at a wretch you are, Ann Penhallow! Go in and repent."

"I don't," and laughing, joyously, she stood and looked after the tall
figure as he rode away happy and gaily singing, as he was apt to do if
pleased, the first army carol the satisfaction of the moment suggested:

Come out to the stable
As soon as you 're able,
And see that the horses
That they get some corn.
For if you don't do it,
The colonel will know it,
And then you will rue it
As sure as you're born.

"Ah!" said his wife, "how he goes back--always goes back--to the wild
army life when something pleases him. Thank God that can never come
again." She recalled her first year of married life, the dull garrison
routine, the weeks of her husband's absences, and when the troop came
back and there were empty saddles and weeping women.

At dinner the Squire must needs drink the young cadet's health and
express to Rivers his regret that there was not a West Point for Leila.
Mrs. Ann was of opinion that she had had too much of it already. Rivers
agreed with his hostess, and in one of his darkest days won the privilege
of long silences by questioning the Squire in regard to the studies and
life at West Point, while Mrs. Ann more socially observant than her
husband saw how moody was Rivers and with what effort he manufactured
an appearance of interest in the captain's enthusiasm concerning
educative methods at the great army school. She was relieved when he
carried off Rivers to the library.

"It is chilly, Mark; would you like a fire?" he asked.

"Yes, I am never too warm."

The Squire set the logs ablaze. "No pipe, Mark?"

"Not yet." He stretched out his lean length before the ruddy birch blaze
and was silent. The Squire watched him and made no attempt to disturb the
deep reverie in which the young clergyman remained. At last the great
grey eyes turned from the fire, and Rivers sat up in his chair, as he
said, "You must have seen how inconsiderately I have allowed my
depression to dismiss the courtesies of life. I owe you and my dear Mrs.
Penhallow both an apology and an explanation."--

"But really, Mark--"

"Oh, let me go on. I have long wanted to talk myself out, and as often my
courage has failed. I have had a most unhappy life, Penhallow. All the
pleasant things in it--the past few years--have been given me here. I
married young--"

"One moment, Mark. Before you came to us the Bishop wrote me in
confidence of your life. Not even Mrs. Penhallow has