The night passed, and when the dawning came, the Squire leaving some orders went homeward with John, saying only, “Go to bed at once, we will talk about it later.  I don’t like it, John.  You saw it first—­where did it begin?”

“Outside, sir, in the wood-shed.”

“Indeed!  There has been some foul play.  Who could it have been?” He said no more.

It was far into the morning when John awaking found that he had been allowed to make up for the lost sleep of the past night.  His aunt smiling greeted him with a kiss, concerning which there is something to be said in regard to what commentary the assistant features make upon the kiss.  “I would not have you called earlier,” she said; “but now, here is your breakfast, you have earned it.”  She sat down and watched the disappearance of a meal which would have filled his mother with anxiety.  Ann was really enjoying the young fellow’s wholesome appetite and contrasting it with the apprehensive care concerning food he had shown when long before he had seemed to her husband and herself a human problem hard to solve.  James Penhallow had been wise, and Leila a rough and efficient schoolmistress.  “Do not hurry, John; have another cup?”

“Yes, please.”

“Have you written that letter?  I mean to be naughty enough to enclose it to Leila.  I told you so.”

“Yes, but it is not quite done, and now I must tell her about the fire.  I wrote her that Josiah had gone away.”

“The less of it the better.  I mean about—­well, about your warning him—­and the rest—­your share and mine.”

“Of course not, Aunt Ann.  I would not talk about myself.  I mean, I could not write about it.”

“You would talk of it if she were here—­you would, I am sure.”

“Yes, that’s different—­I suppose, I would,” he returned.  She was struck with this as being like what James Penhallow would have said and have, or not have, done.

“If you have finished, John, I think your uncle wants you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, aunt?” he said, as he got up in haste.

“Oh, boys must be fed,” she cried.  She too rose from her seat, and went around the table and kissed him again, saying, “You are more and more like my captain, John.”

Being a woman, as John was well aware, not given to express approval of what were merely acts of duty, he was surprised at what was, for her, excess of praise; nor was she as much given to kissing, as are many women.  The lad felt, therefore, that what she thus said and did was unusual, and was what his Uncle Jim called one of Ann’s rarely conferred brevets of affection.

“Yes,” she repeated, “you are like him.”

“What!  I like Uncle Jim!  I wish I were.”

“Now go,” she said, giving him a gentle push.  She was shyly aware of a lapse into unhabitual emotion and of some closer approach to the maternal relation fostered by his growing resemblance to James Penhallow.