Upon the lawn he espied Mr. Marrapit and his Mary. She, on a garden seat, was reading aloud from the _Times_; Mr. Marrapit, on a deep chair stretched to make lap for the Rose of Sharon, sat a little in advance of her. George approached from Mr. Marrapit's flank; soft turf muffled his strides. The warm glow of kindliness towards all the world, which his success had stoked burning within him, put a foreign word upon his tongue. He sped it on a boisterous note: “Uncle!” he cried. “Uncle, I've passed!” Mary crushed the _Times_ between her hands; bounded to her feet. “Oh!” she cried. “Hip! hur--!” She bit the final exclamation; dropped to her seat. Mr. Marrapit had twisted his eye upon her. “You are in pain?” he asked. “No--oh, no.” “You have a pang in the hip?” “Oh no--no.” “But you bounded. You cried 'hip'! Whose hip?” “I was startled.” “Unsatisfactory. The brain, not the hip, is the seat of the emotion. Elucidate.” “I don't know why I said 'hip.' I was startled. Mr. George startled me.” “Me also he startled. I did not shout hip, thigh, leg nor knee. Control the tongue.” He turned to George. “Miss Humfray's extraordinary remark has projected this dilatory reception of your news. I beg you repeat it.” Sprayed upon between mortification and laughter at the manner of his greeting, George's enthusiasm was a little damped. But its flame was too fierce to be hurt by a shower. Now it roared again. “I've passed!” he cried. “I'm qualified!” “I tender my felicitations. Accept them. Leave us, Miss Humfray. This is a mighty hour. Take the Rose. Give her cream. Let her with us rejoice.” Mary raised the cat. She faced about so that she directly shut Mr. Marrapit from his nephew; with her dancing eyes spoke her happiness to her George; passed down the lawn. III. Mr. Marrapit drew in the lap he had been making. He sat upright. “Again, accept my felicitations,” he said. “They are yours. Take them.” With fitting words George took them. Mr. Marrapit continued: “It is a mighty hour. Through adversity we have won to peace, through perils to port, through hurts to harbour.” He paused. “You mean--” George said, groping. “Do not interpose. It is a mighty hour. Let this scene sink into our minds and march with us to the grave. Here upon the lawn we stand. Westward the setting sun. Creeping towards us the lengthening shadows. Between us the horrid discord which has so long reigned no longer stands. It is banished by a holy peace. The past is dead. My trust is ended. The vow which I swore unto your mother I have steadfastly kept. I would nourish you, I declared, until you were a qualified physician. You are a qualified physician. I have nourished you. Frequently in the future, upon a written invitation, I trust you will visit this home in which your youth has been spent. When do you leave?”