“I’m glad some one with a cool head was on hand to pick up those reins,” he declared. “It might have been a nasty mess if the team had really got under way. I’m thankful it was no worse. And we, both of us, ought to be grateful to that boy.” That was his sole reference to the Cook grandson. Esther’s apprehensions were not realized and her ruffled feathers relaxed. The remainder of the conversation was a mutual glorification over the result of the trotting match. “After all,” he chuckled, as they drove up at the side door, “Varunas had it right when he said they can’t beat us Townsends. Eh, Esther?” Esther nodded gleefully. “Indeed they can’t, Uncle Foster!” she agreed. She was proud of the name. It _was_ splendid to be a Townsend. That evening, after she had gone up to bed, the chieftain of the Townsend clan spent several hours in the leather easy-chair thinking and planning. Here was a new and unforeseen complication, one which, he now realized, was certain to be followed by more of the same variety. He should have foreseen it, of course. It was as natural as life, it was what made life. Esther was a pretty, attractive girl. She was bound to attract masculine admiration. As she grew older there would be more of them and the consequent complications were serious. He could not prevent that, therefore he must see to it that her associates were of the right kind. She must have friends--yes; but if he undertook to select some and forbid others there would be trouble. In Harniss the social circle was limited and its boundaries not very clearly defined. If she could be taken away from there, put under careful supervision somewhere else, kept interested in other things, until she was old enough and sufficiently accustomed to the privileges of wealth and station, to judge more clearly--then--humph! But where--and how? The clock struck twelve and he had reached no satisfactory solution. Whatever was done must be done with diplomacy. The light hand on the rein must continue light for a long time to come. The colt was still a colt--and skittish. It was the singing teacher who, quite unconsciously, gave him a clue. Mr. Gott came next day, at Townsend’s command, to talk over the matter of Esther’s musical education. He was surprisingly self-abnegating and honestly outspoken. “I can teach her about so much, Cap’n Townsend,” he said, “but she can go a whole lot farther than that if she has the chance. I’m about as good in my line as anybody in Harniss--yes, or Ostable County--if I do say so, but I don’t claim to be as good as the folks up to Boston. They are paid bigger rates than I am and they can afford to spend more time keeping abreast of their job. If I didn’t have to quit music teaching every little while to help run somebody’s funeral I might get ahead faster. If nobody died--but there! if they didn’t die _I_ would. I’d starve to death if I had to live on what I make learning folks to play piano and sing in _this_ town.”