“I’d like, sir,” returned Lamb, leaning forward with his head bent and uplift of lids over watchful eyes—­“Oh, I want you to know how much I thank you, sir, for all your kind—­”

“You may credit the Squire for that.  Good-bye,” and he went out.

Neither man had been in the least deceived, but the honours of the game were with the big man in the bed, which creaked under his weight as he fell back grinning in pleased self-approval.  “Damn that black cuss,” he muttered, “and the preacher too.  I’ll make them sorry.”

At the outer doorstep Mark Rivers stood still and wiped the sweat from his forehead.  There must be minutes in the life of the most spiritually minded clergyman when to bow a little in the Rimmon House of the gods of profane language would be a relief.  He may have had the thought, for he smiled self-amused and remembered his friend Grace.  Then he took himself to task, reflecting that he should have been more gently kind, and was there not some better mode of approaching this man?  Was he not a spirit in prison, as St. Peter said?  What right had he with his beliefs to despair of any human soul?  Then he dismissed the matter and went home to his uncompleted sermon.  He would have to tell the Squire; yes, that would be advisable.

The days at Grey Pine ran on in the routine of lessons, riding, and the pleasure for John of representing his uncle in the oversight of the young thoroughbred colts and the stables.  Brief talks with Rivers of books and politics filled the after-dinner hour, and when he left John fell with eagerness on the newspapers of the day.  His uncle’s mail he forwarded to Pittsburgh, and heard from him that he would not return until mid-October.  His aunt would be at home about the 8th, and Leila was now at her school.  The boy felt the unaccustomed loneliness, and most of all the absence of Leila.  One letter for his aunt lay on the hall table.  It came too late to be sent on its way, nor had she asked to have letters forwarded.

Two days before her return was to be expected, when John came down dressed for dinner, he found Mr. Rivers standing with his back to a fire, which the evening coolness of October in the hills made desirable.  The rector was smiling.

“Mr. George Grey came just after you went upstairs.  It seems that he wrote to your aunt the letter on the table in the hall.  As no one met him at Westways Crossing, he was caught in a shower and pretty well soaked before he got some one to bring him to Grey Pine.  I think he feels rather neglected.”

“Has he never been here before?” asked John, curious in regard to the guest who he thought, from hearing his aunt speak of him, must be a person of importance.

“No, not for a long while.  He is only a second cousin of Mrs. Penhallow; but as all Greys are for her—­well, the Greys—­we must do our best to make it pleasant for him until your aunt and uncle return.”