an on earth could I speak as I have done to
you; but Mark, if things get worse--and they will--what then? John
asked me what we should do if the Southern States did really secede.
Things seem to stick in his mind like burrs--he was at it again next
day."

Rivers smiled. "Like me, I suppose."

"Yes, Mark. He is persistent about everything--lessons, sports, oh!
everything; an uncomfortably curious lad, too. These Southern opinions
about reclaiming a man's slaves bother the boy. He reads my papers, and
how can I stop him? I don't want to. There! we are at it again."

"Yes, there is no escape from these questions."

"And he has even got Leila excited and she wants to know--I told her to
ask Ann Penhallow--I have not heard of the result. Well, you are going.
Good-night."

The Squire sat still in the not very agreeable company of his thoughts.
Leila was to go to school this September, Buchanan's election in November
was sure, and John--He had come to love the lad, and perhaps he had been
too severe. Then he thought of the boy's fight and smiled. The rector and
he had disagreed. Was it better for boys to abuse one another or to
settle things by a fight? The rector had urged that his argument for the
ordeal of battle would apply with equal force to the duel of men. He had
said, "No, boys do not kill; and after all even the duel has its values."
Then the rector said he was past praying for and had better read the
Decalogue.

When next day Mark Rivers was being shaved by the skilled hand of Josiah,
he heard the voice of his friend and fishing-companion, the Rev. Isaac
Grace, "What about the trout-brook this afternoon?"

"Of course," said Mark, moveless under the razor. "Call for me at five."

"Seen yesterday's _Press_?"

"No. I can't talk, Grace."

"This town's all for Buchanan and Breckenridge. How will the Squire
vote?"

"Ask him. Take care, Josiah."

"If the Squire isn't taking any active part, Mrs. Penhallow is. She is
taking a good deal of interest in the roof of my chapel and--and--other
things."

The rector did not like it. "I can't talk, Grace."

"But I can."--"Well," thought the rector, "for an intelligent man you are
slow at taking hints." The good-natured rotund preacher went on, amazing
his helpless friend, "I wonder if the Squire would like her canvassing--"

"Ask him."

"Guess not. She's a good woman, but not just after the fashion of St.
Paul's women."

"She hasn't done no talking to me," sai