“I will.  Not to leave John quite alone, I have arranged for you to dine with him, and I suppose he will go to you in the mornings for his lessons as usual.”

“Oh, yes, of course.  I enjoy these fellows, but the able ones are John and Tom McGregor.  Tom is in the rough as yet, but he will come out all right.  I shall lose him in a year.  He is over seventeen and is to study medicine.  But what about Lamb?”

“I am wicked enough to wish he were really ill.  It is only the usual drunken bout, but he is a sort of Frankenstein to the Squire because of that absurd foster-brother feeling.  He is still in bed, I presume.”

“As you ask it,” said Rivers, “I will see him, but if he belongs to any flock, he is a black sheep of Grace’s fold.  Anything else, Mrs. Penhallow?” he asked smiling—­“but don’t trust my memory.”

“If I think of anything more, I shall make a note of it and, of course, you will see us at the station—­the ten o’clock train—­and give me a list of the books you wanted.  I may find them in Philadelphia.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh,” she said, turning back, “I forgot.  My cousin, George Grey, is coming, but he is so uncertain that he may come as he advises me in ten days, or as is quite possible to-morrow, or not at all.”

“Very good.  If he comes, we will try to make Grey Pine agreeable.”

“That is really all, Mark, I think,” and the little lady went away, with a pleasant word for the long familiar people as she went by.

In the afternoon Leila saw the Squire ride to the mills with John, and went herself to the stable for a last mournful interview with Lucy.  It was as well that her aunt with unconscious good sense kept her busy until dinner-time.  The girl was near to accepting the relieving bribe of unrestrained tears, being sad and at the age of those internal conflicts which at the time of incomplete formation of character are apt to trouble the more sensitive sex.  A good hard gallop would have cured her anticipative homesickness, for it must be a very black care indeed that keeps its seat behind the rider.

The next morning the rector and John were at the station of Westways Crossroads when the Grey Pine carriage drove up.  Mrs. Ann and Leila were a half hour too early, as was Mrs. Penhallow’s habit.  Billy was on the cart with the baggage, grinning as usual and full of self-importance.

“Well, Billy,” said Leila, talking to every one to conceal her child-grief at this parting with the joyous activities of her energetic young life.  “Well, Billy, it’s good-bye for a year.”

“Won’t have no more fun, Miss Leila—­and nobody to snowball Billy, this winter.”

“No, not this winter.”

“Found another ground-hog yesterday.  I’ll let her alone till you come back.”

John laughed.  “Miss Leila will have long skirts and—­hoops, Billy.  There will be no more coasting and no more snowballing or digging up ground-hogs.”