had been the result of much anxious thought. All the way up to London he
had pondered what he should say to Tom by way of parting advice,
something that the boy could keep in his head ready for use. By way of
assisting meditation, he had even gone the length of taking out his
flint and steel and tinder, and hammering away for a quarter of an hour
till he had manufactured a light for a long Trichinopoli cheroot, which
he silently puffed; to the no small wonder of Coachee, who was an old
friend, and an institution on the Bath road; and who always expected a
talk on the prospects and doings, agricultural and social, of the whole
county when he carried the Squire.

To condense the Squire's meditation, it was somewhat as follows: "I
won't tell him to read his Bible and love and serve God; if he don't do
that for his mother's sake and teaching, he won't for mine. Shall I go
into the sort of temptations he'll meet with? No, I can't do that. Never
do for an old fellow to go into such things with a boy. He won't
understand me. Do him more harm than good, ten to one. Shall I tell him
to mind his work, and say he's sent to school to make himself a good
scholar? Well, but he isn't sent to school for that--at any rate, not
for that mainly. I don't care a straw for Greek particles, or the
digamma, no more does his mother. What is he sent to school for? Well,
partly because he wanted so to go. If he'll only turn out a brave,
helpful, truth-telling Englishman, and a gentleman, and a Christian,
that's all I want," thought the Squire; and upon this view of the case
framed his last words of advice to Tom, which were well enough suited to
his purpose.

For they were Tom's first thoughts as he tumbled out of bed at the
summons of Boots, and proceeded rapidly to wash and dress himself. At
ten minutes to three he was down in the coffee-room in his stockings,
carrying his hat-box, coat, and comforter in his hand; and there he
found his father nursing a bright fire and a cup of hot coffee and a
hard biscuit on the table.

"Now then, Tom, give us your things here, and drink this; there's
nothing like starting warm, old fellow."

Tom addressed himself to the coffee, and prattled away while he worked
himself into his shoes and his great-coat, well warmed through; a
Petersham coat with velvet collar, made tight, after the abominable
fashion of those days. And just as he is swallowing his last mouthful,
winding his comforter round his throat, an