made argument with the simplicity of his wife’s political creed more and more undesirable.  Leila was too young to be interested.  The rector was intensely anti-slavery and saw but one side of the ominous questions which were bewildering the largest minds.  The increasing interest in his nephew was, therefore, a source of real relief to the uncle.  Meanwhile, the financial difficulties of the period demanded constant thought of the affairs of the mills and took him away at times to Philadelphia or Pittsburgh.  Thus the summer ran on to an end.  Buchanan and Breckenridge had been nominated and the Republicans had accepted Fremont and Dayton.

Birthdays were always pleasantly remembered at Grey Pine, and on September 20th, when John, aged sixteen, came down to breakfast, as he took his seat Ann came behind him and said as she kissed him, “You are sixteen to-day; here is my present.”

The boy flushed with pleasure as he received a pair of silver spurs.  “Oh! thank you, Aunt Ann,” he cried as he rose.

“And here is mine,” said Leila, and laughing asked with both hands behind her back, “Which hand, John?”

“Oh! both—­both.”

“No.”

“Then the one nearest the heart.”  Some quick reflection passed through Ann Penhallow’s mind of this being like an older man’s humour.

Leila gave him a riding-whip.  He had a moment’s return of the grown-up courtesies he had been taught, and bowed as he thanked her, saying, “Now, I suppose, I am your knight, Aunt Ann.”

“And mine,” said Leila.

“I do not divide with any one,” said Mrs. Ann.  “Where is your present, James?”

He had kept his secret.  “Come and see,” he cried.  He led them to the porch.  “That is mine, John.”  A thorough-bred horse stood at the door, saddled and bridled.  Ann thought the gift extravagant, but held her tongue.

“Oh, Uncle Jim,” said John.  His heart was too full for the words he wanted to say.  “For me—­for me.”  He knew what the gift meant.

“You must name him,” said Leila.  “I rode him once, John.  He has no name.  Uncle Jim said he should have no name until he had an owner.  Now I know.”

John stood patting the horse’s neck.  “Wasn’t his mother a Virginia mare, James?” said Ann.

“Yes.”

“Oh, then call him Dixy.”

For a moment the Squire was of a mind to object, but said gaily, “By all means, Ann, call him Dixy if you like, and now breakfast, please.”  Here they heard Dixy’s pedigree at length.

“Above all, Jack, remember that Dixy is of gentle birth; make friends with him.  He may misbehave; never, sir, lose your temper with him.  Be wary of use of whip or spur.”

There was more of it, until Mrs. Ann said, “Your coffee will be cold.  It is one of your uncle’s horse-sermons.”

John laughed.  How delightful it all was!  “May I ride today with you, uncle?”

“Yes, I want to introduce you to—­Dixy—­yes—­”