to them."

Uncle George rubbed his hands.

"That feeling does you credit, my boy," he said, "but if we go over
some of the old work, no harm can be done. History, now. There's
nothing like History, is there?"

William agreed quite heartily that there wasn't.

"We'll do some History, then," said Uncle George briskly. "The lives
of the great. Most inspiring. Better than those terrible things you
used to waste your time on, eh?"

The "terrible things" had included a trumpet, a beloved motor hooter,
and an ingenious instrument very dear to William's soul that
reproduced most realistically the sound of two cats fighting. These,
at Uncle George's request, had been confiscated by William's father.
Uncle George had not considered them educational. They also disturbed
his afternoon's rest.

Uncle George settled himself and William down for a nice quiet morning
in the library. William, looking round for escape, found none. The
outside world was wholly uninviting. The rain came down in torrents.
Moreover, the five preceding weeks had broken William's spirits. He
realised the impossibility of evading Uncle George. His own family
were not sympathetic. They suffered from him considerably during the
rest of the year and were not sorry to see him absorbed completely by
Uncle George's conscientious zeal.

So Uncle George seated himself slowly and ponderously in an arm-chair
by the fire.

"When I was a boy, William," he began, leaning back and joining the
tips of his fingers together, "I loved my studies. I'm sure you love
your studies, don't you? Which do you love most?"

"Me?" said William. "I like shootin' and playin' Red Injuns."

"Yes, yes," said Uncle George impatiently, "but those aren't
_studies_, William. You must aim at being _gentle_."

"It's not much good bein' _gentle_ when you're playin' Red Injuns,"
said William stoutly. "A _gentle_ Red Injun wun't get much done."

"Ah, but why play Red Indians?" said Uncle George. "A nasty rough
game. No, we'll talk about History. You must mould your character upon
that of the great heroes, William. You must be a Clive, a Napoleon, a
Wolfe."

"I've often been a wolf," said William. "That game's nearly as good as
Red Injuns. An' Bears is a good game too. We might have Bears here,"
he went on brightening. "Jus' you an' me. Would you sooner be bear or
hunter? I'd sooner be hunter," he hinted gently.

"You misunderstand," said Uncle George. "I mean Wolfe the man, Wolfe
the