inable business about my poor Josiah. You
and your aunt, John, have been, as you may know, breaking the law of your
country--"

Rivers, surprised and still partially ignorant, looked from one to
another.

"Oh, James!" remonstrated his wife, not overpleased.

"Wait a little, my dear Ann. Now, John, I want to hear precisely how you
gave Josiah a warning and--well--all the rest. You ought to know that my
little lady did as usual the right thing. The risks and whatever there
might have been of danger were ours by right--a debt paid to a poor
runaway who had made us his friends. Now, John!"

Rivers watched his pupil with the utmost interest. John stood up a little
excited by this unexpected need to confess. He leaned against the side of
the mantel and said, "Well, you see, Uncle Jim, I got in at the back--"

"I don't see at all. I want to be made to see--I want the whole story."

John had in mind that he had done a rather fine thing and ought to relate
it as lightly as he had heard Woodburn tell of furious battles with
Apaches. But, as his uncle wanted the whole story, he must have some good
reason, and the young fellow was honestly delighted. Standing by the
fire, watched by three people who loved him, and above all by the
Captain, his ideal of what he felt he himself could never be, John
Penhallow told of his entrance to Josiah's room and of his thought of
the cabin as a hiding-place. When he hesitated, Penhallow said, "Oh,
don't leave out, John Penhallow, I want all the details. I have my
reasons, John."

Flushed and handsome, with his strong young face above the figure which
was to have his uncle's athletic build, he related his story to the
close. As he told of the parting with the frightened fugitive and the
hunted man's last blessing, he was affected as he had not been at the
time. "That's all, Uncle Jim. It was too bad--and he will never come
back."

"He could," said Rivers.

"Yes--but he will not. I know the man," said Penhallow. "He has the
courage of the minute, but the timidity of the slave. We shall see him no
more, I fear."

The little group around the fire fell to silence, and John sat down. He
wanted a word of approval, and got it. "I want you to know, John," said
Penhallow, "that I think you behaved with courage and discretion. It was
not an errand for a boy, but no man could have done better, and your aunt
had no one else. I am glad she had not."

Then John Penhallow felt that he was shaky and