d's, who could scarce distinguish between "Green Sleeves" and
"Lillibullero;" although he had no greater delight in life than to hear
the ladies sing. He sees them now (will he ever forget them?) as they
used to sit together of the summer evenings--the two golden heads over
the page--the child's little hand, and the mother's beating the time,
with their voices rising and falling in unison.

But if the children were careless, 'twas a wonder how eagerly the
mother learnt from her young tutor--and taught him too. The happiest
instinctive faculty was this lady's--a faculty for discerning latent
beauties and hidden graces of books, especially books of poetry, as in a
walk she would spy out field-flowers and make posies of them, such as
no other hand could. She was a critic, not by reason but by feeling; the
sweetest commentator of those books they read together; and the happiest
hours of young Esmond's life, perhaps, were those passed in the company
of this kind mistress and her children.

These happy days were to end soon, however; and it was by the Lady
Castlewood's own decree that they were brought to a conclusion. It
happened about Christmas-time, Harry Esmond being now past sixteen
years of age, that his old comrade, adversary, and friend, Tom Tusher,
returned from his school in London, a fair, well-grown, and sturdy lad,
who was about to enter college, with an exhibition from his school, and
a prospect of after promotion in the church. Tom Tusher's talk was of
nothing but Cambridge now; and the boys, who were good friends, examined
each other eagerly about their progress in books. Tom had learned some
Greek and Hebrew, besides Latin, in which he was pretty well skilled,
and also had given himself to mathematical studies under his father's
guidance, who was a proficient in those sciences, of which Esmond knew
nothing; nor could he write Latin so well as Tom, though he could talk
it better, having been taught by his dear friend the Jesuit Father, for
whose memory the lad ever retained the warmest affection, reading his
books, keeping his swords clean in the little crypt where the Father
had shown them to Esmond on the night of his visit; and often of a night
sitting in the chaplain's room, which he inhabited, over his books, his
verses, and rubbish, with which the lad occupied himself, he would look
up at the window, thinking he wished it might open and let in the good
Father. He had come and passed away like a dream; bu