"Oh, my dear Ann, Dr. McGregor said—"
"Never mind Dr. McGregor, James. Go and smoke your cigar. I am tired and
I must not talk any more—talking on a train always tires me."
Two days after the departure of his aunt and uncle, John persuaded Rivers to walk with him on the holiday morning of Saturday. The clergyman caring little for the spring charm of the maiden summer, but much for John Penhallow's youth of promise, wandered on slowly through the woods, with head bent forward, stumbling now and then, lost to a world where his companion was joyfully conscious of the prettiness of new-born and translucent foliage.
Always pleased to sit down, Rivers dropped his thin length of body upon the brown pine-needles near the cabin and settling his back against a fallen tree-trunk made himself comfortable. As usual, when at rest, he began to talk.
"John," he said, "you and Tom McGregor had a quarrel long ago—and a fight."
"Yes, sir," returned John wondering.
"I saw it—I did not interfere at once—I was wrong."
This greatly amused John. "You stopped it just in time for me—I was about done for."
"Yes, but now, John, I have talked to Tom, and—I am afraid you have never made it up."
"No, he was insolent to Leila and rude. But we had a talk about it—oh, a good while ago—before she went away."