things; and that one ought to be very good if one is going to be an
author, so as to be worthy to help and teach others."

"And do you try to be good, Paul?" he enquired.

"Yes," I answered; "but it's very hard to be quite good--until of course
you're grown up."

He smiled, but more to himself than to me. "Yes," he said, "I suppose it
is difficult to be good until you are grown up. Perhaps we shall all of
us be good when we're quite grown up." Which, from a gentleman with a
grey beard, appeared to me a puzzling observation.

"And what else does mamma say about literature?" he asked. "Can you
remember?"

Again I pondered, and her words came back to me. "That he who can write
a great book is greater than a king; that the gift of being able to
write is given to anybody in trust; that an author should never forget
he is God's servant."

He sat for awhile without speaking, his chin resting on his folded hands
supported by his gold-topped cane. Then he turned and laid a hand upon
my shoulder, and his clear, bright eyes were close to mine.

"Your mother is a wise lady, Paul," he said. "Remember her words always.
In later life let them come back to you; they will guide you better than
the chatter of the Clubs."

"And what modern authors do you read?" he asked after a silence: "any of
them--Thackeray, Bulwer Lytton, Dickens?"

"I have read 'The Last of the Barons,'" I told him; "I like that. And
I've been to Barnet and seen the church. And some of Mr. Dickens'."

"And what do you think of Mr. Dickens?" he asked. But he did not seem
very interested in the subject. He had picked up a few small stones, and
was throwing them carefully into the water.

"I like him very much," I answered; "he makes you laugh."

"Not always?" he asked. He stopped his stone-throwing, and turned
sharply towards me.

"Oh, no, not always," I admitted; "but I like the funny bits best. I
like so much where Mr. Pickwick--"

"Oh, damn Mr. Pickwick!" he said.

"Don't you like him?" I asked.

"Oh, yes, I like him well enough, or used to," he replied; "I'm a bit
tired of him, that's all. Does your mamma like Mr.--Mr. Dickens?"

"Not the funny parts," I explained to him. "She thinks he is
occasionally--"

"I know," he interrupted, rather irritably, I thought; "a trifle
vulgar."

It surprised me that he should have guessed her exact words. "I don't
think mamma has much sense of humour," I explained to him. "Sometimes
she doesn't even see pa