at first which was Anthony, and which his own dear mischievous rogue!  They were so marvellously alike, that, seen at a distance, he scarcely knew which to call his son.  And then how delightedly he listened to their laughing details of tricks and hoaxes, served off upon cross masters and tyrannical ushers, laughing more loudly than they, and suggesting improvements in mischievous pranks already too mischievous!  Poor Algernon! in spite of the increasing infirmities of age, and the pressure of cares which his reckless extravagance could not fail to produce, he was perfectly happy in the company of these dear boys, and once more a boy himself.

He never inquired what progress they had made in their studies.  He had put them to school, and paid for their schooling, and if they had not profited by their opportunities, it was no fault of his.  Had he examined them upon this important subject, he would, indeed, have been surprised at the difference between them.  Anthony, naturally studious, had made the most of his time, while master Godfrey had wasted his, and brought with him a small stock of literary acquirements, and many vices.

“What will my uncle say, when he finds how little you have learned during the last half year?” said Anthony to his cousin, while they were dressing for dinner.

“He’ll never trouble his head about it, without you, Mr. Anthony, put him up to it, to show off your superior powers of drudgery.  But mark me, Tony, if you dare to say one word about it, you and I shall quarrel.”

“But what are we to do about Mr. Cunningham’s letter?  You know he gave me one to give to your father; and I much fear that it contains some remarks not very creditable to you.”

“Did you give it to papa?”

“Not yet.  Here it is.”

“Let me look at the old fellow’s autograph.  What a bad hand for a schoolmaster!  I will spare my dear lazy father the trouble of deciphering these villainous pot-hooks.  Ha! ha! my good, industrious, quiet, plodding cousin Anthony, heir of Oak Hall, in the county of Wilts, there lies your amiable despatch;” and he spurned the torn document with his foot.  “That’s the way that I mean to serve all those who dare to criticise my actions.”

“But, dear Godfrey, it is yourself that you injure by this awful waste of your time and talents.”

“Talents!—­Fiddlesticks!  What care I for talents, without it were those shining substantial talents spoken of in the Scriptures—­talents of gold and silver.  Give me these talents, my boy, and you may profit by all the rest.  Wasting of time!  How can we waste that which we can neither overtake, nor detain when ours, and which when past is lost for ever?  Miser of moments! in another school than thine, Godfrey Hurdlestone will learn to improve the present.”

“But those wasted moments, Godfrey, how will the recollection of them embitter the future!  Remember, my dear cousin, what our good chaplain often told us—­’Time is but the ante-chamber to Eternity!’”