“It seems so queer, John, to own a man.”

John grinned, “Or a girl, Leila.”

“Well, no one owns me, I tell you; they’d have a hard time.”

She shook what Rivers called her free-flowing cascade of hair in the pride of conscious freedom.  The talk ran on.  At last she said, “I’ll tell you a queer thing.  I heard Mr. Rivers say to uncle—­I heard him say, we were all slaves.  He said that no one owns himself.  I think that’s silly,” said the young philosopher, “don’t you, John?”

“I don’t know,” returned John; “I think it’s a big puzzle.  Let’s go.”

No word reached the Squire of the battle behind the church until four days later, when Rivers came in after dinner and found Penhallow in his library deep in thought.

“Worried, Squire?” he asked.

“Yes, affairs are in a bad way and will be until the election is over.  It always disturbs commerce.  The town will go Democratic, I suppose.”

“Yes, as I told you, unless you take a hand and are in earnest and outspoken.”

“I could be, but it has not yet the force of imperative duty, and it would hurt Ann more than I feel willing to do.  Talk of something else.  She would cease her mild canvass if she thought it annoyed me.”

“I see—­sir.  I think I ought to tell you that John has had another battle with Tom McGregor.”

“Indeed?” The Squire sat up, all attention.  “He does not show any marks of it.”

“No, but Tom does.”

“Indeed!  What happened?”

“Well, I believe, Tom thought John told you what boys were in that joke on Billy.  I fancy something was said about you—­something personal, which John resented.”

“That is of no moment.  What else?  I ought to be clear about it.”

“Well, Squire, Tom was badly mauled and John was tired when I arrived as peacemaker.  I stopped the battle, but he was not at all disposed to talk about it.  I am sure of one thing—­he has had a grudge against Tom—­since he was rude to Leila.”

The Squire rose and walked about the room.  “H’m! very strange that—­what a mere child he was when he got licked—­boys don’t remember injuries that way.”  Then seeming to become conscious of Rivers’ presence, he stopped beside him and added, “What with my education and Leila’s, he has grown amazingly.  He was as timid as a foal.”

“He is not now, Squire, and John has been as useful mentally to Leila.  She is learning to think.”

“Sorry for it, Mark, women ought not to think.  Now if my good Ann wouldn’t think, I should be the happier.”

“My dear Squire,” said Rivers, setting an affectionate hand on his arm, “my dear Mrs. Penhallow doesn’t think, except about the every-day things of life.  Her politics and religion are sacred beliefs not to be rudely jostled by the disturbance of thinking.  If there is illness, debt or trouble, at the mills or in Westways, she becomes seraphic and intelligent enough.”