"No, that is bad; but boys get over their quarrels in time. However, I must go. If I can be of any use to Tom, you know that I am at your service."

"When were you not at everybody's service?" said the doctor, and they went out through the hall.

"Good-bye," said Penhallow, but the doctor stopped him.

"Penhallow, may I take the liberty to bother you with a bit of unasked advice?"

"A liberty, nonsense! What is it?"

"Well, then-let that drunken brute Peter alone. You said that you would not let the carpenter use him, but why not? Then you hoped he would get work. Let him alone."

"McGregor, I have a great charity for a drunkard's son-and the rest you know."

"Yes, too well."

"I try to put myself in his place-with his inheritance-"

"You can't. Nothing is more kind than that in some cases, and nothing more foolish in others or in this-"

"Perhaps. I will think it over, Doctor. Good-bye."

Meanwhile Grace lay in bed thoughtfully considering the situation. While her husband seemed practically inactive in politics, Mrs. Penhallow had been busy, and she had clearly hinted that the roofing of the chapel might depend on how Grace used his large influence in the electoral contest, but had said nothing very definite. He was well aware, however, that in his need for help he had bowed a little in the House of Rimmon. Then he had talked with Rivers and straightened up, and now did the Squire's offer imply any pledge on his own part? While he tried to solve this problem, Penhallow reappeared.

"I forgot something, Grace," he said. "Mrs. Penhallow will send Mrs. Lamb here for a few days, and some-oh, some little luxuries-ice and fresh milk."

The Baptist did not like it. Was this to keep him in the way he had resolved not to go. "Thank you and her," he returned, and then added abruptly, "How are you meaning to vote, Squire?"

"Oh, for Fremont," replied Penhallow, rather puzzled.

"Well, that will be good news in Westways." It was to him, too, and he felt himself free. "Isn't Mrs. Penhallow rather on the other side?"

He had no least idea that the question might be regarded as impertinent. Penhallow said coldly, "My wife and I are rather averse to talking politics. I came back to say that I want you to feel free to make use of my library-just as Rivers does."

"Now that will be good. I am book-starved except for Rivers's help. Thank you." He put out a fat hand and said, "G.o.d has been good to me this day; may He be as kind to you and yours."

The Squire went his way wondering what the deuce the man had to do with Ann Penhallow's politics.

Mrs. Lamb took charge of Grace, and Mrs. Penhallow saw that he was well supplied and gave no further thought to the incorrigible and changeful political views of Westways.

The excitement over the flight of Josiah lessened, and Westways settled down to the ordinary dull routine of a little community dependent on small farmers and the mill-men who boarded at the old tavern or with some of the townspeople.

The forests were rapidly changing colour except where pine and spruce stood darkly green amid the growing magnificence of maple and oak. It was the intermediate season in which were neither winter nor summer sports, and John Penhallow enjoying the pageant of autumn rode daily or took long walks, exploring the woods, missing Leila and giving free wing to a mind which felt the yearning, never to be satisfied, to translate into human speech its bird-song of enjoyment of nature.

On an afternoon in mid-October he saw Mr. Rivers, to his surprise, far away on the bank of the river. Well aware that the clergyman was rarely given to any form of exercise on foot, John was a little surprised when he came upon the tall, stooping, pallid man with what Ann Penhallow called the "eloquent" eyes. He was lying on the bank lazily throwing stones into the river. As John broke through the alders and red willows above him, he turned at the sound and cried, as John jumped down the bank, "Glad to see you, John! I have been trying to settle a question no one can settle to the satisfaction of others or even himself. You might give me your opinion as to who wrote the Epistle to the Hebrews. Origen gave it up, and Philo had a theory about Apollos, and there is Tertullian, that's all any fellow knows; and so now I await your opinion. What n.o.body knows about, anybody's opinion is good about."

John laughed as he said, "I don't think I'll try."

"Did you ever read Hebrews, John? The epistle I mean."

"No."

"Then don't or not yet. The Bible books ought to be read at different ages of a man's life. I could arrange them. Your aunt reads to you or with you, I believe?"

"Yes-Acts just now, sir. She makes it so clear and interesting that it seems as if all might have happened now to some missionaries somewhere."

"That is an art. Some of the Bible stories require such help to make them seem real to modern folk. How does, or how did, Leila take Mrs. Ann's teachings?"

"Oh, Leila," he replied, as he began to pitch pebbles in the little river, "Leila-wriggled. You know, she really can't keep quiet, Mr. Rivers."

"Yes, I know well enough. But did what interested you interest Leila?"

"No-no, indeed, sir. It troubled Aunt Ann because she could not make her see things. Usually at night before bedtime we read some of the Gospels, and then once a week Acts. Every now and then Leila would sit still and ask such queer questions-about people."

"What kind of questions, John?" He was interested and curious.

"Oh, about Peter's mother and-I forget-oh, yes, once-I remember that because aunt did not like it and I really couldn't see why."

"Well, what was it?"

"She wanted to know if Christ's brothers ever were married and if they had children."

"Did she, indeed! Well-well!"

"Aunt Ann asked her why she wanted to know that, and Leila said it was because she was thinking how Christ must have loved them, and maybe that was why He was so fond of little children. Now, I couldn't have thought that."

"Nor I," said Rivers. "She will care more for people-oh, many people-and by and by for things, events and the large aspects of life, but she is as yet undeveloped."

John was clear that he did not want her to like many people, but he was inclined to keep this to himself and merely said, "I don't quite understand."

"No, perhaps I was a little vague. Leila is at the puzzling age. You will find her much altered in a year."

"I won't like that."

"Well, perhaps not. But you too have changed a good deal since you came.

You were a queer young prig."

"I was-I was indeed."

Then they were silent a while. John thought of his mother who had left him to the care of tutors and schools while she led a wandering, unhappy, invalid life. He remembered the Alps and the spas and her fretful care of his very good health, and then the delight of being free and surrounded with all a boy desires, and at last Leila and the wonderful hair on the snow-drift.

"Look at the leaves, John," said Rivers. "What fleets of red and gold!"

"I wonder," said John, "how far they will drift, and if any of them will ever float to the sea. It is a long way."

"Yes," returned Rivers, "and so we too are drifting."

"Oh, no, sir," said John, with the confidence of youth, "we are not drifting, we are sailing-not just like the leaves anywhere the waves take them."