“Accept an offer Lady Ellinor has made me, on the part of Mr Trevanion. He wants a secretary. He is kind enough to excuse my inexperience, and declares I shall do very well, and can soon get into his ways. Lady Ellinor says (I continued with dignity) that it will be a great opening in public life for me; and at all events, my dear father, I shall see much of the world, and learn what I really think will be more useful to me than any thing they will teach me at college.” My mother looked anxiously at my father. “It will indeed be a great thing for Sisty,” said she timidly; and then taking courage she added—“And that is just the sort of life he is formed for—” “Hem!” said my uncle. My father rubbed his spectacles thoughtfully, and replied, after a long pause,— “You may be right, Kitty: I don’t think Pisistratus is meant for study; action will suit him better. But what does this office lead to?” “Public employment, sir,” said I boldly; “the service of my country.” “If that be the case,” quoth Roland, “I have not a word to say. But I should have thought that for a lad of spirit, a descendant of the old De Caxtons, the army would have—” “The army!” exclaimed my mother, clasping her hands, and looking involuntarily at my uncle’s cork leg. “The army!” repeated my father peevishly. “Bless my soul, Roland, you seem to think man is made for nothing else but to be shot at! You would not like the army, Pisistratus?” “Why, sir, not if it pained you and my dear mother; otherwise, indeed—” “Papæ!” said my father interrupting me. “This all comes of your giving the boy that ambitious, uncomfortable name, Mrs Caxton; what could a Pisistratus be but the plague of one’s life? That idea of serving his country is Pisistratus ipsissimus all over. If ever I have another son, (_Dii meliora!_) he has only got to be called Eratostratus, and then he will be burning down St Paul’s; which I believe was, by the way, first made out of the stones of the temple of Diana! Of the two, certainly, you had better serve your country with a goose-quill than by poking a bayonet into the ribs of some unfortunate Indian;—I don’t think there are any other people whom the service of one’s country makes it necessary to kill just at present,—eh, Roland?” “It is a very fine field, India,” said my uncle, sententiously. “It is the nursery of captains.” “Is it? Those plants take up a great deal of ground, then, that might be more profitably cultivated. And, indeed, considering that the tallest captains in the world will be ultimately set into a box not above seven feet at the longest, it is astonishing what a quantity of room that species of _arbor mortis_ takes in the growing! However, Pisistratus, to return to your request, I will think it over, and talk to Trevanion.” “Or rather to Lady Ellinor,” said I imprudently: my mother slightly shivered, and took her hand from mine. I felt cut to the heart by the slip of my own tongue.