t to the sea. It is a long way."

"Yes," returned Rivers, "and so we too are drifting."

"Oh, no, sir," said John, with the confidence of youth, "we are not
drifting, we are sailing--not just like the leaves anywhere the waves
take them."

"More or less," added Rivers moodily, "more or less."

He looked at the boy as he spoke, conscious of a nature unlike his own.
Then he laughed outright. "You may be sure we are a good deal hustled by
circumstances--like the leaves."

"I should prefer to hustle circumstances," replied John gaily, and again
the rector studied the young face and wondered what life had in store for
this resolute nature.

"Come, let us go. I have walked too far for me, I am overtired, John."

What it felt to be overtired, John hardly knew. He said, "I know a short
cut, cater-cornered across the new clearing."

As they walked homeward, Rivers said, "What do you want to do, John? You
are more than fit for the university--you should be thinking about it."

"I do not know."

"Would you like to be a clergyman?"

"No," said John decisively.

"Or a lawyer, or a doctor like Tom McGregor?"

"I do not know--I have not thought about it much, but I might like to go
to West Point."

"Indeed!"

"Yes, but I am not sure."

CHAPTER XII

When John was eager to hear what Leila wrote, his aunt laughed and said,
"As you know, there is always a word of remembrance for you, but her
letters would hardly interest you. They are about the girls and the
teachers and new gowns. Write to her--I will enclose it, but you need
expect no answer."

That Leila should have acquired interest in gowns seemed to him unlike
that fearless playmate. He learned that the rules of the school forbade
the writing of letters except to parents and near relatives. He was now
to write to Leila the first letter he had written since his laborious
epistles to his mother when at school. His compositions seemed to Rivers
childlike long after he showed notable competence in speech.

"DEAR LEILA: It is very hard that you cannot write to me. We are all well
here except Lucy, who is lame. It isn't very much.

"Of course you have heard about our good old Josiah. Isn't that slave law
wicked? Westways is angry and all turned round for Fremont. Mr. Grace has
been ill, and Uncle Jim is putting a roof on his chapel. Josiah left me
his traps when he ran away. He meant to make you a muskrat skin bag. I
found four in his traps, and I have ca