but he would not admit to himself that Leila's contemptuous epithet had
had any influence on his action. The outcome was a keen sense of happy
self-approval. When he had dressed for dinner, feeling pretty sore all
over, he found Leila waiting at the head of the stairs.

"John Penhallow, you threw your cap on the roof and went up to get it,
you did."

"I did, Leila, but how did you know?"

She smiled and replied, "I--I don't know, John. I am sorry for what I
said, and oh! John, Uncle Jim, he was pleased!"

"Do you think so?"

"Yes." She caught his hand and at the last landing let it fall. At
dinner, the Squire asked kindly: "Are you all right, my boy?"

"Yes, sir," and that was all.

Mark Rivers, who had heard of this incident from Mrs. Penhallow, and at
last from Leila, was alone in a position to comprehend the motives which
combined to bring about an act of rashness. The rector had some sympathy
with the boy and liked him for choosing a time when no one was present
to witness his trial of himself. He too had the good sense like the
Squire to ask no questions.

Meanwhile, Tom McGregor came no more, feeling the wound to his pride, but
without the urgent need felt by John to set himself in a better position
with himself. He would have thought nothing of accepting Leila's
challenge, but very much wanted to see the polite girl-boy brought to
shame. In fact, even the straightforward Squire, with all his ready
cordiality, at times found John's extreme politeness ridiculous at his
age, but knew it to be the result of absurd training and the absence
of natural association with other and manly boys. To Tom it was
unexplained and caused that very common feeling of vague suspicion of
some claim to superiority which refined manners imply to those who lack
manners altogether.

CHAPTER IV

April passed, the arbutus fragrance was gone, while the maples were
putting forth ruddy buds which looked like a prophecy of the distant
autumn and made gay with colour the young greenery of spring. Meanwhile,
school went on, and John grew stronger and broader in this altogether
wholesome atmosphere of outdoor activity and indoor life of kindness and
apparently inattentive indifference on the part of his busy uncle.

On an evening late in May, 1856 (John long remembered it), the Squire as
usual left their little circle and retired to the library, where he
busied himself over matters involving business letters, and then fell t