“So I am inclined to think”—John Rosedew was never positive, except upon great occasions—“perhaps I should say perpend, if I were fond of hybrid English. I donʼt mean about the unfairness, Amy; for I think I should do the same if I were in Sir Cradockʼs place. I mean that our Crad would have got it, instead of Clayton, with health and fortune favouring. But it stands upon a razorʼs edge, _ἐπὶ ξυροῦς ἵσταται ἀκμῆς_. You can construe that, Amy”? “Yes, pa, when you tell me the English. How the green is coming out on the fir–trees! So faint and yet so bright. Oh, papa, what Greek sub–significance, as you sometimes call it, is equal to that composition”? “Well, my poppet, I am so short–sighted, I would much rather have a triply composite verb——” “Than three good kisses from me, daddy? Well, there they are, at any rate, because I know you are disappointed”. And the child, herself more bitterly disappointed, as becomes a hot partisan, ran away to sit under a sprawling larch, just getting new nails on its fingers, for the spring was awaking early. It was not more than a week after this, and not very far from All–Foolsʼ–day, when Clayton, directly after chapel, rushed into Cradockʼs garret, hot, breathless, and unphilosophical. Cradock, calm and thoughtful, as he usually was, poked his head through the open slide of the dusthole called a scoutʼs room, and brought out three willow–pattern plates, a little too retentive of the human impress, and an extra knife and fork, dark–browed at the tip of the handle. Then he turned up a corner of tablecloth, where it cherished sombre memories of a tearful teapot, and set the mustard–pot to control it. Nor long before he doubled the coffee in the strainer of the biggin, and shouted “Corker”! thrice, far as human voice would gravitate, down the well of the staircase. Meanwhile Master Clayton stood fidgeting, and doffed not his scholarly toga. Corker, the scout, a short fat man, came up the stairs with dignity and indignation contending. He was amazed that any freshman “should have the cheek to holler so”. Mr. Nowell was such a quiet young man, that the scout looked for some apology. “Corker, a commons of bread and butter, and a cold fowl and some tongue. Be quick now, before the buttery closes. And, as I see I am putting you out in your morning work, get a quart of ale at your dinner–time”. “Yes, sir, to be sure, sir; I wish all the gentlemen was as thoughtful”. “No, Craddy, never mind that”, cried his brother, reddening richly, for Clayton was fair as a lady, “I only want to speak to you about—well, perhaps, you know what it is I have come for. Is that fellow gone from the door”? “I am sure I donʼt know. Go and look yourself. But, dear Viley, what is the matter”? “Oh, Cradock, you can so oblige me, and it canʼt matter much to you. But to me, with nothing to look to, it does make such a difference”.