“It is hard knowing what may or may not be useful in after life, seeing that God in His wisdom hides what that life is to be.”

“Very true,” agreed my father, with a twinkle, and took snuff.

“But—­but what brings you here?” cried I, with a catch of the breath, ignoring all this.

“Nevertheless, such comely lads as they be,” my uncle continued, “God will doubtless bring them to good.  Comelier lads, brother, I never saw, nor, I think, the sun never shined on; yet there was one, at the bowls yonder, was swearing so it grieved me to the heart.”

“Put on your clothes, boy,” said my father, answering me.  “We have ridden far, but we bring no ill news; and to-morrow—­I have the Head-master’s leave for it—­you ride on with us to London.”

“To London!” My heart gave another great leap, as every boy’s must on hearing that he is to see London for the first time.  But here we all turned at a cry from Billy Priske, between whose planted ankles Master Fiennes had mischievously crept and was measuring the span between with extended thumb and little finger.  My father stooped, haled him to his feet by the collar, and demanded what he did.

“Why, sir, he’s a Colossus!” quoted that nimble youth;

“’and we petty men
Walk under his huge legs and peer about—­’”

“And will find yourself a dishonourable grave,” my father capped him.  “What’s your name, boy?”

“Fiennes, sir; Nathaniel Fiennes.”  The lad saluted.

My father lifted his hat in answer.  “Founder’s kin?”

“I am here on that condition, sir.”

“Then you are kinsman, as well as namesake, of him who saved our Wykeham’s tomb in the Parliament troubles.  I felicitate you, sir, and retract my words, for by that action of your kinsman’s shall the graves of all his race and name be honoured.”

Young Fiennes bowed.  “Compliments fly, sir, when gentlemen meet.  But”—­and he glanced over his shoulder and rubbed the small of his back expressively, “as a Wykehamist, you will not have me late at names-calling.”

“Go, boy, and answer to yours; they can call no better one.”  My father dipped a hand in his pocket.  “I may not invite you to breakfast with us to-morrow, for we start early; and you will excuse me if I sin against custom. . . .  It was esteemed a laudable practice in my time.”  A gold coin passed.

“Et in saecula saeculo—­o—­rum.  Amen!” Master Fiennes spun the coin, pocketed it, and went off whistling schoolwards over the meads.

My father linked his arm in mine and we followed, I asking, and the three of them answering, a hundred questions of home.  But why, or on what business, we were riding to London on the morrow my father would not tell.  “Nay, lad,” said he, “take your Bible and read that Isaac asked no questions on the way to Moriah.”

“My uncle, who overheard this, considered it for a while, and said—­