Come out to the stable
As soon as you ’re able,
And see that the horses
That they get some corn. 
For if you don’t do it,
The colonel will know it,
And then you will rue it
As sure as you’re born.

“Ah!” said his wife, “how he goes back—­always goes back—­to the wild army life when something pleases him.  Thank God that can never come again.”  She recalled her first year of married life, the dull garrison routine, the weeks of her husband’s absences, and when the troop came back and there were empty saddles and weeping women.

At dinner the Squire must needs drink the young cadet’s health and express to Rivers his regret that there was not a West Point for Leila.  Mrs. Ann was of opinion that she had had too much of it already.  Rivers agreed with his hostess, and in one of his darkest days won the privilege of long silences by questioning the Squire in regard to the studies and life at West Point, while Mrs. Ann more socially observant than her husband saw how moody was Rivers and with what effort he manufactured an appearance of interest in the captain’s enthusiasm concerning educative methods at the great army school.  She was relieved when he carried off Rivers to the library.

“It is chilly, Mark; would you like a fire?” he asked.

“Yes, I am never too warm.”

The Squire set the logs ablaze.  “No pipe, Mark?”

“Not yet.”  He stretched out his lean length before the ruddy birch blaze and was silent.  The Squire watched him and made no attempt to disturb the deep reverie in which the young clergyman remained.  At last the great grey eyes turned from the fire, and Rivers sat up in his chair, as he said, “You must have seen how inconsiderately I have allowed my depression to dismiss the courtesies of life.  I owe you and my dear Mrs. Penhallow both an apology and an explanation.”—­

“But really, Mark—­”

“Oh, let me go on.  I have long wanted to talk myself out, and as often my courage has failed.  I have had a most unhappy life, Penhallow.  All the pleasant things in it—­the past few years—­have been given me here.  I married young—­”

“One moment, Mark.  Before you came to us the Bishop wrote me in confidence of your life.  Not even Mrs. Penhallow has seen that letter.”

“Then you knew—­but not all.  Now I have had a sad relief.  He told you of—­well, of my life, of my mother’s hopeless insanity—­and the rest.”

“Yes—­yes—­all, I believe—­all.”

“Not quite all.  I have spent a part at least of every August with her; now at last she is dead.  But my family story has left with me the fear of dying like my brothers or of becoming as she became.  When I came to you I was a lonely soul, sick in mind and weak in body.  I am better—­far better—­and now with some renewal of hope and courage I shall face my world again.  You have had—­you will have charity for my days of melancholy.  I never believed that a priest should marry—­and yet I did.  I suffered, and never again can I dream of love.  I am doubly armed by memory and by the horror of continuing a race doomed to disaster.  There you have it all to my relief.  There is some mysterious consolation in unloading one’s mind.  How good you have been to me! and I have been so useless—­so little of what I might have been.”