They glow--oh, they
get halos about them. He ought to be in a great city."
"Oh, my dear, Mark Rivers has his limitations like all of us. He would
die. Even here he has to be watched. McGregor told him last year that he
was suffering from the contagion of other people's wickedness with
occasional acute fits of over-conscientiousness. Rivers said it was
incomprehensible nonsense; he was almost angry."
"And yet it is true, Uncle Jim."
"I'm glad I haven't the disease. I told McGregor as much. By George! he
said my variety of the disorder was about other folk's stupidity. Then,
when I said that I didn't understand him, he laughed. He makes me furious
when he only laughs and won't answer--and won't explain."
"Why, uncle! I love to see him laugh. He laughs all over--he shakes. I
told him it was a mirthquake. That set him off again. Was Tom McGregor
badly hurt?"
"No, not badly."
"Will aunt go to church to-morrow?"
"No."
"I thought she would not. I should love to see you in uniform."
"Not here, my dear, but I will send you a daguerreotype."
* * * * *
When on this Sunday long remembered in Westways, the tall figure of Mark
Rivers rose to open the service, he saw the little church crowded, the
aisles filled, and in the front pews Penhallow, his niece, and behind
them the young men who were to join his regiment.
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