That was the first fright and humiliation that Master Ned brought on his people; and he brought so many of these in after years, that the time came when his parents, and all, were rather glad than sorry each time he packed off again, and shuddered rather than rejoiced when, after an absence, he turned up safe and healthy as ever, with his old hangdog smile beneath which lurked a look half-defiant, half-injured.  As he grew older, and the boy in him made room for the man, there was less of the smile, less injury, more defiance.

I do not remember how many years it was after Philip’s coming to New York, that our Dutch schoolmaster went the way of all flesh, and there came in his place, to conduct a school for boys only and in more advanced studies, a pedagogue from Philadelphia, named Cornelius.  He was of American birth, but of European parentage, whether German or Dutch I never knew.  Certainly he had learning, and much more than was due alone to his having gone through the college at Princeton in New Jersey.  He was in the early twenties, tall and robust, with a large round face, and with these peculiarities:  that his hair, eyebrows, and lashes were perfectly white, his eyes of a singularly mild blue, his skin of a pinkish tint; that he was given to blushing whenever he met women or strangers, and that he spoke with pedantic preciseness, in a wondrously low voice.  But despite his bashfulness, there was a great deal in the man, and when an emergency rose he never lacked resource.

He it was to whom my education, and Ned Faringfield’s, was entrusted, while the girls and little Tom still strove with the rudiments in the dame-school.  He it was that carried us to the portals of college; and I carried Philip Winwood thither with me, by studying my lessons with him in the evenings.  In many things he was far beyond Mr. Cornelius’s highest teaching; but there had been lapses in his information, and these he filled up, and regulated his knowledge as well, through accompanying me in my progress.  And he continued so to accompany me, making better use of my books than ever I made, as I went through the King’s College; and that is the way in which Phil Winwood got his stock of learning eked out, and put in due shape and order.

It happened that Philip’s taste fastened upon one subject of which there was scarce anything to be learned by keeping pace with my studies, but upon which much was to be had from books in the college library, of which I obtained the use for him.  It was a strange subject for a youth to take up at that time, or any time since, and in that colonial country—­architecture.  Yet ’twas just like Phil Winwood to be interested in something that all around him neglected or knew nothing about.  What hope an American could have in the pursuit of an art, for which the very rare demands in his country were supplied from Europe, and which indeed languished the world over, I could not see.

“Very well, then,” said Phil, “’twill be worth while trying to waken this sleeping art, and to find a place for it in this out-of-the-way country.  I wouldn’t presume to attempt new forms, to be sure; but one might revive some old ones, and maybe try new arrangements of them.”