Sir Cradock Nowell, still alive to the normal sense of duty, tottered away on John Rosedewʼs arm, from the grave of his half–brother. He had never learned whose hand it was that dug the grave near by, and no one ever forced that unhappy knowledge on him. This last blow, which seemed to strike his chiefest prop from under him, had left its weal on his failing mind in great marks of astonishment. That such a strong, great man should drop, and he, the elder and the weaker, be left to do without him! He was going to the Rectory now, to have a glass of wine, after fatigue of the funeral, a vintage very choice and rare, according to Mr. Rosedew, and newly imported from Oxford. And truly that was its origin. It might have claimed “founderʼs kin fellowship,” like most of the Oxford wine–skins. “Wonderful, wonderful man!” said poor Sir Cradock, doing his best to keep his back very upright, from a sudden suffusion of memory,—”to think that he should go first, John! Oh, if I had a son left, he should take that man for his model.” “Scarcely that,” John Rosedew thought, knowing all the circumstances; “but of the dead I will say no harm.” “So quick, so ready, so up for anything! Ah, I remember he knocked a man down just at the corner by this gate here, where the dandelion–seed is. And afterwards he proved how richly he deserved it. That is the way to do things, John.” “I am not quite sure of that,” said the conscientious parson; “it might be wiser to prove that first; and then to abstain from doing it. I remember an instance in point——” “Of course you do. You always do, John, and I wish you wouldnʼt. But that has nothing to do with it. You are always cutting me short, John; and worse than ever since you came back, and they talked of you so at Oxford. I hope they have not changed you, John.” He looked at the white–haired rector, with an old manʼs jealousy. Who else had any right to him? “My dear old friend,” replied John Rosedew, with kind sorrow in his eyes, “I never meant to cut you short. I will try not to do it again. But I know I am rude sometimes, and I am always sorry afterwards.” “Nonsense, John; donʼt talk of it. I understand you by this time; and we allow for one another. But now about my son, my poor unlucky boy.” “To be sure, yes,” said the other old man, not wishing to hurry matters. And so they stopped and probed the hedge instead of one another. “I donʼt know how it is,” at last Sir Cradock Nowell said, being rather aggrieved with John Rosedew for not breaking ground upon him—”but how hard those stubs of ash are! Look at that splinter, almost severed by a man who does not know how to splash; Jem, his name is, poor Garnet told me, Jem—something or other—and yet all I can do with my stick wonʼt fetch it away from the stock.” “Like a child who will not quit his father, however his father has treated him.” “What do you mean by that, John? Are you driving at me again? I thought you had given it over.”