--which had arrested his imagination, and awed him when a
child. And then there was his home itself; its well-known rooms, its
pleasant routine, its order, and its comfort--an old and true friend,
the dearer to him because he had made new ones. "Where I shall be in
time to come I know not," he said to himself; "I am but a boy; many
things which I have not a dream of, which my imagination cannot compass,
may come on me before I die--if I live; but here at least, and now, I am
happy, and I will enjoy my happiness. Some say that school is the
pleasantest time of one's life; this does not exclude college. I suppose
care is what makes life so wearing. At present I have no care, no
responsibility; I suppose I shall feel a little when I go up for my
degree. Care is a terrible thing; I have had a little of it at times at
school. What a strange thing to fancy, I shall be one day twenty-five or
thirty! How the weeks are flying by! the Vacation will soon be over. Oh,
I am so happy, it quite makes me afraid. Yet I shall have strength for
my day."

Sometimes, however, his thoughts took a sadder turn, and he anticipated
the future more vividly than he enjoyed the present. Mr. Malcolm had
come to see them, after an absence from the parsonage for several years:
his visit was a great pleasure to Mr. Reding, and not much less to
himself, to whom a green home and a family circle were agreeable sights,
after his bachelor-life at college. He had been a great favourite with
Charles and his sisters as children, though now his popularity with them
for the most part rested on the memory of the past. When he told them
amusing stories, or allowed them to climb his knee and take off his
spectacles, he did all that was necessary to gain their childish hearts;
more is necessary to conciliate the affection of young men and women;
and thus it is not surprising that he lived in their minds principally
by prescription. He neither knew this, nor would have thought much about
it if he had; for, like many persons of advancing years, he made himself
very much his own centre, did not care to enter into the minds of
others, did not consult for them, or find his happiness in them. He was
kind and friendly to the young people, as he would be kind to a
canary-bird or a lap-dog; it was a sort of external love; and, though
they got on capitally with him, they did not miss him when gone, nor
would have been much troubled to know that he was never to come again.
Cha