He remembered the Alps and the _spas_ and her fretful care of his very good health, and then the delight of being free and surrounded with all a boy desires, and at last Leila and the wonderful hair on the snow-drift.
"Look at the leaves, John," said Rivers.

"What fleets of red and gold!" "I wonder," said John, "how far they will drift, and if any of them will ever float to the sea.

It is a long way." "Yes," returned Rivers, "and so we too are drifting." "Oh, no, sir," said John, with the confidence of youth, "we are not drifting, we are sailing--not just like the leaves anywhere the waves take them." "More or less," added Rivers moodily, "more or less." He looked at the boy as he spoke, conscious of a nature unlike his own.
Then he laughed outright.

"You may be sure we are a good deal hustled by circumstances--like the leaves." "I should prefer to hustle circumstances," replied John gaily, and again the rector studied the young face and wondered what life had in store for this resolute nature.
"Come, let us go.

I have walked too far for me, I am overtired, John." What it felt to be overtired, John hardly knew.