I was so eager to go to him, that it was with difficulty I finished his letter before starting. Death had been sent home, and was in the stable, sorely missing his master. I called Dick, and told him to get ready to ride with me to Wittenage; he must take Thanatos, and be at the door with Zoe in twenty minutes. We started. As we left the gate, I caught sight of John coming from the other direction, his eyes on the ground, lost in meditation. I stopped. He looked up, saw me, and was at my side in two moments. “I have heard from my uncle,” I said. “He wants me. I am going to him.” “If only I had my horse!” he answered. “Why shouldn't you take Thanatos?” I rejoined. “No,” he answered, after a moment's hesitation. “It would be an impertinence. I will walk, and perhaps see you there. It's only sixteen miles, I think.--What a splendid creature he is!” “He's getting into years now,” I replied; “but he has been in the stable several days, and I am doubtful whether Dick will feel quite at home on him.” “Then your uncle would rather I rode him! He knows I am no tailor!” said John. “How?” I asked. “I don't mean he knows who I am, but he saw me a fortnight ago, in one of our fields, giving Leander, who is but three, a lesson or two. He stopped and looked on for a good many minutes, and said a kind word about my handling of the horse. He will remember, I am sure.” “How glad I am he knows something of you! If you don't mind being seen with me, then, there is no reason why you should not give me your escort.” Dick was not sorry to dismount, and we rode away together. I was glad of this for one definite reason, as well as many indefinite: I wanted John to see my letter, and know what cause I had to love my uncle. I forgot for the moment my resolution not to meet him again before telling my uncle everything. Somehow he seemed to be going with me to receive my uncle's approval. He read the letter, old Death carrying him all the time as gently as he carried myself--I often rode him now--and returned it with the tears in his eyes. For a moment or two he did not speak. Then he said in a very solemn way, “I see! I oughtn't to have a chance if he be against me! I understand now why I could not get you to promise!--All right! The Lord have mercy upon me!” “That he will! He is always having mercy upon us!” I answered, loving John and my uncle and God more than ever. I loved John for this especially, at the moment--that his nature remained uninjured toward others by his distrust of her who should have had the first claim on his confidence. I said to myself that, if a man had a bad mother and yet was a good man, there could be no limit to the goodness he must come to. That he was a man after my uncle's own heart, I had no longer the least doubt. Nor was it a small thing to me that he rode beautifully--never seeming to heed his horse, and yet in constant touch with him.