“No, I don’t.  Drive on, Billy, but do be careful.”

They came to the little village of Westways.  At intervals Billy communicated bits of village gossip.  “Susan McKnight, she’s going to marry Finney—­”

“Bother Susan,” cried Leila.  “Be careful.”

John alarmed held on to his seat as the sleigh rocked about, while Billy whipped up the mare.

“This is Westways, our village.  It is just a row of houses.  Uncle James won’t sell land on our side.  Look out, Billy!  Our rector lives in that small house by the church.  His name is Mark Rivers.  You’ll like him.  That’s Mr. Grace, the Baptist preacher.”  She bade him good-day.  “Stop, Billy!”

He pulled up at the sidewalk.  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Crocker,” she said, as the postmistress came out to the sleigh.  “Please mail this.  Any letters for us?”

“No, Leila.”  She glanced at the curly locks above the thin face and the wrapped up form in the shawl.  “Got a nice little girl with you, Leila.”

John indignant said nothing.  “This is a boy—­my cousin, John Penhallow,” returned Leila.

“Law! is that so?”

“Get on,” cried Leila.  “Stop at Josiah’s.”

Here a tall, strongly built, very black negro came out.  “Fine frosty day, missy.”

“Come up to the house to-night.  Uncle Jim wants you.”

“I’ll come—­sure.”

“Now, get along, Billy.”

The black was strange to the boy.  He thought the lower orders here disrespectful.

“Josiah’s our barber,” said Leila.  “He saved me once from a dreadful accident.  You’ll like him.”

“Will I?” thought John, but merely remarked, “They all seem rather intimate.”

“Why not?” said the young Republican.  “Ah! here’s the gate.  I’ll get out and open it.  It’s the best gate to swing on in the whole place.”

As she tossed the furs aside, John gasped, “To swing on—­”

“Oh, yes.  Aunt Ann says I am too old to swing on gates, but I do.  It shuts with a bang.  I’ll show you some day.”

“What is swinging on a gate?” said John, as she jumped out and stood in the snow laughing.  Surely this was an amazing kind of boy.  “Why, did you never hear the rhyme about it?”

“No,” said John, “I never did.”

“Well, you just get on the gate when it’s wide open and give a push, and you sing—­

  “If I was the President of these United States,
  I’d suck molasses candy and swing upon the gates.

“There!  Then it shuts—­bang!” With this bit of child folklore she scampered away through the snow and stood holding the gate open while Billy drove through.  She reflected mischievously that it must have been three years since she had swung on a gate.

John feeling warm and for the first time looking about him with interest began to notice the grandeur of the rigid snow-laden pines of an untouched forest which stood in what was now brilliant sunshine.