A
clever boy turns out a prig; a boy of feebler intellect turns out a
well-behaved young lady in trousers. Nothing muscular in the system.
Decidedly the namesake and descendant of Kenelm Digby should not go to a
private seminary."

"So far as I gather from your reasoning," said Sir Peter, with
characteristic placidity, "Kenelm Chillingly is not to go to school at
all."

"It does look like it," said the Parson, candidly; "but, on
consideration, there is a medium. There are schools which unite the best
qualities of public and private schools, large enough to stimulate and
develop energies mental and physical, yet not so framed as to melt all
character in one crucible. For instance, there is a school which has
at this moment one of the first scholars in Europe for head-master,--a
school which has turned out some of the most remarkable men of the
rising generation. The master sees at a glance if a boy be clever, and
takes pains with him accordingly. He is not a mere teacher of hexameters
and sapphics. His learning embraces all literature, ancient and modern.
He is a good writer and a fine critic; admires Wordsworth. He winks at
fighting: his boys know how to use their fists; and they are not in the
habit of signing post-obits before they are fifteen. Merton School is
the place for Kenelm."

"Thank you," said Sir Peter. "It is a great comfort in life to find
somebody who can decide for one. I am an irresolute man myself, and in
ordinary matters willingly let Lady Chillingly govern me."

"I should like to see a wife govern _me_," said the stout Parson.

"But you are not married to Lady Chillingly. And now let us go into the
garden and look at your dahlias."

CHAPTER VIII.

THE youthful confuter of Locke was despatched to Merton School, and
ranked, according to his merits, as lag of the penultimate form. When he
came home for the Christmas holidays he was more saturnine than ever;
in fact, his countenance bore the impression of some absorbing grief.
He said, however, that he liked school very well, and eluded all other
questions. But early the next morning he mounted his black pony and
rode to the Parson's rectory. The reverend gentleman was in his farmyard
examining his bullocks when Kenelm accosted him thus briefly,--

"Sir, I am disgraced, and I shall die of it if you cannot help to set me
right in my own eyes."

"My dear boy, don't talk in that way. Come into my study."

As soon as they entered that room,