John sat on the steps and listened to the shrill katydids or watched the devious lanterns of the fireflies.  A bat darted over the head of Rivers, who ducked as it went by, watching its uncertain flight.

“I am terribly afraid of bats,” said the rector.  “Are you?”

“I—­no.  They’re harmless.”

“Yes, I know that, but I am without reason afraid of them.  I think of the demons as being like monstrous bats.  But that is a silly use of imagination.”

“Uncle Jim doesn’t like them, and you once told me that he had very little imagination.”

“Yes.  One can’t explain these dislikes.  Your uncle reasons well and has a clear logical mind, but he has neither creative nor receptive imagination.”

“Receptive?” asked John.

“Yes, that is why he has none of your aunt’s joy in poetry.  When I read to her Wordsworth’s ‘Brougham Castle,’ he said that he had never heard more silly nonsense.”

“I remember it was that wonderful verse about the ’longing of the shield.’”

“Yes—­I forgot you were there.  Verse like that is a good test of a person’s capacity to feel poetry—­that kind, I mean.”

“I hear Uncle Jim’s horse.”

“Yes.  I can’t see, John, why a man should want to have a horse sent to meet him instead of a comfortable wagon,”—­and for emphasis, as usual with Rivers, the rocking-chair was swinging to the limits of its arc of safe motion.

The Squire dismounted and came up the steps with “Good-evening, Rivers,”—­and to John, “I have good news for you—­but order my supper at once, then we will talk.”  He was in his boyish mood of gaiety.  “How far have you travelled on that rocker, Rivers?”

“Now, Squire—­now, really—­” It was a favourite subject of chaff.

“Why not have rocking-chairs in church, Mark?  Think what a patient congregation you would have!  Come, John, I am hungry.”  He fled laughing.

While the Squire ate in silence, John waited until his uncle said, “Come into the library.”  Here he filled his pipe and took the match John offered.  “There are many curious varieties of man, John.  There is the man who prefers a rocking-chair to the saddle.  It’s queer—­very queer; and he is as much afraid of a horse as I am—­of—­I don’t know what.”

The Squire’s memory failed to answer the call.  “What are you grinning at, you young scamp?”

“Oh, Mr. Rivers did say, Uncle Jim, something about bats.”

“Yes, that’s it—­bats—­and I do suppose every one has his especial fear.  Ah! quite inexplicable nonsense!—­fears like mine about bats, or your aunt’s about dogs, but also fears that make a man afraid that he will not face a danger that is a duty.  When we had smallpox at the mills, soon after Rivers came here, he went to the mill-town and lived there a month, and nursed the sick and buried the dead.  At last he took the disease lightly, but it left a mark or two on his forehead.  That I call—­well, heroic.  Confound that rocking-chair!  How it squeaks!”