“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.”

“More or less,” added Rivers moodily, “more or less.”

He looked at the boy as he spoke, conscious of a nature unlike his own.  Then he laughed outright.  “You may be sure we are a good deal hustled by circumstances—­like the leaves.”

“I should prefer to hustle circumstances,” replied John gaily, and again the rector studied the young face and wondered what life had in store for this resolute nature.

“Come, let us go.  I have walked too far for me, I am overtired, John.”

What it felt to be overtired, John hardly knew.  He said, “I know a short cut, cater-cornered across the new clearing.”

As they walked homeward, Rivers said, “What do you want to do, John?  You are more than fit for the university—­you should be thinking about it.”

“I do not know.”

“Would you like to be a clergyman?”

“No,” said John decisively.

“Or a lawyer, or a doctor like Tom McGregor?”

“I do not know—­I have not thought about it much, but I might like to go to West Point.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, but I am not sure.”

CHAPTER XII

When John was eager to hear what Leila wrote, his aunt laughed and said, “As you know, there is always a word of remembrance for you, but her letters would hardly interest you.  They are about the girls and the teachers and new gowns.  Write to her—­I will enclose it, but you need expect no answer.”