Yes, he knew more or less, but knowing did not quite approve.  The Squire of Grey Pine rarely spoke at length, but now he longed, as he gave some further clue to his reticence, to make public a political creed which was not yet so fortified by the logic of events as to be fully capable of defence.

“The humorous side of it,” he said, “is that my very good wife has been doing some pretty ardent electioneering while I am sitting still, because to throw my weight into the local contest would oblige me to speak out and declare my whole political religion of which I am not quite secure enough to talk freely.”

The young rector looked at his older friend, who was uneasy between his uncertain sense of duty and his desire not to go among people at the mills and in the town and struggle with his wife for votes.

“I may, Mark, I may do no more than let it be known how I shall vote.  That is all.  It will be of use.  I could wish to do more.  I think that here and at the mills the feeling is rather strong for Buchanan, but why I cannot see.”

Mrs. Ann had been really active, and her constant kindness at the mills and in the little town gave to her wishes a certain influential force among these isolated groups of people who in their remoteness had not been disturbed by the aggressive policy of the South.

“Of course, Mark, my change of opinion will excite remark.  Whoever wins, I shall be uneasy about the future.  Must you go?  Good-night.”

He went to the hall door with the rector, and then back to his pipe, dismissing the subject for the time.  On his return, he found John in the library looking at the sword hanging over the mantelpiece.  “Well, Jack,” he said, “a penny for your thoughts.”

“Oh; I was thinking what the sword had seen.”

“I hope it will see no more, but it may—­it may.  Now I want to say a word to you.  You had a fight with Tom McGregor and got the worst of it.”

“I did.”

“I do not ask why.  You seem to have shown some pluck.”

“I don’t know, uncle.  I was angry, and I just slapped his face.  He deserved it.”

“Very well, but never slap.  I suppose that is the French schoolboy way of fighting.  Hit hard—­get in the first blow.”

“Yes, sir.  I hadn’t a chance.”

“You must take my old cadet boxing-gloves from under the sword.  I have spoken to Sam, the groom.  I saw him last year in a bout with the butcher’s boy.  After he has knocked you about for a month, you will be better able to take care of the Penhallow nose.”

“I shall like that.”

“You won’t, but it will help to fill out your chest.”  Then he laughed, “Did you ever get that cane?”

“No, sir.  Billy found it.  Leila gave him twenty-five cents for it, and now she won’t give it to me.”

“Well, well, is that so?  The ways of women are strange.”

“I don’t see why she keeps it, uncle.”