You
and your aunt, John, have been, as you may know, breaking the law of your
country--"
Rivers, surprised and still partially ignorant, looked from one to
another.
"Oh, James!" remonstrated his wife, not overpleased.
"Wait a little, my dear Ann. Now, John, I want to hear precisely how you
gave Josiah a warning and--well--all the rest. You ought to know that my
little lady did as usual the right thing. The risks and whatever there
might have been of danger were ours by right--a debt paid to a poor
runaway who had made us his friends. Now, John!"
Rivers watched his pupil with the utmost interest. John stood up a little
excited by this unexpected need to confess. He leaned against the side of
the mantel and said, "Well, you see, Uncle Jim, I got in at the back--"
"I don't see at all. I want to be made to see--I want the whole story."
John had in mind that he had done a rather fine thing and ought to relate
it as lightly as he had heard Woodburn tell of furious battles with
Apaches. But, as his uncle wanted the whole story, he must have some good
reason, and the young fellow was honestly delighted. Standing by the
fire, watched by three people who loved him, and above all by the
Captain, his ideal of what he felt he himself could never be, John
Penhallow told of his entrance to Josiah's room and of his thought of
the cabin as a hiding-place.
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