“Yes—­more or less, and I am poor company just now.  Good-night.”

CHAPTER XV

When at breakfast on a Monday morning Penhallow said, “That mail is late again,” his wife knew that he was still eager for news from John.

“The mail is always late on Monday morning, James.  If you are in haste to get to the mills, I will send it after you.”

“No, it is unimportant, Ann.  Another cup, please.  Ah! there it is now.”  He went out on to the porch.  “You are late, Billy.”

“I ain’t late—­it was Mrs. Crocker—­she kept me.”

Penhallow selected two letters postmarked West Point, and opening one as he went in to the breakfast-room, said, “My dear, it is rather satisfactory—­quite as much as could be expected.”

“Well, James!  What is rather satisfactory?  You are really exasperating at times.”

“Am I?  Well, John has passed in the first half dozen—­he does not yet know just where—­”

“And are you not entirely contented?  You ought to be.  What is the other letter?”

He opened it.  “It is only a line from the old drawing-master to say that John did well and would have been second or third, they said, except for not being higher in mathematics.”  As he spoke he rose and put both letters in his pocket.  “Now I must go.”

“But let me see them, James.”

“Oh, John’s is only a half dozen lines, and I must go at once—­I have an appointment at the mills—­I want to look over the letters again, and shall write to him from the office.”  Ann was slightly annoyed, but said no more until on the porch before he mounted she took a mild revenge.  “I know where you are going.”

“Well, and where, please?” He fell into her trap.

“First, you will stop at the rectory and read those letters to Mark Rivers; then the belated mail will excuse a pause at the post-office to scold Mrs. Crocker.  Tell Pole as you go by that last mutton was atrociously tough.  Of course, you won’t mention John.”

“Well, are you done?” he said, as he mounted Dixy.  “I can wait, Ann, until you read the letters.”

“Thanks, I am in no hurry.”  He turned in the saddle and gave her the letters.  She put aside her brief feeling of annoyance and stood beside him as she read them.  “Thank you, James.  What an uneasy old uncle you are.  Now go.  Oh, be off with you—­and don’t forget Dr. McGregor.”  As he rode away, she called after him, “James—­James—­I forgot something.”

He turned, checking Dixy.  “Oh, I forgot to say that you must not forget the office clerks, because you know they are all so fond of John.”

“What a wretch you are, Ann Penhallow!  Go in and repent.”

“I don’t,” and laughing, joyously, she stood and looked after the tall figure as he rode away happy and gaily singing, as he was apt to do if pleased, the first army carol the satisfaction of the moment suggested: