Eunice was profoundly impressed. London! Wasn't that a risky undertaking? She knew it to be a wonderful place when one got there, but had heard it was crowded with people who did terrible things. Mr. Jukes, the landlord of the "Wings and Spur," had been to London on some law business not long ago, and could talk of nothing else since. Indeed, Edward John Charles had felt Mr. Jukes's rivalry very keenly; for the innkeeper's visit being of later date than his, the glory of it was fresher to the Hampton mind. Henry, conscious that he had taken her breath away, gathered up his knees and fell to dreaming of London. The shadows of evening crept softly upon them as they sat there; the trees on the high ground behind them rustled gently in the light summer breeze; and somehow, the whole scene--the sloping meadow, the darkening hedgerows, the shadowy outline of the country beyond--mingled strangely with his dreams of the future. Years afterwards, when the quiet, peaceful life of Hampton was a dear thing of the past to him, the scent of new-mown hay recreated that evening in every detail, and he saw again the rose-flushed lass who had sat in silent wonder by his side. Mr. Charles was of opinion that the sooner his son was started on his upward course the better. Henry, therefore, was withdrawn from school, and immediate preparations made for his departure--preparations in which Edward John took no manual part, but which, judging by the poise of his coat-tails, went forward to his mind. Mrs. Charles even forgot to take the curl-papers out of her hair for two whole days before the eventful morning. On the eve of the day appointed for Henry's departure Mr. Page called in to wish him good-bye. A little later the vicar flashed for a moment into the dingy interior of the shop and shook hands with him. "Remember, my dear Henry, _labor omnia vincit improbus_, as the Latinists say," using one of his few but favourite Latin phrases, and rolling it lovingly like a chocolate-cream 'twixt tongue and palate. "And remember also, my dear Henry, that _les bellesactions cachees sont les plus estimables_," pronouncing atrociously a phrase he had picked up a few hours before, "which means, my dear young friend, that you should do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame." Henry blushed forthwith. "And let me present you with a little keepsake. It is a copy of my new book, my poem on Queen Victoria, which the _Midland Agricultural News_ has described in terms of praise that I hope I am too modest to quote. I have signed it with my autograph, and I trust you will lay to heart its lessons." The poem in question was a sixteen-page pamphlet in a gaudy cover. It enjoyed a large circulation by gratuitous distribution. To the vicar's great regret, he had found at the end of a dictionary the French phrase about beautiful actions too late to be incorporated in his verses.