holy way of saying things, as if he were above all this.
And yet he looked not like a fool; neither was he one altogether, when
he began to think of things. The worst of him was that he always wanted
something new to go on with. He never could be idle; and yet he never
worked to the end which crowns the task. In the early stage he would
labor hard, be full of the greatness of his aim, and demand every body's
interest, exciting, also, mighty hopes of what was safe to come of it.
And even after that he sometimes carried on with patience; but he
had not perseverance. Once or twice he had been on the very nick of
accomplishing something, and had driven home his nail; but then he let
it spring back without clinching. "Oh, any fool can do that!" he cried,
and never stood to it, to do it again, or to see that it came not
undone. In a word, he stuck to nothing, but swerved about, here, there,
and every where.

His father, being of so different a cast, and knowing how often the
wisest of men must do what any fool can do, was bitterly vexed at the
flighty ways of Willie, and could do no more than hope, with a general
contempt, that when the boy grew older he might be a wiser fool. But
Willie's dear mother maintained, with great consistency, that such a
perfect wonder could never be expected to do any thing not wonderful.
To this the farmer used to listen with a grim, decorous smile; then
grumbled, as soon as he was out of hearing, and fell to and did the
little jobs himself.

Sore jealousy of Willie, perhaps, and keen sense of injustice, as well
as high spirit and love of adventure, had driven the younger son, Jack,
from home, and launched him on a sea-faring life. With a stick and a
bundle he had departed from the ancestral fields and lanes, one summer
morning about three years since, when the cows were lowing for the milk
pail, and a royal cutter was cruising off the Head. For a twelvemonth
nothing was heard of him, until there came a letter beginning, "Dear
and respected parents," and ending, "Your affectionate and dutiful son,
Jack." The body of the letter was of three lines only, occupied entirely
with kind inquiries as to the welfare of every body, especially his pup,
and his old pony, and dear sister Mary.

Mary Anerley, the only daughter and the youngest child, well deserved
the best remembrance of the distant sailor, though Jack may have gone
too far in declaring (as he did till he came to his love-time) that the
worl