And now he was to smoke there—he, a mere bubble–blowing boy, to smoke in the middle of deepest books, to fumigate a manuscript containing a lifeful of learning, which John could no more get on with; and—oh Miss Eudoxia!—to make the hall smell and the drawing–room! The oxymoron overcame him, and he took his pipe: John Rosedew had filled it judiciously, and quite as a matter of course; he filled his own in the self–same manner, with a digital skill worthy of an ancient fox trying on a foxglove. All the time, John was shyly wondering at his own great force of character. “Now”, said John Rosedew, still keeping it up, “I have a drop of very old Schiedam—Schnapps I think, or something—of which I want your opinion; Crad, my boy, I want your opinion, before we import any more. I am no judge of that sort of thing; it is so long since I was at Oxford”. Without more ado, he went somewhither, after lighting Cradockʼs yard of clay—which the young man burnt his fingers about, for he wouldnʼt let the old man do it—and came back like a Bacchanal, with a square black–jack beneath his arm, and Jenny after him, wondering whether they had not prayed that morning enough against the devil. It was a good job Miss Amy was out of the way; the old cat was bewitched, that was certain, as well as her dear good master. Miss Doxy was happy in knowing not that she was called “the old cat” in the kitchen. CHAPTER XXVIII. “Now, Craddy, my dear, dear boy”, said Uncle John, when things had been done with lemon and cold water, and all that wherein discussion so utterly beats description, “you know me too well to suppose that I wish to pass things lightly. I know well enough that you will look the hard world full in the face. And so should I do, in your case. All I wish is that you should do it, not with spite, or bile, or narrowness, but broadly as a Christian”. “It is hard to talk about that now”, said Cradock, inhaling charity, and puffing away all acrimony; “Uncle John, I hope I may come to it as my better spirit returns to me”. “I hope it indeed, and believe it, Crad; I donʼt see how it can be otherwise, with a young man of your breadth of mind, and solid faith to help you. An empty lad, who snaps up stuff because he thinks it fine, and garbles it into garbage, would become an utter infidel, under what you have suffered. With you, I believe, it will be otherwise; I believe you will be enlarged and purified by sorrow—the night which makes the guiding–star so much the clearer to us”. John Rosedew was drinking no Schiedam—allow me to explain—though pretending rare enjoyment of it, and making Cradock drink a little, because his heart was down so. After they had talked a pipeful longer, not great weighty sentiments, but a deal of kindly stuff, the young fellow got up quietly, and said, “Now, Uncle John, I must go”.