I have little to add to this long story.  The days went by swiftly, and after a week all of the family, except John, were once more together at Grey Pine.  Mark Rivers had also returned.  He was too evidently in one of his moods of sombre silentness, but his congratulations were warm and as he sat at dinner he made unusual efforts to be at his agreeable best.

When they left the table, he said, “No, Colonel, I shall not smoke to-night.  May I have a few minutes of your time, Mrs. Penhallow?”

“Certainly, Mark—­I want to talk to you about the Bible Class—­I mean to take it up again.”  She led the way into her own little library.  “Sit down—­there is so much to talk over.  Of course, you will marry these dear children somewhere about Christmas time.”

“No,” he said, “I shall be far away.”

“Away!  Oh, Mark! surely you do not mean to leave us.”

“Yes, I am going to live as a missionary among the Indians.”

“You cannot—­you really cannot—­where could you be more useful than here?”

“No, I must go.  My life on the whole has been most happy here—­and how to thank you I fail to be able to say.”

“But why,” she urged, “why do you go?”

“Oh—­I want—­I must have an active life, open air, even risks.  The war gave me what I need for entire competence of body and mind to use in my Master’s service.  But now, the war is at an end—­”

“Thank God!  But all you ask—­and more—­Mark, except danger, are here—­and oh, but we shall miss you, and more than ever when we miss too these children.  Think of it—­don’t make up your mind until James talks to you—­”

“No, I go to-morrow.”

“But it does seem to me, Mark, that you are making a serious change without sufficient consideration of what you lose and we lose.”

“Yes, yes,” he returned, “I know—­but to remain is for me impossible.”

“But why?”

He was silent a moment, looking at this dear friend with the over-filled eyes of a troubled and yet resolute manhood.  Then he said, “I did not mean to tell you why in my weakness flight alone will save me from what has been to me unbearable here and ever will be.”

“Can I in any way help you?”

“No.”

“But what is it—­trust me a little—­what is it?”

He hesitated, and then said, “It is Leila Grey!  God pity my weakness, and you will say good-bye and give the Squire this note and them my love.”  He was gone.

The woman sat still for an hour, pitiful, and understanding the flight of a too sensitive man.  Then she gave her husband the note, with her good-night, and no other word.  Of why her friend had gone she said later nothing, except to defend him for his obedience to the call of duty.  Late that evening John returned.

When after breakfast next day he and Leila were riding through the wood-roads of the forest, John said, “I cannot or I could not see why Mr. Rivers went away so abruptly.”