any."

"Tidings, sir?" I said.

"Ay, tidings," answered Mr. Carvel. Such a note of relief and gladness
there was in the words as I had not heard for months from him, and a
vague fear came upon me.

"Scipio," he said merrily, "a punch for Mr. Richard." And when the glass
was brought my grandfather added: "May it be ever thus!"

I drained the toast, not falling into his humour or comprehending his
reference, but dreading that aught I might say would disturb him, held my
peace. And yet my apprehension increased. He set down his glass and
continued:

"I had no hope of this yet, Richard, for you were ever slow to change.
Your conversion does credit to Mr. Allen as well as to you. In short,
sir, the rector gives me an excellent good account of your studies, and
adds that the King hath gained another loyal servant, for which I thank
God."

I have no words to write of my feelings then. My head swam and my hand
trembled on my grandfather's, and I saw dimly the old gentleman's face
aglow with joy and pride, and knew not what to say or do. The answer I
framed, alas, remained unspoken. From his own lips I had heard how much
the news had mended him, and for once I lacked the heart, nay, the
courage, to speak the truth. But Mr. Carvel took no heed of my silence,
setting it down to another cause.