changed in these three years abroad! He's
quite a man, now. Why, how old is he? It's hard for us elders to realize
that children grow up."

"Giff is twenty-six," Lois said.

"Why, to be sure," said Dr. Howe, "so he is! Of course, I might have
known it: he was born the year your brother was, Lois, and he would have
been twenty-six if he'd lived. Nice fellow, Gifford is. I'm sorry he's
not going to practice in Mercer. He has a feeling that it might interfere
with Denner in some way. But dear me, Denner never had a case outside
Ashurst in his life. Still, it shows good feeling in the boy; and I'm
glad he's going to be in Lockhaven. He'll keep an eye on Helen, and let
us know if she behaves with proper dignity. I think you'll like him, Mr.
Ward,--I would say John,--my dear fellow!"

There was a lack of sympathy on the part of the rector for the man at his
side, which made it difficult for him to drop the formal address, and
think of him as one of the family. "I respect Ward," he said once to his
sister,--"I can't help respecting him; but bless my soul, I wish he was
more like other people!" There was something about the younger man, Dr.
Howe did not know just what, which irritated him. Ward's earnestness was
positively aggressive, he said, and there seemed a sort of undress of the
mind in his entire openness and frankness; his truthfulness, which
ignored the courteous deceits of social life, was a kind of impropriety.

But John Ward had not noticed either the apology or the omission; no one
answered the rector, so he went on talking, for mere occupation.

"I always liked Gifford as a boy," he said; "he was such a manly fellow,
and no blatherskite, talking his elders to death. He never had much to
say, and when he did talk it was to the point. I remember once seeing
him--why, let me see, he couldn't have been more than fifteen--breaking a
colt in the west pasture. It was one of Bet's fillies, and as black as a
coal: you remember her, don't you, Lois?--a beauty! I was coming home
from the village early in the morning; somebody was sick,--let me see,
wasn't it old Mrs. Drayton? yes,--and I'd been sent for; it must have
been about six,--and there was Gifford struggling with that young mare in
the west pasture. He had thrown off his coat, and caught her by the mane
and a rope bridle, and he was trying to ride her. That blonde head of his
was right against her neck, and when she reared he clung to her till she
lifted him off