course of education
under Lady Carruthers' roof, Basil went through Eton and Oxford; at both
places he gained high honors and at both places he succeeded in puzzling
his tutors and masters. He was of such a peculiar disposition;
chivalrous, romantic, brave, yet with something about him--they could
not define what, but quite unlike other boys.

He did not evince any taste for any particular branch of study; he had
no inclination for the navy, for serving his country as his father had
done before him. In fact, it was difficult to tell in what direction his
taste really lay. Still, he left college with high honors, and his
masters prophesied great things for him.

"He will make himself famous some day," they wrote to his anxious
mother. "In the mean time, let him see something of the world, and you
will know in what direction his talent lies."

So, crowded with honors, he came home to Ulverston. He was eighteen then
and one of the handsomest young men England could boast. No barber's
beauty; strong, comely, of noble bearing, with a face that had come to
him from the crusaders of old.

Then Lady Hildegarde set herself to work to discover what manner of man
her son was. She was puzzled; he was brave, generous, full of high
spirits, truthful, even to bluntness. She could not discover any grave
fault in him. She thanked God he had no vices, no mean faults, no
contemptible failings.

"Basil," she said to him, one evening, as the three sat around the
drawing-room fire. "Confess now, do you not like and admire the olden
times better than these?"

"Yes," he replied; "I always did."

"I knew it," said Lady Hildegarde; "I understand now what has always
puzzled everyone who has had the care of you. You were born two hundred
years too late; the ancient days of knight errantry and chivalry would
have suited you better than these."

"It is your fault, mother," he replied. "When I was only twelve years
old, you gave me a beautiful edition of Froissart's Chronicles, and
everything else has seemed dull and tame to me since."

"I thought as much," she said, quietly; "you make the same mistake
others have made before you; you live in the past, not in the present."

"You are right, mother; in these days, there seems to me nothing to do."

"Your father thought differently," she said; "he died from overwork."

"Ah! my dear father was a genius," said the young man, thoughtfully, and
for some minutes there was silence between them.