A vague idea of raising Jack above the artisan level had occurred to her during her scrutiny of his face. He was not an ordinary creature. That he should spend his life in the dull, commonplace atmosphere of the British workman seemed a waste of possibilities. There are millions who possess just the qualifications for hewers of wood and drawers of water. Why should a finer organisation not be cultivated, trained, put into an environment where there are conditions for free development? But whether the boy was a potential admiral, Lord Chancellor, or novelist she could not determine. That was why she asked the question, “What could we make of you?” somewhat pathetically. Jack shook his head in reply. He had learned at school that life was a serious thing terminating in apprenticeship. “I've got to learn a trade,” he replied after a little, “and I'd sooner be a carver and gilder than anything else.” “But suppose a good fairy were to come, Jack,” persisted Clytie, “and say that you were not to learn a trade, or that, if you did begin, you would work your way out of it, and become a great man, and do glorious things in the world--suppose you were able to choose to be anything you liked--what do you think you would be? Tell me--something great and bright and noble!” She had grown animated with her enthusiasm, and leaned forward, with her chin raised and lips parted--her attitude in moments of exaltation. The boy looked at her for a few seconds, catching her spirit. Something was at work within him too, for his eyes glowed, and his breath came quickly. “There is something, Jack. Tell me what it is!” “I'd like to be a soldier like my father,” he said in a low voice, the extravagant, glowing fancies that had haunted him for six months thus finding half-choked expression. “Your father?” asked Clytie, taken aback, and diverging into the side track of her astonishment. “I never knew you had--I mean, I thought you did not know anything at all about him. You used not to tell me the truth, then, Jack.” “Oh! but I did not know then!” he cried eagerly. “It was only when I come here at Christmas, and you was ill, so I couldn't tell you. He was a soldier, my father, an orficer. And I would like to be an orficer too.” “Really, Jack, this is very interesting,” said Clytie. “Aren't you pleased to have a father you can be proud of? Was he a very brave man?” “He had a sword,” said Jack proudly, as if that was proof positive of valour. “Come and sit down in your old place on the hearthrug and tell me all about him.” The boy did as he was bidden, sinking somewhat shyly at first on to the great bearskin at Clytie's feet. But after a while he huddled himself up in his old posture.