Now
don't say a word until I have done. Listen! This man turned up here over
three years ago and was soon employed about my stables. He broke his leg
in stopping a runaway and saved my wife's young niece, our adopted child,
Leila Grey. There was some other kind and efficient service. That's all.
Now, can you dine with me?"
"With all my heart, Jim. Damn Grey! Did he talk much?"
"Did he? No, he gabbled. But are you satisfied?"
"Yes, Jim. I am sorry I drove off your barber--and I shall hold my tongue
when I get home--as far as I can."
"Then come. I have some of my father's Madeira, if Grey has left any. I
shall say a word to Mrs. Penhallow. By George! I am glad to have you."
Penhallow showed Woodburn to a room, and feeling relieved and even
elated, found his wife, who had tired of waiting and had gone to get
ready to dine. He told her in a few words enough to set her at ease with
the new guest. Then Mark Rivers came in and John Penhallow, who having
heard about the stranger's errand was puzzled when he became aware of the
cordial relations of his uncle and Mr. Woodburn.
The dinner was pleasant and unembarrassed. The lad whom events had
singularly matured listened to gay memories of West Point and to talk of
cadets whose names were to live in history or who had been distinguished
in our unrighteous war with Mexico.
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