good schooling for
him."

"When his head is able to bear it," said Mrs. Woodford.

"Truly, sir," added the Doctor, "you are doing a good work, and I
trust that the boy will requite you worthily."

"I tell your reverence," said Sir Peregrine, "crooked stick though
they term him, I had ten times rather have the dealing with him than
with those comely great lubbers his brothers! The question now is,
shall I tell him what is in store for him?"

"I should say," returned Dr. Woodford, "that provided it is certain
that the intention can be carried out, nothing would be so good for
him as hope. Do you not say so, sister?"

"Indeed I do," she replied. "I believe that he would be a very
different boy if he were relieved from the misery he suffers at home
and requites by mischievous pranks. I do not say he will or can be
a good lad at once, but if your honour can have patience with him, I
do believe there is that in him which can be turned to good. If he
only can believe in the better nature and higher guidings, and pray,
and not give himself up in despair." She had tears in her eyes.

"My good madam, I can believe it all," said Sir Peregrine. "Short
of being supposed an elf, I have gone through the same, and it was
not my good father's fault that I did not loathe the very name of
preaching or prayer. But I had a mother who knew how to deal with
me, whereas this poor child's mother, I am sure, believes in her
secret heart that he is none of hers, though she has enough sense
not to dare to avow it. Alas! I cannot give the boy the woman's
tending by which you have already wrought so much," and Mrs.
Woodford remembered to have heard that his wife had died at
Rotterdam, "but I can treat him like a human being, I hope indeed as
a son; and, at any rate, there will be no one to remind him of these
old wives' tales."

"I can only say that I am heartily rejoiced," said Mrs. Woodford.

So Peregrine was summoned, and shambled up, his eyes showing that he
expected a trying interview, and, moreover, with a certain twinkle
of mischief or perverseness in their corners.

"Soh! my lad, we ought to be better acquainted," said the uncle.
"D'ye know what our name means?"

"Peregrinus, a vagabond," responded the boy.

"Eh! The translation may be correct, but 'tis scarce the most
complimentary. I wonder now if you, like me, were born on a
Wednesday. 'Wednesday's child has far to go.'"

"No. I was born on a Sunday, and if