He was thinking of his future, and wondering what he would be able to make of it. He had almost decided that he would not take orders when his college days were done, which would be at the summer vacation. The prospect of becoming a curate, or even a North Country vicar did not attract him; on the other hand, he had no particular leanings in any other direction. That which would have suited him down to the ground, he sometimes told himself whimsically, was the position of a country gentleman, with a good library, a well-stocked stable, plenty of dogs and troops of friends. His was a genial, breezy nature; he had a firm hand, a just mind, and a clear brain, added to a boyish love of the unusual and adventurous. Peter was a favourite in the village. He liked pretty faces, and flirted openly, but he left the lasses' hearts none the worse. He fished and hunted with the lads; he talked politics with the tailor, religion with the cobbler, and with Jake, the rat-catcher, spent many a long afternoon. It was Jake who taught him to play upon the flute, and though he never managed to charm the rats with his music--as the strange little man did--he had the young men and maids capering on the bit of green before the inn door on summer evenings, long after they ought to have been abed. His meditation was interrupted by a horseman calling from over the wall: "Halloa! Peter, back again?" It was Joel Hart. "I'm glad to see you," said he. "I thought you'd made up your mind to go abroad and seek your fortune," replied Peter, shaking hands heartily. "So I had, but I broke it again. I couldn't be quite sure where to find the fortune." They both laughed, but Joel had a note of envy in his mirth. "You're a lucky dog, Peter," he exclaimed, "to have money in your pockets and a fond father ready to supply more. How long are you home for?" "Six weeks. It's the Easter vacation." "Good! we'll have some fishing and wrestling--eh? We'll make a damned fine holiday of it. I want something to take my mind off the worry of wondering where my bread and butter is to come from. You don't want to work, I bet; had enough of that sort of thing down yonder--eh? Come and have a glass at the Wild Boar." He alighted and leading his horse by the bridle walked down the village street with Peter. When they were boys they had gone nutting and fishing together, and the memory of many a hairbreadth escape still bound them with the links of affection, though in mind and character they had long since drifted apart.