“You call it noble.  It is a rather strange thing; but to go to a friend in financial despair with a cheque-book is a test of friendship before which many friendships fail.  Before my uncle left me rich beyond my needs, I had an unpleasant experience on a small scale, but it was a useful example in the conduct of life.”  He paused for a moment, and then said, “I shall try the Squire again.”

“I think you will fail—­I know Uncle Jim.  But what you tell me—­is it very bad?  I mean, is he—­are the mills—­likely to fail?”

“That depends as I see it on the summer nominations and the fall elections, and their result no one can predict.  The future looks to me full of peril.”

“But why?” she asked, and had some surprise when he said, “I have lived in the South.  I taught school in Macon.  I know the South, its increasing belief in the despotic power of cotton and tobacco, its splendid courage, and the sense of mastery given by the ownership of man.  Why do I talk my despair out to a young life like yours?  I suppose confession to be a relief—­the tears of the soul.  I suppose it is easier to talk to a woman.”  “Then why not to Aunt Ann?” thought Leila, as he went on to say, “I have often asked myself why confession is such a relief.”  He smiled as he added, “I wonder if St. Francis ever confessed to Monica.”  Then he was silent, turning round before the fire, unwilling to leave it.

Leila had been but recently introduced to the knowledge of St. Francis, and was struck with the oddity of representing Monica; and the tall, gaunt figure with the sad eyes, as the joyful St. Francis.

“Now, I must go home,” he said.

“Indeed, no!  You are to go with me to the post-office and then to see Mrs. Lamb.”

He had some pleasant sense of liking to be ordered about by this young woman.  As they faced the snow, he asked, “How tall are you, Leila?”

“Five feet ten inches and—­to be accurate—­a quarter.  Why do you ask?”

“Idle curiosity.”

“Curiosity is never idle, Mr. Rivers.  It is industrious.  I proved that in a composition I wrote at school.  It did bother Miss Mayo.”

“I should think it might,” said Rivers.  “Any letters, Mrs. Crocker?”

“No, sir; none for Squire’s folk.  Two newspapers.  Awful cold, Miss Leila.  Molasses so hard to-day, had to be chopped—­”

“Oh, now, Mrs. Crocker!”

The fat post-mistress was still handling the pile of finger-soiled letters.  “Oh, there’s one for Mrs. Lamb.”

“We are going there.  I’ll take it.”

“Thanks, miss.  She’s right constant in coming for letters, but the letters they don’t come, and now here’s one at last.”  Leila tucked it into her belt.  “I tell you, Miss Leila, a post-office is a place to make you laugh one day and cry the next.  When you see a girl from the country come here twice a week for maybe two months and then go away trying that hard to make believe it wasn’t of any account.  There ought to be some one to write ’em letters—­just to say, ‘Don’t cry, he’ll come.’  It might be a queer letter.”