“Be that as it may, I have done my best, as we must all do.  Pardon me, sir, for speaking of myself.  But I have brought up this lad from a child, Mr. Allen,” said Mr. Carvel, his words coming slowly, as if each gave him pain, “and have striven to be an example to him in all things.  He has few of those faults which I most fear; God be thanked that he loves the truth, for there is yet a chance of his correction.  A chance, said I?” he cried, his speech coming more rapid, “nay, he shall be cured!  I little thought, fool that I was, that he would get this pox.  His father fought and died for the King; and should trouble come, which God forbid, to know that Richard stood against his Majesty would kill me.”

“And well it might, Mr. Carvel,” said the divine.  He was for the moment sobered, as weak men must be in the presence of those of strong convictions.  My grandfather had half risen in his chair, and the lines of his smooth-shaven face deepened visibly with the pain of the feelings to which he gave utterance.  As for me, I was well-nigh swept away by a bigness within me, and torn between love and duty, between pity and the reason left me, and sadly tried to know whether my dear parent’s life and happiness should be weighed against what I felt to be right.  I strove to speak, but could say nothing.

“He must be removed from the influences,” the rector ventured, after a halt.

“That he must indeed,” said my grandfather.  “Why did I not send him to Eton last fall?  But it is hard, Mr. Allen, to part with the child of our old age.  I would take passage and go myself with him to-morrow were it not for my duties in the Council.”

“Eton!  I would have sooner, I believe, wrought by the side of any rascally redemptioner in the iron mines of the Patapsco than have gone to Eton.

“But for the present, sir, I would counsel you to put the lad’s studies in the charge of some able and learned man, that his mind may be turned from the disease which has fed upon it.  Some one whose loyalty is beyond question.”

“And who so fit as yourself, Mr. Allen?” returned my grandfather, relief plain in his voice.  “You have his Lordship’s friendship and confidence, and never has rector of St. Anne’s or of any other parish brought letters to his Excellency to compare with yours.  And so I crave your help in this time of need.”

Mr. Allen showed becoming hesitation.

“I fear you do me greater honour than I deserve, Mr. Carvel,” he answered, a strain of the pomp coming back, “though my gracious patron is disposed to think well of me, and I shall strive to hold his good opinion.  But I have duties of parish and glebe to attend, and Master Philip Carvel likewise in my charge.”

I held my breath for my grandfather’s reply.  The rector, however, had read him, and well knew that a show of reluctance would but inflame him the more.

“How now, sir?” he exclaimed.  “Surely, as you love the King, you will not refuse me in this strait.”