urther.

"Peace!" said I, creeping cautiously within the circle of the stick.

"No! I forewarn you--"

"Peace! and describe to me my little cousin, your pretty daughter,--for
pretty I am sure she is."

"Peace," said my uncle, smiling. "But you must come and judge for
yourself."

CHAPTER II.

Uncle Roland was gone. Before he went, he was closeted for an hour with
my father, who then accompanied him to the gate; and we all crowded
round him as he stepped into his chaise. When the Captain was gone, I
tried to sound my father as to the cause of so sudden a departure. But
my father was impenetrable in all that related to his brother's secrets.
Whether or not the Captain had ever confided to him the cause of his
displeasure with his son,--a mystery which much haunted me,--my father
was mute on that score both to my mother and myself. For two or three
days, however, Mr. Caxton was evidently unsettled. He did not even take
to his Great Work, but walked much alone, or accompanied only by the
duck, and without even a book in his hand. But by degrees the scholarly
habits returned to him; my mother mended his pens, and the work went on.

For my part, left much to myself, especially in the mornings, I began to
muse restlessly over the future. Ungrateful that I was, the happiness of
home ceased to content me. I heard afar the roar of the great world, and
roved impatient by the shore.

At length, one evening, my father, with some modest hums and ha's, and
an unaffected blush on his fair forehead, gratified a prayer frequently
urged on him, and read me some portions of the Great Work. I cannot
express the feelings this lecture created,--they were something akin
to awe. For the design of this book was so immense, and towards its
execution a learning so vast and various had administered, that it
seemed to me as if a spirit had opened to me a new world, which had
always been before my feet, but which my own human blindness had
hitherto concealed from me. The unspeakable patience with which all
these materials had been collected, year after year; the ease with which
now, by the calm power of genius, they seemed of themselves to fall
into harmony and system; the unconscious humility with which the scholar
exposed the stores of a laborious life,--all combined to rebuke my
own restlessness and ambition, while they filled me with a pride in my
father which saved my wounded egotism from a pang. Here, indeed, was one
of those boo