After supper Phillip lead John to the library for a smoke. It was a small room, shabby in appearance, lined from floor to ceiling with shelves containing a collection of literature typical of fifty years ago: the _Spectator_ in small calf-bound and discoloured volumes, Pepys and Evelyn, several mythologies, Richardson and Sterne, countless cloth-backed volumes of the British poets, the Waverley Novels in ponderous forms, and hundreds of other books of whose existence the world has long since forgotten. Later the two returned to the drawing-room, where before a big oak fire Mrs. Ryerson and Margaret were awaiting them. It was a quiet evening and a pleasant one. The two women were full of questions regarding Phillip’s college life which his letters had failed to answer, and so he explained a great deal, constantly turning to John for corroboration. The latter listened, answered when appealed to, threw in a word of his own now and then, watched the flames and sometimes Margaret, and was delightfully restful and contented. He was a trifle saddle-sore and somewhat sleepy. At nine Mrs. Ryerson retired, and after a few minutes more of almost silent contemplation of the fire the others followed suit. “I’m jolly sleepy,” said Phillip. “Besides, we’re to shoot in the morning. Aunt Cicely is to give us breakfast at seven.” John lay in the big four-poster watching the firelight dance on the white walls and thinking over the incidents of the day for quite ten minutes. Then with the distant baying of a foxhound in his ears he turned over and began to snore. CHAPTER XV John awoke, threw his bare arms over his head, stretching them until the muscles stood out like ropes, and opened his eyes. The room was in darkness save for a dim yellow glow that shone over the high footboard. He wondered sleepily and closed his eyes. When he opened them again the yellow glow hurt them; it came from beside the bed and slowly evolved into a dimly burning lantern. By it Uncle Casper was kneeling, striking matches on the hearth. John wondered what time of night it was and hurled himself over onto his face. After awhile he awoke again. The windows were cold squares of gray light. In the chimney a fire crackled merrily, throwing leaping shadows about the dim room. By the washstand a tin bucket of hot water sent up curling filaments of steam. John yawned loudly. The door opened and Uncle Casper tiptoed in once more, bearing John’s shoes and trousers, the former shining like patent leather in the firelight, the latter newly brushed and folded. Disposing of these, the darky knelt by the hearth, not without many rheumatic protestations, and replenished the fire. John yawned again. “Good-morning, Uncle,” he said. “Mawnin’, sir, mawnin’. I trusts yo’ slep’ well, sir?” “Like a top!” answered John. “What time is it?” “Quarter of seven, sir. Mister Phil’s up an’ sends his comp’ments an’ says breakfas’ will be ready right away, sir.”