“You are learning more than I can teach you in Gloucester Street, and at the Stadt House,” he said.

In truth I was at a loss to understand his attitude until the day in June my grandfather and I went to Carvel Hall.

The old gentleman was weak still, so feeble that he had to be carried to his barge in a chair, a vehicle he had ever held in scorn.  But he was cheerful, and his spirit remained the same as of old:  but for that spirit I believe he had never again risen from his bed in Marlboro’ Street.  My uncle and the rector were among those who walked by his side to the dock, and would have gone to the Hall with him had he permitted them.  He was kind enough to say that my arm was sufficient to lean on.

What peace there was sitting once again under the rustling trees on the lawn with the green river and the blue bay spread out before us, and Scipio standing by with my grandfather’s punch.  Mr. Carvel would have me rehearse again all that had passed in town and colony since his illness, which I did with as much moderation as I was able.  And as we talked he reached out and took my hand, for I sat near him, and said: 

“Richard, I have heard tidings of you that gladden my heart, and they have done more than Dr. Leiden’s physic for this old frame of mine.  I well knew a Carvel could never go a wrong course, lad, and you least of any.”

“Tidings, sir?” I said.

“Ay, tidings,” answered Mr. Carvel.  Such a note of relief and gladness there was in the words as I had not heard for months from him, and a vague fear came upon me.

“Scipio,” he said merrily, “a punch for Mr. Richard.”  And when the glass was brought my grandfather added:  “May it be ever thus!”

I drained the toast, not falling into his humour or comprehending his reference, but dreading that aught I might say would disturb him, held my peace.  And yet my apprehension increased.  He set down his glass and continued: 

“I had no hope of this yet, Richard, for you were ever slow to change.  Your conversion does credit to Mr. Allen as well as to you.  In short, sir, the rector gives me an excellent good account of your studies, and adds that the King hath gained another loyal servant, for which I thank God.”

I have no words to write of my feelings then.  My head swam and my hand trembled on my grandfather’s, and I saw dimly the old gentleman’s face aglow with joy and pride, and knew not what to say or do.  The answer I framed, alas, remained unspoken.  From his own lips I had heard how much the news had mended him, and for once I lacked the heart, nay, the courage, to speak the truth.  But Mr. Carvel took no heed of my silence, setting it down to another cause.

“And so, my son,” he said, “there is no need of sending you to Eton next fall.  I am not much longer for this earth, and can ill spare you:  and Mr. Allen kindly consents to prepare you for Oxford.”

“Mr. Allen consents to that, sir?” I gasped.  I think, could I have laid hands on the rector then, I would have thrashed him, cloth and all, within an inch of his life.