This was a friendly hearer, whose question John had invited. To-day the human relief of confession was great to the boy. He told the story, in bits, carefully, as if to have it exact were essential. Mark Rivers watched him through his pipe smoke, trying to think of what he could or should say to this small soul in trouble. The boy was lying on the floor looking up, his hands clasped behind his head. "That's all, sir. It's dreadful."
The young rector's directness of character set him on the right path. "I don't know just what to say to you, Jack. You see, you have been taught to be afraid of horses and dogs, of exposure to rain, and generally of being hurt, until—Well, Jack, if your mother had not been an invalid, she would not have educated you to fear, to have no joy in risks. Now you are in more wholesome surroundings—and—in a little while you will forget this small trouble."
The young clergyman felt that in his puzzle he had been rather vague, and added pleasantly, "You have the courage of truth. That's moral courage. Tom would have explained or denied, or done anything to get out of the scrape, if the Squire had come down on him. You would not."
"Oh! thank you," said John. "I'm sorry I troubled you."
"You did in a way; but you did not when you trusted a man who is your friend. Let us drop it. Where are those Indian graves?"
They went out and wandered in the woods, until John said, "Oh! this must be that arbutus Leila talks about, just peeping out from under the snow." They gathered a large bunch.
"It is the first breath of the fragrance of spring," said Rivers.
"Oh! yes, sir. How sweet it is! It does not grow in Europe."
"No, we own it with many other good and pleasant things."
When they came to the house, Leila was dismounting after her ride. John said, "Here Leila, I gathered these for you."