"Leila will teach you."
John was silent, regarding his uncle with never dying interest, the soldier of Indian battles, the perfect rider and good shot, adored in the stables and loved, as John was learning, in all the country side. John was in the grip of a boy's admiration for a realized ideal—the worship, by the timid, of courage. Of the few things he did well, he thought little; and an invalid's fears had discouraged rough games until he had become like a timorous girl. He had much dread of horses, and was alarmingly sure that he would some day be made to ride. Once in Paris he had tried, had had a harmless accident and, willingly yielding to his mother's fears, had tried no more.
Late in the afternoon, Leila, with her long wake of flying hair, burst into the Squire's den. "What the deuce is the matter?" asked Penhallow.
"Oh! Uncle Jim, he can skate like—like a witch. I couldn't keep near him. He skated an 'L' for my name. Uncle Jim, he's a fraud."
Penhallow knew now why the boy had grinned at him. "I think, Leila, he will do. Where did he learn to skate?"
"At Vevey, he says, on the Lake."
"Yes, of Geneva."
"Tom McGregor was there and Bob Grace. We played tag. John knows a way to play tag on skates. You must chalk your right hand and you must mark with it the other fellow's right shoulder. It must be jolly. We had no chalk, but we are to play it to-morrow. Isn't it interesting, Uncle John?"
Penhallow laughed. "Interesting, my dear? Oh! your aunt will be after you with a stick."
"Aunt Ann's—stick!" laughed Leila.