“Sir,” replies my cousin, without looking up.  “Follow me, sir,” said Mr. Carvel, in a voice so different that Philip drops his book.  They went up the stairs together, and what occurred there I leave to the imagination.  But when next Philip was bidden to do an errand for Mr. Carvel my grandfather said quietly:  “I prefer that Richard should go, Caroline.”  And though my aunt and uncle, much mortified, begged him to give Philip another chance, he would never permit it.

Nevertheless, a great effort was made to restore Philip to his grandfather’s good graces.  At breakfast one morning, after my aunt had poured Mr. Carvel’s tea and made her customary compliment to the blue and gold breakfast china, my Uncle Grafton spoke up.

“Now that Dr. Hilliard is gone, father, what do you purpose concerning Richard’s schooling?”

“He shall go to King William’s school in the autumn,” Mr. Carvel replied.

“In the autumn!” cried my uncle.  “I do not give Philip even the short holiday of this visit.  He has his Greek and his Virgil every day.”

“And can repeat the best passages,” my aunt chimes in.  “Philip, my dear, recite that one your father so delights in.”

However unwilling Master Philip had been to disturb himself for errands, he was nothing loth to show his knowledge, and recited glibly enough several lines of his Virgil verbatim; thereby pleasing his fond parents greatly and my grandfather not a little.

“I will add a crown to your savings, Philip,” says his father.

“And here is a pistole to spend as you will,” says Mr. Carvel, tossing him the piece.

“Nay, father, I do not encourage the lad to be a spendthrift,” says Grafton, taking the pistole himself.  “I will place this token of your appreciation in his strong-box.  You know we have a prodigal strain in the family, sir.”  And my uncle looks at me significantly.

“Let it be as I say, Grafton,” persists Mr. Carvel, who liked not to be balked in any matter, and was not over-pleased at this reference to my father.  And he gave Philip forthwith another pistole, telling his father to add the first to his saving if he would.

“And Richard must have his chance,” says my Aunt Caroline, sweetly, as she rises to leave the room.

“Ay, here is a crown for you, Richard,” says my uncle, smiling.  “Let us hear your Latin, which should be purer than Philip’s.”

My grandfather glanced uneasily at me across the table; he saw clearly the trick Grafton had played me, I think.  But for once I was equal to my uncle, and haply remembered a line Dr. Hilliard had expounded, which fitted the present case marvellously well.  With little ceremony I tossed back the crown, and slowly repeated those words used to warn the Trojans against accepting the Grecian horse: 

        “Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes.”

“Egad,” cried Mr. Carvel, slapping his knee, “the lad bath beaten you on your own ground, Grafton.”  And he laughed as my grandfather only could laugh, until the dishes rattled on the table.  But my uncle thought it no matter for jesting.