Uncle Clem preserved the hunted attitude until they had covered the best part of a mile; then he leant back with a sigh of relief. “I believe we have shaken off our pursuers,” he declared, “and can breathe easily once more. Hullo!” pointing to the sky, “that’s a hawk—see him? Wonderful fellows, hawks! Always up in the clouds rushing through space, and only coming to earth to snatch at a bit of food. That’s the right idea, y’know. Never do any good if you stick to the ground all the while. ’Course he’s a nasty-tempered fellow, and a bit of a buccaneer, but there’s a good deal to be said in favour of him.” The look of admiration on Wynne’s face made him smile and shake his head. “No, you are wrong in thinking that, youngster. There’s nothing of the hawk about me. I lack the energy that compels his headlong flights. One might say that I was a bit of a lark, for I enjoy a flutter in the blue, and I can’t help lifting a song of praise when I get there.” Wynne did not dare to open his lips, lest he should stay the course of this wonderful being’s reflections. It was almost too good to be true to find himself actually in contact with some one who spoke with such glorious enthusiasm and spirit about these delightful unearthly matters, and whose conversation seemed to bear no relation to time-tables and ordinary concerns of life. So he nodded very gravely and edged a little nearer the big man in the rough tweed suit. Uncle Clem understood the impulse, and slipped his hand through his little nephew’s arm. He took possession of Wynne’s hand and raised it in his palm. “All of us have five fingers and five senses, and most of us use none of them. Yes, most of us are like mussels on a rock, who do no more than open their shells for the tide to drift victuals into their mouths. That’s the thing to avoid, y’know—molluscry. What are you going to do with your five fingers and your five senses, youngster?” “I—I don’t quite know what I will do with them, Uncle,” Wynne replied, hesitatingly. Then, with more assurance—“But I know what I shan’t do with them.” “Yes?” “I shan’t do things because they always have been done before.” Clementine laughed. “Not a bad beginning,” he said; “but you want to be very sure of the alternative. No good pushing over a house if you can’t build a better. You didn’t know your grandfather—no end of a fine fellow he was—used his brain and his hands to some effect. He was an artist.” “Oh, was he?” said Wynne, with a shade of disappointment. He had never been told before. “Doesn’t that please you?” “I don’t know, Uncle. I think it would be nice to be an artist, but—” “Yes?” “We’ve got some pictures at home, and they don’t seem very nice.”