“I will see to it at once.”

The doctor opened a window, and Penhallow drew a grateful breath of fresh air.

“Don’t go, sir,” said Grace.  The Squire sat down again while McGregor went through his examination of the sick man.  Then he too rose to leave.

“Must you go?” said Grace.  “It is such a pleasure to see some one from the outside.”  The doctor smiled and lingered.

“I suppose, Squire, you’ll get Joe Boynton, the carpenter, to put on the roof?  He’s one of my flock.”

“Yes,” said Penhallow, “but he will want to put his old workman, Peter Lamb, on the job, and I have no desire to help that man any further.  He gives his mother nothing, and every cent he makes goes for drink.”

McGregor nodded approval, but wondered why at last the Squire’s unfailing good-nature had struck for higher wages of virtue in the man he had ruined by kindness.

“I try to keep work in Westways,” said Penhallow.  “Joe Shall roof the chapel, and like as not Peter will be too drunk to help.  I can’t quite make it a condition with Joe that he shall not employ Peter, but I should like to.”  McGregor’s face grew smiling at Penhallow’s conclusion when he added, “I hope he may get work elsewhere.”  Then the Squire went downstairs with the doctor, exchanging brevities of talk.

“Are you aware, Penhallow, that this wicked business about Josiah has beaten Buchanan in Westways?  Come to apply the Fugitive-Slave Act and people won’t stand it.  As long as it was just a matter of newspaper discussion Westways didn’t feel it, but when it drove away our barber, Westways’s conscience woke up to feel how wicked it was.”

The Squire had had an illustration nearer home and kept thinking of it as he murmured monosyllabic contributions while the doctor went on—­“My own belief is that if the November election were delayed six months, Fremont would carry Pennsylvania.”

Penhallow recovered fuller consciousness and returned, “I distrust Fremont.  I knew him in the West.  But he represents, or rather he stands for, a party, and it is mine.”

“I am glad to know that,” said McGregor.  “I am really glad.  It is a relief to be sure about a man like you, Penhallow.  I suppose you know that you are loved in the county as no one else is.”

“Nonsense,” exclaimed the Squire, laughing, but not ill-pleased.

“No, I am serious; but it leads up to this:  Am I free to say you will vote the Republican ticket?”

“Yes—­yes—­you may say so.”

“It will be of use, but couldn’t I persuade you to speak at the meeting next week at the mills?”

“No, McGregor.  That is not in my line.”  He had other reasons for refusal.  “Let us drop politics.  What is that boy of yours going to do?”

“Study medicine,” he says.  “He has brains enough, and Mr. Rivers tells me he is studious.  Our two lads fell out, it seems, and my boy got the worst of it.  What I don’t like is that he has not made up with John.”