ish you'd stay here, lad. I'm much alone these days--with the old gentleman gone, and poor Nancy gone!"
"Perhaps I shall. Anyhow I might stay here for the summer, and go up to town to the office."
"Aye, you might do that, anyhow." Again Jack Rock seemed meditative, as though he had an idea and were half-minded to disclose it. But he was a man of caution; he bided his time.
Andy--nobody had ever called him Andrew since the parson who christened him--seemed to himself to have got home again, very thoroughly home again. Montreal with its swelling hill, its mighty river, its winter snow, its Frenchness, its opposing self-defensive, therefore self-assertive, Britishness, was very remote. A talk with Jack Rock, a Conservative meeting with a squire in the chair (that was safely to be assumed), a meet of the hounds next morning--these and a tide of intimate personal memories stamped him as at home again. The long years in the little house at the extreme end of Highcroft--Highcroft led out of High
Decently-written story though lacking in great excitement and far too lengthy with numerous secondary plots.
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