ace and the
satisfactory cock of his coat-tails to give a clue to the sweet thoughts
dancing in his brain.

When the entire Charles family were seated at the supper-table, the
auspicious moment had arrived for Edward John to disclose his hand.
Whatever he thought fit to arrange would be good. Mrs. Charles, a thin
little person, who worshipped her ample husband from afar, and spent her
life in cleaning the five living rooms which constituted their
household, never removing the curl-papers from her hair until after tea,
was certain to applaud his every opinion, while the three girls, the
eldest of whom bore the burden of the business on her shoulders, could
be depended upon for reserve support.

When Mr. Charles had detailed the arrangements he had made, whereby
Henry was to enter the business of Mr. Ephraim Griggs, there was
unanimous approval.

"I've always said, 'Enry, that you'd 'ave your chance, and 'ere it is,"
said Mr. Charles, brushing some crumbs of cheese from his whisker.
"There is no sayin' what this may lead to. Some of the greatest men in
the world 'ave started lower down the ladder than that."

"Yes, dad," responded the delighted Henry. "Why, Shakespeare himself
used to hold horses for gentlemen in London."

"Just look at that," beamed Mr. Charles on his worshipping family.
"Shakespeare uster 'old 'osses. You'll never need to do that, my boy."

"And his father was only a woolstapler, dad!" panted the youth.

"A common woolstapler! Think on't! And me in the book-line--in a small
way, p'raps--but in the book-line, for all that."

And the thought that a woolstapler's son who had been fain to tend
horses for a penny, and in the end had achieved deathless fame which
brought admirers from the ends of the earth to his humble birthplace in
Stratford-on-Avon, made Edward John look around his own little house,
and wonder how many years it would be before the world was trooping to
Hampton Bagot to gaze on the early home of Henry Charles. Hampton was
only a few miles from Stratford, and Henry would never be so low as the
holding of horses.

We can but dimly realise the joy with which Henry received the news of
the opening his father had made for him. To a lad of his temperament he
already saw himself a chartered libertine in the realms of literature,
roving from book to book on the crowded shelves of Mr. Griggs; here
following the doughty deeds of some of Sir Walter's heroes, taking a
hand, perchance, in the