first remark to him was doubtless an inquiry as to his opinion on the subject of Latin and Greek in our colleges.  It’s all right to be this kind of a baby if you like that sort of thing.  For my part, I rejoice to think that there was once a day when I thought my father a mean-spirited assassin, because he wouldn’t tie a string to the moon and let me make it rise and set as suited my sweet will.  Babies of Mr. Pedagog’s sort are fortunately like angel’s visits, few and far between.  In spite of his stand in the matter, though, I can’t help thinking there was a great deal of truth in a rhyme a friend of mine got off on Youth.  It fits the case.  He said: 

    “’Youth is a state of being we attain
    In early years; to some ’tis but a crime—­
    And, like the mumps, most aged men complain,
    It can’t be caught, alas! a second time."’

“Your rhymes are interesting, and your reasoning, as usual, is faulty,” said the School-master.  “I passed a very pleasant childhood, though it was a childhood devoted, as you have insinuated, to serious rather than to flippant pursuits.  I wasn’t particularly fond of tag and hide-and-seek, nor do I think that even as an infant I ever cried for the moon.”

“It would have expanded your chest if you had, Mr. Pedagog,” observed the Idiot, quietly.

“So it would, but I never found myself short-winded, sir,” retorted the School-master, with some acerbity.

“That is evident; but go on,” said the Idiot.  “You never passed a childish youth nor a youthful childhood, and therefore what?”

“Therefore, in my present condition, I am normally contented.  I have no youthful follies to look back upon, no indiscretions to regret; I never knowingly told a lie, and—­”

“All of which proves that you never were young,” put in the Idiot; “and you will excuse me if I say it, but my father is the model for me rather than so exalted a personage as yourself.  He is still young, though turned seventy, and I don’t believe on his own account there ever was a boy who played hookey more, who prevaricated oftener, who purloined others’ fruits with greater frequency than he.  He was guilty of every crime in the calendar of youth; and if there is one thing that delights him more than another, it is to sit on a winter’s night before the crackling log and tell us yarns about his youthful follies and his boyhood indiscretions.”

“But is he normally a happy man?” queried the School-master.

“No.”

“Ah!”

“No.  He’s an abnormally happy man, because he’s got his follies and indiscretions to look back upon and not forward to.”

“Ahem!” said Mrs. Smithers.

“Dear me!” ejaculated Mr. Whitechoker.

Mr. Pedagog said nothing, and the breakfast-room was soon deserted.

XIII

There was an air of suppressed excitement about Mrs. Smithers and Mr. Pedagog as they sat down to breakfast.  Something had happened, but just what that something was no one as yet knew, although the genial old gentleman had a sort of notion as to what it was.