"Damn that black cuss," he
muttered, "and the preacher too. I'll make them sorry."
At the outer doorstep Mark Rivers stood still and wiped the sweat from
his forehead. There must be minutes in the life of the most spiritually
minded clergyman when to bow a little in the Rimmon House of the gods of
profane language would be a relief. He may have had the thought, for he
smiled self-amused and remembered his friend Grace. Then he took himself
to task, reflecting that he should have been more gently kind, and was
there not some better mode of approaching this man? Was he not a spirit
in prison, as St. Peter said? What right had he with his beliefs to
despair of any human soul? Then he dismissed the matter and went home to
his uncompleted sermon. He would have to tell the Squire; yes, that would
be advisable.
The days at Grey Pine ran on in the routine of lessons, riding, and
the pleasure for John of representing his uncle in the oversight of the
young thoroughbred colts and the stables. Brief talks with Rivers of
books and politics filled the after-dinner hour, and when he left John
fell with eagerness on the newspapers of the day. His uncle's mail he
forwarded to Pittsburgh, and heard from him that he would not return
until mid-October. His aunt would be at home about the 8th, and Leila
was now at her school.
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