“Tom McGregor was there and Bob Grace.  We played tag.  John knows a way to play tag on skates.  You must chalk your right hand and you must mark with it the other fellow’s right shoulder.  It must be jolly.  We had no chalk, but we are to play it to-morrow.  Isn’t it interesting, Uncle John?”

Penhallow laughed.  “Interesting, my dear?  Oh! your aunt will be after you with a stick.”

“Aunt Ann’s—­stick!” laughed Leila.

“My dear Leila,” he said gravely, “this boy has had all the manliness coddled out of him, but he looks like his father.  I have my own ideas of how to deal with him.  I suppose he will brag a bit at dinner.”

“He will not, Uncle Jim.”

“Bet you a pound of bonbons, Leila.”

“From town?”

“Yes.”

“All right.”

“Can he coast?  I did not ask you.”

“Well! pretty well,” said Leila.  For some unknown reason she was unwilling to say more.

“Doesn’t the rector dine here, to-day, Leila?”

“Yes, but—­oh!  Uncle Jim, we found a big hornets’ nest yesterday on the log cabin.  They seemed all asleep.  I told John we would fight them in the spring.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said:  ’Did they sting?’—­I said:  ‘That was the fun of it!’”

“Better not tell your aunt.”

“No, sir.  I’m an obedient little girl.”

“You little scamp!  You were meant to be a boy.  Is there anything you are afraid of?”

“Yes, algebra.”

“Oh! get out,” and she fled.

At dinner John said no word of the skating, to the satisfaction of Leila who conveyed to her uncle a gratified sense of victory by some of the signs which were their private property.

Leaving the cousins to their game of chess, Penhallow followed his wife and Mark Rivers into his library.  “Well, Mark,” he said, “you have had this boy long enough to judge; it is time I heard what you think of him.  You asked me to wait.  The youngster is rather reticent, and Leila is about the only person in the house who really knows much about him.  He talks like a man of thirty.”

“I do not find him reticent,” remarked Mrs. Ann, “and his manners are charming—­I wish Leila’s were half as good.”

“Well, let’s hear about him.”

“May I smoke?” asked the rector.

“Anywhere but in my drawing-room.  I believe James would like to smoke in church.”

“It might have its consolations,” returned Penhallow.

“Thanks,” said Rivers smiling.  Neither man took advantage of her unusual permission.  “But you, Squire, have been closer than I to this interesting boy.  What do you make of him?”

“He can’t ride—­he hardly knows a horse from a mule.”

“That’s not his fault,” said Mrs. Penhallow, “he’s afraid of horses.”

“Afraid!” said her husband.  “By George! afraid of horses.”

“He speaks French perfectly,” said Mark Rivers.