“You will have to manage the mills some day,” said Penhallow.  “You own quite a fifth of them.  Now I have three partners, but some day you and I will run them.”  The boy had been there before with Rivers, but now the Squire presented him to the foreman and as they moved about explained the machinery.  It was altogether delightful, and this was a newly discovered uncle.  On the way home the Squire talked of the momentous November elections and of his dread of the future with Buchanan in power, while he led the way through lanes and woods until they came to the farm.

“We will cross the fields,” he said, and dismounting took down the upper bars of a fence.  Then he rode back a little, and returning took the low fence, crying, “Now, John, sit like a sack—­loosely.  The mare jumps like a frog; go back a bit.  Now, then, give her her head!” For a moment he was in the air as his uncle cried, “You lost a stirrup.  Try it again.  Oh! that was better.  Now, once more, come,” and he was over at Penhallow’s side.  He had found the joy of the horse!  “A bit more confidence and practice and you will do.  I want you to ride Venus.  She shies at a shadow—­at anything black.  Don’t forget that.”

“Oh, thank you, Uncle James!”

“It is Uncle Jim now, my boy.  I knew from the first you would come out all right.  I believe in blood—­horses and men.  I believe in blood.”  This was James Penhallow all over.  A reticent man, almost as tenderly trustful as a woman, of those who came up to his standards of honour, truth and the courage which rightly seemed to him the backbone of all the virtues.

What John thought may be readily imagined.  Accustomed to be considered and flattered, his uncle’s quiet reserve had seemed to him disappointing, and now of late this abrupt praise and accepting comradeship left the sensitive lad too grateful for words.  The man at his side was wise enough to say no more, and they rode home and dismounted without further speech.

After dinner John sought a corner with Leila, where he could share with her his new-born enthusiasm about horses.  The Squire called to the rector and Mrs. Ann to come into his library.  “Sit down, Mark,” he said, “I am rash to invite you; both you and Ann bore me to death with your Sunday schools and the mill men who won’t come to church.  I don’t hear our Baptist friend complain.”

“But he does,” said Rivers.

“I do not wonder,” said Ann, “that they will not attend the chapel.”

“If,” said Penhallow, “you were to swap pulpits, Mark, it would draw.  There are many ways—­oh, I am quite in earnest, Ann.  Don’t put on one of your excommunicating looks.  I remember once in Idaho at dusk, I had two guides.  They were positive, each of them, that certain trails would lead to the top.  I tossed up which to go with.  It was pretty serious—­Indians and so on—­I’ll tell you about it some time, rector.  Well, we met at dawn on the summit.  How about the moral, Ann?”