On an evening late in May, 1856 (John long remembered it), the Squire as usual left their little circle and retired to the library, where he busied himself over matters involving business letters, and then fell to reading in the Tribune the bitter politics of Fremont’s contest with Buchanan and the still angry talk over Brooks’s assault on Senator Sumner.  He foresaw defeat and was with cool judgment aware of what the formation of the Republican Party indicated in the way of trouble to come.  The repeal of the Missouri Compromise had years before disturbed his party allegiance, and now no longer had he been able to see the grave question of slavery as Ann his wife saw it.  He threw aside the papers, set his table in order, and opening the door called John to come in and pay him a visit.  The boy rose surprised.  Never once had this over-occupied man talked to him at length and he had never been set free to wander in the tempting wilderness of books, which now and then when James Penhallow was absent were remorselessly dusted by Mrs. Ann and the maid, with dislocating consequences over which James Penhallow growled in belated protest.

John went in, glanced up at the Captain’s sword over the mantelpiece, and sat down as desired by the still-needed fire.

“John,” said his uncle in his usual direct way, “have you ever been on the back of a horse?”

“Yes, sir, once—­in Paris at a riding-school.”

“Once!  You said ’once’—­well?”

“I fell off—­mother was with me.”

“And you got on again?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

John flushed and hesitated, watched by the dark-eyed Squire.  “I was afraid!” He would not say that his mother forbade it.

“What is your name?”

“John, sir,” he returned astonished.

“And the rest—­the rest, sir,” added his uncle abruptly.

John troubled by the soldier’s impatient tones said:  “Penhallow, sir.”  He was near to a too emotional display.

“And you, John Penhallow, my brother’s son, were afraid?”

“I was.”  It was only in part true.  His mother had forbidden the master to remount him.

“By George!” said Penhallow angrily, “I don’t believe you, I can’t!”

John rose, “I may be a coward, Uncle James, but I never lie.”

Penhallow stood up, “I beg your pardon, John.”

“Oh! no, Uncle James.  I—­please not.”  He felt as if the tall soldier was humiliating himself, but could not have put it in words.

“I was hasty, my boy.  You must, of course, learn to ride.  By the way, do you ever read the papers?”

“Not often, sir—­hardly ever.  They are kept in your library or Aunt Ann’s.”

“Well, it is time you did read them.  Come in here when you want to be alone—­or any time.  You won’t bother me.  Take what books you want, and ask me about the politics of the day.  The country is going to the devil, but don’t discuss this election with your aunt.”