Anthony had two rooms at the top of the house, one for his bedroom and the other for his study. He had always been fond of reading. His favourite books were histories and memoirs. Emerson and Montaigne he had chosen for himself as prizes. His fiction was confined to “Gulliver’s Travels.” There were also Smiles’ “Self-Help,” “From Log-Cabin to White House,” Franklin’s “Autobiography,” and the “Life of Abraham Lincoln.” His mother had given up the dressmaking business. Young Tetteridge had brought home his bride, and keeping house for five people, even with help, took up all her time. Often of an evening she would bring her sewing and sit with Anthony while he worked. It was towards the end of the Michaelmas term; Anthony was in the lower sixth. He had determined to leave at Christmas. The upper sixth spent all its time on the classics which would be useless to him. “What do you think of doing when you do leave?” asked his mother. “Have you made up your mind?” “Go into old Mowbray’s office if he’ll have me,” answered Anthony. “Edward will put in a word for you there, won’t he?” suggested his mother. “Yes. I’m reckoning on that,” he answered. Anthony turned again to his book, but his mother’s needle lay idle. “The girl’s friendly too, isn’t she?” she asked. “They say she can’t express a wish that he doesn’t grant her.” Anthony did not answer. He seemed not to have heard. His mother’s thimble rolled to the floor. Anthony recovered it and gave it to her. “What’s she like?” his mother asked him. “Oh, all right,” he answered, “a nice enough girl.” “She’s older than you, isn’t she?” said his mother. “Yes; I think she is,” said Anthony. “Not much.” “Tom Cripps was up on the moor the other morning.” His mother had resumed her sewing. “Poaching, I expect. He saw you both there. He’s a rare one to gossip. Will it matter?” Anthony laid down his book. “Was father in love with you when he married you?” he asked. His mother looked up astonished. “What an odd question to ask,” she said. “Of course he was. Madly in love. Some said I was the prettiest girl in Millsborough--not counting, of course, the gentry. What makes you ask?” Instead of answering he asked her another. “What do you mean by madly in love?” His mother was smiling to herself. The little grey head was at a higher angle than usual. “Oh, you know,” she said. “Walked six miles there and back every evening just to get five minutes’ talk with me. Said he’d drown himself if I didn’t marry him. And was that jealous--why, I daren’t so much as speak to anything else in trousers. Wrote poetry to me. Only silly like, one day when I was mad with him, I burnt it.” He did not answer. She stole a glance at him. And suddenly it came to her what was in his mind.