“Wait a little, my dear Ann.  Now, John, I want to hear precisely how you gave Josiah a warning and—­well—­all the rest.  You ought to know that my little lady did as usual the right thing.  The risks and whatever there might have been of danger were ours by right—­a debt paid to a poor runaway who had made us his friends.  Now, John!”

Rivers watched his pupil with the utmost interest.  John stood up a little excited by this unexpected need to confess.  He leaned against the side of the mantel and said, “Well, you see, Uncle Jim, I got in at the back—­”

“I don’t see at all.  I want to be made to see—­I want the whole story.”

John had in mind that he had done a rather fine thing and ought to relate it as lightly as he had heard Woodburn tell of furious battles with Apaches.  But, as his uncle wanted the whole story, he must have some good reason, and the young fellow was honestly delighted.  Standing by the fire, watched by three people who loved him, and above all by the Captain, his ideal of what he felt he himself could never be, John Penhallow told of his entrance to Josiah’s room and of his thought of the cabin as a hiding-place.  When he hesitated, Penhallow said, “Oh, don’t leave out, John Penhallow, I want all the details.  I have my reasons, John.”

Flushed and handsome, with his strong young face above the figure which was to have his uncle’s athletic build, he related his story to the close.  As he told of the parting with the frightened fugitive and the hunted man’s last blessing, he was affected as he had not been at the time.  “That’s all, Uncle Jim.  It was too bad—­and he will never come back.”

“He could,” said Rivers.

“Yes—­but he will not.  I know the man,” said Penhallow.  “He has the courage of the minute, but the timidity of the slave.  We shall see him no more, I fear.”

The little group around the fire fell to silence, and John sat down.  He wanted a word of approval, and got it.  “I want you to know, John,” said Penhallow, “that I think you behaved with courage and discretion.  It was not an errand for a boy, but no man could have done better, and your aunt had no one else.  I am glad she had not.”

Then John Penhallow felt that he was shaky and that his eyes were uncomfortably filling.  With a boy’s dislike of showing emotion, he mastered his feelings and said, “Thank you, Uncle Jim.”

“That is all,” said the Squire, who too saw and comprehended what he saw, “go to bed, you breaker of the law—­”

“And I,” said Ann, “a wicked partner.  Come, John.”

They left the master of the house with the rector.  Rivers looked at the clock, “I think I must go.  I do not stand late hours.  If I let the day capture the night, the day after is apt to find me dull.”

“Well, stand it this once, Mark.  I hate councils of war or peace without the pipe, and now, imagine it, my dear wife wanted me to smoke, and that was all along of that terrible spittoon and the long-expected cousin of whom I have heard from time to time. Les absens n’out pas toujours tort.  Now smoke and don’t watch the clock.  I said this abominable business was to be closed out—­”