; and I know the colonel, a man of
my own sort, who sees things done, instead of talking. It would be the
making of Lancelot. He has plenty of courage, but it has been milched.
At Oxford or Cambridge he would do no good, but simply be ruined by
having his own way. Under my friend Colonel Thacker, he will have a hard
time of it, and tell no lies."

Thus it was settled. There was a fearful outcry, hysterics of an elegant
order, and weepings enough to produce summer spate in the Tees. But the
only result was the ordering of the tailor, the hosier, the boot-maker,
and the scissors-grinder to put a new edge upon Squire Philip's razors,
that Pet might practice shaving. "Cold-blooded cruelty, savage homicide;
cannibalism itself is kinder," said poor Mrs. Carnaby, when she saw the
razors; but Pet insisted upon having them, made lather, and practiced
with the backs, till he began to understand them.

"He promises well; I have great hopes of him," Sir Duncan said to
himself. "He has pride; and no proud boy can be long a liar. I will go
and consult my dear old friend Bart."

Mr. Bart, who was still of good bodily strength, but becoming less
resolute in mind than of yore, was delighted to see his old friend
again; and these two men, having warm, proud hearts, preserved each
other from self-contempt by looking away through the long hand-clasp.
For each of them was to the other almost the only man really respected
in the world.

Betwixt them such a thing as concealment could not be. The difference in
their present position was a thing to laugh at. Sir Duncan looked up to
Bart as being the maker of his character, and Bart admired Sir Duncan
as a newer and wiser edition of himself. They dispatched the past in a
cheery talk; for the face of each was enough to show that it might have
been troublous--as all past is--but had slidden into quiet satisfaction
now, and a gentle flow of experience. Then they began to speak of
present matters, and the residue of time before them; and among other
things, Sir Duncan Yordas spoke of his nephew Lancelot.

"Lancelot Yordas Carnaby," said Bart, with the smile of a gray-beard at
young love's dream, "has done us the honor to fall in love, for ever and
ever, with our little Insie. And the worst of it is that she likes him."

"What an excellent idea!" his old friend answered; "I was sure there was
something of that sort going on. Now betwixt love and war we shall make
a man of Pet."

As shortly as