of great moderation and merit, and got nothing but evasion from my tutor.
That he had become suddenly an American in principle I could not believe.
At length I made bold to ask him why our discussions were now omitted.
He looked up from the new play he was reading on the study lounge, with a
glance of dark meaning I could not fathom.

"You are learning more than I can teach you in Gloucester Street, and at
the Stadt House," he said.

In truth I was at a loss to understand his attitude until the day in June
my grandfather and I went to Carvel Hall.

The old gentleman was weak still, so feeble that he had to be carried to
his barge in a chair, a vehicle he had ever held in scorn. But he was
cheerful, and his spirit remained the same as of old: but for that spirit
I believe he had never again risen from his bed in Marlboro' Street. My
uncle and the rector were among those who walked by his side to the dock,
and would have gone to the Hall with him had he permitted them. He was
kind enough to say that my arm was sufficient to lean on.

What peace there was sitting once again under the rustling trees on the
lawn with the green river and the blue bay spread out before us, and
Scipio standing by with my grandfather's punch. Mr. Carvel would have me
rehearse again all that had passed in town and colony since his illness,
which I did with as much moderation as I was able. And as we talked he
reached out and took my hand, for I sat near him, and said:

"Richard, I have heard tidings of you that gladden my heart, and they
have done more than Dr. Leiden's physic for this old frame of mine. I
well knew a Carvel could never go a wrong course, lad, and you least of