eeds of satire could have taken root already in that tiny brain. But
his eyes met mine without flinching, and I was not loath to drift away
from the point.

'And what else does your Mama say about literature, Valentine?' I asked.
For the strangeness of it was that, though I kept repeating under my
breath 'Copy-book maxims, copy-book maxims,' hoping by such shibboleth
to protect myself from their influence, the words yet stirred within me
old childish thoughts and sentiments that I, in my cleverness, had long
since learnt to laugh at, and had thought forgotten. I, with my years of
knowledge and experience behind me, seemed for the nonce to be sitting
with Valentine at the feet of this unseen lady, listening, as I again
told myself, to 'copy-book maxims' and finding in them in spite of
myself a certain element of truth, a certain amount of helpfulness, an
unpleasant suggestion of reproach.

He tucked his hands underneath him, as before, and sat swinging his
short legs.

'Oh--oh lots of things,' he answered vaguely.

'Yes?' I persisted.

'Oh, that--' he repeated it slowly, recalling it word for word as he
went on, 'that he who can write a great book is greater than a king;
that a good book is better than a good sermon; that the gift of being
able to write is given to anybody in trust, and that an author should
never forget that he is God's servant.'

I thought of the chatter of the clubs, and could not avoid a smile. But
the next moment something moved me to take his hand in mine, and,
turning his little solemn face towards mine, to say:

'If ever there comes a time, little man, when you are tempted to laugh
at your mother's old-fashioned notions--and such a time may
come--remember that an older man than you once told you he would that he
had always kept them in his heart, he would have done better work.'

Then growing frightened at my own earnestness, as we men do, deeming it,
God knows why, something to be ashamed of, I laughed away his answering
questions, and led the conversation back to himself.

'And have you ever tried writing anything?' I asked him.

Of course he had, what need to question! And it was, strange to say, a
story about a little boy who lived with his mother and aunt, and who
went to school.

'It is sort of,' he explained, 'sort of auto--bio--graphical, you know.'

'And what does Mama think of it?' was my next question, after we had
discussed the advantages of drawing upon one's own person