot out, manned by eight negroes, in the red and gray of his Excellency's colors. Miss Stirling bade the others aboard, and herself took the tiller.

"Straight away!" she ordered.

The blacks bent to their work, while the young ladies settled back among the cushions, under the awning, and gossiped. Presently, when the waves of the Bay began to roll, the barge was put about and headed up the Severn.

They were just opposite the Governor's grounds, when a boat, running with astonishing swiftness, rushed by them, a hundred yards away. It was an Indian canoe, fitted with a keel, two leg o' mutton sails and a jib, and seemed fairly to skim the water.

"George Marbury?" said Miss Stirling.

"It is," said Miss Tyler; "and that boat will be the death of him, yet."

"Wherefore?" asked Miss Stirling. "It seems to me to be uncommonly speedy. I shall ask him to take me in it, sometime."

"If you are in search of death, it were well do so. It is swift—as swift and fast as any craft afloat, and, also, the most dangerous. The ease with which it can capsize is miraculous."

"Then he is handling it marvelously well."

"He handles it as well as any man could possibly do, but that is not enough—it, simply, gives him a little chance. Were he a poor sailor, he would not get twenty feet from the dock. Now, watch him; he is going to tack across our front. Let the wind veer, ever so little, and the chances are.... There, what did I tell you!" as, without a moment's warning, the canoe capsized. "Row for it, boys! row!"

They found Marbury holding to the canoe with one hand, while, with the other, he was endeavoring to support Sir Edward Parkington, who, in the overturning, had been struck on the head and rendered unconscious.

"It is nothing!" Marbury averred, when they were dragged aboard the barge. "Parkington has got a rap on the head, and he shipped a bit too much water, that's all. He will come out of it in a moment, if you women give him a chance—all he wants is air."

"What do you suppose he would have wanted, if we had not been close by when you capsized?" inquired Miss Tyler.

"I am not called upon to suppose," said Marbury, looking up, with a laugh, through his disheveled hair. "I am very well content as it is."

"And you ought to be, sir!" said Miss Falconer, "to take Sir Edward out in such a crazy contraption."

"He said he could swim," Marbury protested. "He offered to lay me five pistoles, he could out-swim me across the Severn."

Just then Sir Edward opened his eyes, stared wildly around, and struggled weakly to arise.

"Where am I?" he gasped; "where am I?"

"In the Governor's barge," said Marbury. "Lie still."

Sir Edward's eyes closed; then, they opened again.

"I remember," he said, more strongly. "We overturned, and something struck me. What are we doing in the Governor's barge?"

"We picked you up," Miss Stirling answered. "We were fortunate enough to be close at hand."

Sir Edward tried to sit up; Martha Stirling sprang forward, and let him rest against her until they reached the wharf. Then, in the arms of two stout boatmen, he was borne ashore and up to the Governor's mansion. Here, he struggled to his feet.

"Put me down!" he said. "I have sufficiently recovered, and am, moreover, in no condition to present myself before his Excellency, or in such company. The ladies will accept, I know, my most grateful thanks and humble service, and permit me to retire, for the time. Wet clothes are most uncomfortable. I will to my lodgings. Mr. Marbury, your arm."