timables_," pronouncing atrociously a phrase he had
picked up a few hours before, "which means, my dear young friend, that
you should do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame."

Henry blushed forthwith.

"And let me present you with a little keepsake. It is a copy of my new
book, my poem on Queen Victoria, which the _Midland Agricultural News_
has described in terms of praise that I hope I am too modest to quote. I
have signed it with my autograph, and I trust you will lay to heart its
lessons."

The poem in question was a sixteen-page pamphlet in a gaudy cover. It
enjoyed a large circulation by gratuitous distribution. To the vicar's
great regret, he had found at the end of a dictionary the French phrase
about beautiful actions too late to be incorporated in his verses.

Henry was profoundly moved, but like all great people in their great
moments, he was deplorably commonplace.

"I thank you, sir," was all his genius prompted. He was gravelled for a
Latin snatch to cap the vicar's, and the Rev. Godfrey Needham stood
supreme.

"Eh, but _tempus_ do _fugit_, passon," Edward John broke in at this
juncture. "It's only loike yesterday that 'Enry was a-startin' school,
and 'ere 'e's a-goin' out into the great world to carve out a name for
hisself--'oo knows 'e ain't?"

"With youth all things are possible." returned Mr. Needham. "We shall be
proud of Henry yet. He certainly has my best wishes for his success.
_Sursum corda_, my friend, as the Latin hath it. And to you, Henry,
_Deus vobiscum_. Good-bye!"

"Good-bye, and thank you, sir," said the overwhelmed Henry.

In a moment more the white-socked calipers had carried Mr. Needham out
of Henry's life for some years to come.

When the great morning arrived, the whole house was turned upside down.
The village itself was agitated. Henry was quite the hero of the moment,
despite the sniffing disapproval of Miffin. But one can't destroy a coat
and retain a friendly feeling for the cause of the catastrophe.

"Merk moi werds," he said to his apprentice, as together they watched
from behind the door the preparations across the street. "Young Che'les
will never do nowt. He'll come to a bed end, and Ed'ard John will rue
this day. Merk moi werds." And he emphasised his wisdom with a skinny
forefinger.

Henry's mother cried over him a little, and impressed upon him that the
three pots of blackberry jam--her own making--were at the bottom of his
trunk, away from the shir