"Not often, sir—hardly ever. They are kept in your library or Aunt
Ann's."
"Well, it is time you did read them. Come in here when you want to be alone—or any time. You won't bother me. Take what books you want, and ask me about the politics of the day. The country is going to the devil, but don't discuss this election with your aunt."
"No, sir." He had gathered from the rector enough to make him understand the warning.
John went out with the idea that this business of learning to ride was somewhere in the future. He was a little disturbed when the next day after breakfast his uncle said, "Come, John, the horses are in the training-ring."
Mrs. Ann said, "James, if you are going to apply West Point riding-school methods to John, I protest."
"Then protest, my dear," he said.
"You will kill him," she returned.
"My dear Ann, I am not going to kill him, I am going to teach him to live. Come, John. I am going to teach him to ride." Raising horses was one of the Squire's amusements, and the training-course where young horses were broken usually got an hour of his busy day.
"May I come?" asked Leila.
"Please, not," said John, anticipating disaster and desiring no amused spectators.