"McGregor, I have a great charity for a drunkard's son—and the rest you know."
"Yes, too well."
"I try to put myself in his place—with his inheritance—"
"You can't. Nothing is more kind than that in some cases, and nothing more foolish in others or in this—"
"Perhaps. I will think it over, Doctor. Good-bye."
Meanwhile Grace lay in bed thoughtfully considering the situation. While her husband seemed practically inactive in politics, Mrs. Penhallow had been busy, and she had clearly hinted that the roofing of the chapel might depend on how Grace used his large influence in the electoral contest, but had said nothing very definite. He was well aware, however, that in his need for help he had bowed a little in the House of Rimmon. Then he had talked with Rivers and straightened up, and now did the Squire's offer imply any pledge on his own part? While he tried to solve this problem, Penhallow reappeared.
"I forgot something, Grace," he said. "Mrs. Penhallow will send Mrs. Lamb here for a few days, and some—oh, some little luxuries—ice and fresh milk."
The Baptist did not like it. Was this to keep him in the way he had resolved not to go. "Thank you and her," he returned, and then added abruptly, "How are you meaning to vote, Squire?"
"Oh, for Fremont," replied Penhallow, rather puzzled.
"Well, that will be good news in Westways." It was to him, too, and he felt himself free. "Isn't Mrs. Penhallow rather on the other side?"