“Ay,” the boy muttered, and she saw a look of surprise on his father’s face.

“There,” she said, “he has made his amends, and surely that may suffice.”

“Nay, madam, it would be a weak and ungodly tenderness that would spare to drive forth the evil spirit which possesses the child by the use of the rod.  I should fail in my duty alike to God and man,” he added, in reply to a fresh gesture of intercession, “did I not teach him what it is to insult a lady at mine own door.”

Mrs. Woodford could only go away, heartily sorry for the boy.  From that time, however, both she and her little daughter were untouched by his tricks, though every one else had some complaint.  Peas were shot from unknown recesses at venerable canons, mice darted out before shrieking ladies, frogs’ clammy forms descended on the nape of their necks, hedgehogs were curled up on their chairs, and though Peregrine Oakshott was not often caught in the act, no mischief ever took place that was not attributed to him; and it was popularly believed in the Close that his father flogged him every morning for what he was about to do, and his tutor repeated the castigation every evening for what he had done, besides interludes at each detection.

Perhaps frequent usage had toughened his skin, or he had become expert in wriggling from the full force of the blow, or else, as many believed, the elfish nature was impervious; for he was as ready as ever for a trick the moment he was released, like, as his brother said, the dog Keeper, who, with a slaughtered chick hung round his neck in penance, rushed murderously upon the rest of the brood.

Yet Mrs. Woodford, on her way through the Cathedral nave, was aware of something leaning against one of the great columns, crouching together so that the dark head, supported on the arms, rested against the pillar which fluted the pier.  The organ was pealing softly and plaintively, and the little gray coat seemed to heave as with a sob.  She stood, impelled to offer to take him with her into the choir, but a verger, spying him, began rating him in a tone fit for expelling a dog, “Come, master, none of your pranks here!  Be not you ashamed of yourself to be lying in wait for godly folk on their way to prayers?  If I catch you here again the Dean shall hear of it, and you shall smart for it.”

Mrs. Woodford began, “He was only hearkening to the music,” but she caught such a look of malignity cast upon the verger as perfectly appalled her, and in another moment the boy had dashed, head over heels, out at the nearest door.

The next report that reached her related how a cloud of lime had suddenly descended from a broken arch of the cloister on the solemn verger, on his way to escort the Dean to the Minster, powdering his wig, whitening his black gown from collar to hem, and not a little endangering his eyesight.

The culprit eluded all pursuit on this occasion; but Mrs. Woodford soon after was told that the Major had caught Peregrine listening at the little south door of the choir, had collared him, and flogged him worse than ever, for being seduced by the sounds of the popish and idolatrous worship, and had told all his sons that the like chastisement awaited them if they presumed to cross the threshold of the steeple house.