mother took the candle away with her and left him alone in the dark,
he was not afraid; for, by closing his eyes, he could always see the
two women quite plainly; and always he saw them at work, each with a
pillow on her lap, and the lace upon it growing, growing, until the
pins and bobbins wove a pattern that was a dream, and he slept.
He could not tell what became of all the lace, though he had a collar
of it which he wore to church on Sundays, and his mother had once
shown him a parcel of it, wrapped in tissue-paper, and told him it
was his christening robe.

His father was always reading, except on Sundays, when he preached
sermons. In his thoughts nine times out of ten Taffy associated his
father with a great pile of books; but the tenth time with something
totally different. One summer--it was in his sixth year--they had
all gone on a holiday to Tewkesbury, his father's old home; and he
recalled quite clearly the close of a warm afternoon which he and his
mother had spent there in a green meadow beyond the abbey church.
She had brought out a basket and cushion, and sat sewing, while Taffy
played about and watched the haymakers at their work. Behind them,
within the great church, the organ was sounding; but by-and-by it
stopped, and a door opened in the abbey wall, and his father came
across the meadow toward them with his surplice on his arm. And then
Humility unpacked the basket and produced a kettle, a spirit-lamp,
and a host of things good to eat. The boy thought the whole
adventure splendid. When tea was done, he sprang up with one of
those absurd notions which come into children's heads:

"Now let's feed the poultry," he cried, and flung his last scrap of
bun three feet in air toward the gilt weather-cock on the abbey
tower. While they laughed, "Father, how tall is the tower?" he