Meanwhile George Grey, under the necessity of avoiding the village for a time, was rather bored.  He had criticized the stables and the horses, and had been told that the Squire relied with good reason on the judgment of Josiah in regard to the promise of good qualities in colts.  Then, used to easy roadsters, he had been put on the Squire’s rough trotter and led by the tireless lad had come back weary from long rides across rough country fields and over fences.  The clergyman would talk no more politics, John pleaded lessons, and it was on the whole dull, so that Mr. Grey was pleased to hear of the early return of his cousin.  A letter to John desired him to meet his aunt on the 8th, and accordingly he drove to the station at Westways Crossing, picking up Billy on the way.  Mrs. Ann got out of the car followed by the conductor and brakeman carrying boxes and bundles, which Billy, greatly excited, stowed away under the seats of the Jersey wagon.  Mrs. Penhallow distributed smiles and thanks to the men who made haste to assist, being one of the women who have no need to ask help from any man in sight.

“Now, Billy,” she said, “be careful with those horses.  When you attend, you drive very well.”

She settled herself on the back seat with John, delighted to be again where her tireless sense of duty kept her busy—­quite too busy at times, thought some of the village dames.  “Your Uncle James will soon be at home.  Is his pet scamp any better?”

John did not know, but Josiah’s rheumatism was quite well.

“Sister-in-law has a baby.  Six trout I ketched; they’re at the house for you—­weighs seven pounds,” said Billy without turning round.

“Trout or baby?” said Ann, laughing.

“Baby, ma’am.”

“Thanks, but don’t talk any more.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How is Leila?” asked John.  “Does she like it at school?”

“No, not at all; but she will.”

“I don’t, Aunt Ann.”

“I suppose not.”

“Am I to be allowed to write to her?”

“I think not.  There is some rule that letters, but—­” and she laughed merrily.  The rector, who worshipped her, said once that her laugh was like the spring song of birds.  “But sometimes I may be naughty enough to let you slip a few lines into my letters.”

“That is more than I hoped for.  I am—­I was so glad to get you back, Aunt Ann, that I forgot to tell you, Mr. George Grey has come.”

“How delightful!  He has been promising a visit for years.  How pleased James will be!  I wonder how the old bachelor ever made up his mind.  I hope you made it pleasant, John.”

“I tried to, aunt.”  Whether James Penhallow would like it was for John doubtful, but he said nothing further.

“The cities are wild about politics, and there is no end of trouble in Philadelphia over the case of a fugitive slave.  I was glad to get away to Grey Pine.”

John had never heard her mention this tender subject and was not surprised when she added quickly, “But I never talk politics, John, and you are too young to know anything about them.”  This was by no means true, as she well knew.  “How are my chickens?” She asked endless questions of small moment.