"You don't mean me to believe you overheard our talk in the library, with the door closed and the curtain across it." Her acuteness of hearing often puzzled him, and he had always to ask for proof.

She nodded gay a.s.surance, and said again, ceasing to knit, "I overheard too much-oh, not all-bits-enough to trouble me. I moved away so as not to hear. All I care to know is how to be of real service to a friend to whom we owe so much."

"I want you-in fact, Mark wants you-to hear in full what you know in part."

"Well, James, I have very little curiosity about the details of the misfortunes of my friends unless to know is to obtain means of helpfulness."

"You won't get any here, I fear, but as he has been often strange and depressed and, as he says, unresponsive to your kindness, he does want you now to see what cause there was."

"Very well, if he wants it. I see you have a letter."

"Yes, I kept it. It was marked strictly confidential-I hate that-" She smiled as he added, "It seems to imply the possibility of indiscretion on my part."

"Oh, James! Oh, you dear man!" and she laughed outright, liking to tease where she deeply loved, knowing him through and through, as he never could know her. Then she saw that he was not in the mood for jesting with an edge to it; nor was she. "At all events, you did not let me see that letter-now I am to see it."

"Yes, you are to see it. You might at any time have seen it."

"Yes, read it to me."

"When our good Bishop sent Mark Rivers here to us, he wrote me this letter-"

"Well, go on."

"MY DEAR SIR: I send you the one of my young clergy with whom I am the most reluctant to part. You will soon learn why, and learning will be thankful. But to make clear to you why I urge him-in fact, order him to go-requires a word of explanation. He is now only twenty-six years of age but looks older. He married young and not wisely a woman who lived a childlike dissatisfied life, and died after two years. One of his brothers died an epileptic; the other, a promising lawyer, became insane and killed himself. This so affected their widowed mother that she fell into a speechless melancholy and has ever since been in the care of nurses in a farmer's family-a hopeless case. I became of late alarmed at his increasing depression and evident failure in bodily strength. He was advised to take a small country parish, and so I send him to you and my friend, Mrs. Penhallow, sure that he will give as much as he gets. I need not say more. He is well worth saving-one of G.o.d's best-with too exacting a conscience-learned, eloquent and earnest, and to end, a gentleman."

"There is a lot more about Indian missions, which I think are hopeless, but I sent him a cheque, of course."

"I supposed, James, that his depression was owing to his want of vigorous health. Now I see, but how very sorrowful it is! What else is there? I did not mean to listen, but something was said about his mother."

"Yes. He has spent with her a large part of every August-he called it his holiday. My G.o.d, Ann! Poor fellow! This August she died. It must be a relief."

"Perhaps."

"Oh, surely. This is all, Ann."

"I wish you had been less discreet long ago, James. I think that the Bishop knowing how sensitive, how very reticent Mark is, meant only that he should not learn what was confided to you."

"I never thought of that, Ann. You may be right."

She made no further comment, except to say, "But to know clears the air and leaves me free to talk to him at need." Penhallow felt that where he himself might be a useless confessor, his wife was surely to be trusted.

"If, Ann, the man could only be got on to the back of a horse-" She won the desirable relief of laughter, and the eyes that were full of the tears of pity for this disastrous life overflowed of a sudden with mirth at the Squire's one remedy for the troubles of this earthly existence.

"Oh, I am in earnest," he said. "Now I must write to John."

When after a week or more she did talk to Mark Rivers, he was the better for it and felt free to speak to her as a younger man may to an older woman and can rarely do to the closest of male friends, for, after all, most friendships have their personal limitations and the man who has not both men and women friends may at some time miss what the double intimacies alone can give.

The uneasy sense of something lost was more felt than mentioned that fall at Grey Pine, where quick feet on the stair and the sound of young laughter were no longer heard. Rivers saw too how distinctly the village folk missed these gay young people. Mrs. Crocker, of the shop where everything was to be bought, bewailed herself to Rivers, who was the receiver of all manner of woes. "Mrs. Penhallow is getting to be so particular no one knows where to find her. You would never think it, sir, but she says my tea is not fit to drink, and she is going to get her sugar from Philadelphia. It's awful! She says it isn't as sweet as it used to be-as if sugar wasn't always the same-"

"Which it isn't," laughed Rivers.

"And my tea!-Then here comes in the Squire to get a dog-collar, and roars to my poor deaf Job, 'that last tea was the best we have ever had. Send five pounds to Dr. McGregor from me-charge it to me-and a pound to Mrs. Lamb.' It wasn't but ten minutes later. Do set down, Mr. Rivers." He accepted the chair she dusted with her ap.r.o.n and quietly enjoyed the little drama. The facts were plain, the small influential motives as clear.

Secure of her hearer, Mrs. Crocker went on: "I was saying it wasn't ten minutes later that same morning Mrs. Penhallow came down on me about the sugar and the tea-worst she ever had. She-oh, Lord!-She wouldn't listen, and declared that she would return the tea and get sugar from town."

"Pretty bad that," said Rivers, sympathetic. "Did she send back the tea?"

"No, sir. In came Pole grinning that very evening. He said she had made an awful row about the last leg of mutton he sent. Pole said she was that bad-She didn't show no temper, but she kept on a sort of quiet mad about the mutton."

"Well, what did Pole do?"

"You'd never guess. It was one of the Squire's own sheep. Pole he just sent her the other leg of the same sheep!"

Again the rector laughed. "Well, and what did Mrs. Penhallow do?"

"She told him that was all right. Pole he guessed I'd better send her a pound of the same tea."

"Did you?"

"I did-ain't heard yet. Now what would you advise? Never saw her this way before."

"Well," said Rivers, "tell her how the town misses Leila and John."

"They do. I do wonder if it's just missing those children upsets her so."

Whether his advice were taken or not, Rivers did not learn directly, but Mrs. Crocker said things were better when next they met, and the clergyman asked no questions.

Penhallow had his own distracting troubles. The financial condition which became serious in the spring and summer of 1857 was beginning to cause him alarm, and soon after the new year came in he felt obliged to talk over his affairs and to advise his wife to loan the mill company money not elsewhere to be had except at ruinous interest. She wished simply to give him the sum needed, but he said no, and made clear to her why he required help. She was pleased to be consulted, and showing, as usual, notable comprehension of the business situation, at once did as he desired.

Rivers not aware of what was so completely occupying Penhallow's mind, wondered later why he would not discuss the decision of the Supreme Court in the Dred Scott case and did not share his own indignation. "But," he urged, "it declares the Missouri Compromise not warranted by the Const.i.tution!"

"I can't talk about it, Mark," said Penhallow, "I am too worried by my own affairs."

Then Rivers asked no further questions; he hoped he would read the masterly dissenting opinion of Justices McLean and Curtis. Penhallow returned impatiently that he had no time, and that the slavery question were better left to the decision of "Chief Justice Time."

It was unlike the Squire, and Rivers perplexed and more or less ignorant concerning his friend's affairs left him, in wonder that what was so angrily disturbing the Northern States should quite fail to interest Penhallow.

Meanwhile there were pleasant letters from Leila. She thought it hard to be denied correspondence with John, and wrote of the satisfaction felt by her Uncle Henry and his friends in regard to the Dred Scott decision. She had been wise enough to take her Uncle Charles's advice and to hold her Republican tongue, as he with a minority in Baltimore was wisely doing.

The money crisis came with full force while the affairs of Kansas were troubling both North and South. In August there was widespread ruin. Banks failed, money was held hard, contracts were broken and to avoid a worse calamity the Penhallow mills discharged half of the men. Meanwhile under Governor Walker's just and firm rule, for a brief season 'Bleeding Kansas' was no longer heard of. To add to the confusion of parties, Douglas broke with the Administration and damaged the powerful Democratic machine when he came out with changed opinions and dauntless courage against the new Lecompton const.i.tution.

In June Leila's school life came to a close, and to the delight of her relations she came home. When that afternoon Rivers came into the hall, a tall young woman rose of a sudden and swept him a curtsey, saying, "I am Leila Grey, sir. Please to be glad to see me."

"Good gracious, Leila! You are a woman!"

"And what else should I be?"