Henry was profoundly moved, but like all great people in their great moments, he was deplorably commonplace. "I thank you, sir," was all his genius prompted. He was gravelled for a Latin snatch to cap the vicar's, and the Rev. Godfrey Needham stood supreme. "Eh, but _tempus_ do _fugit_, passon," Edward John broke in at this juncture. "It's only loike yesterday that 'Enry was a-startin' school, and 'ere 'e's a-goin' out into the great world to carve out a name for hisself--'oo knows 'e ain't?" "With youth all things are possible." returned Mr. Needham. "We shall be proud of Henry yet. He certainly has my best wishes for his success. _Sursum corda_, my friend, as the Latin hath it. And to you, Henry, _Deus vobiscum_. Good-bye!" "Good-bye, and thank you, sir," said the overwhelmed Henry. In a moment more the white-socked calipers had carried Mr. Needham out of Henry's life for some years to come. When the great morning arrived, the whole house was turned upside down. The village itself was agitated. Henry was quite the hero of the moment, despite the sniffing disapproval of Miffin. But one can't destroy a coat and retain a friendly feeling for the cause of the catastrophe. "Merk moi werds," he said to his apprentice, as together they watched from behind the door the preparations across the street. "Young Che'les will never do nowt. He'll come to a bed end, and Ed'ard John will rue this day. Merk moi werds." And he emphasised his wisdom with a skinny forefinger. Henry's mother cried over him a little, and impressed upon him that the three pots of blackberry jam--her own making--were at the bottom of his trunk, away from the shirts and linen, in case of accident. His sisters, one by one, threw their arms around him, and said commonplace things to him to hide the less common thoughts in their mind. At length Henry took his seat on the carrier's waggon, after receiving a luminous impression of London--modern London, not the Edward-John London--from Mr. Jukes of the "Wings and Spur," and drove away, turning his face from his friends to avoid a silly inclination to cry. As the carrier cracked his whip while his horses gathered pace down the street, his passenger looked back to the old familiar house and signalled to the group still standing by the door; but for all the high hopes that beckoned him along this road that ran to London he was sorry to go. When they were passing the cottage of old Carne, and a sweet face lit by two violet eyes looked out between the dimity curtains, while a girl's hand rattled pleasantly on the window, Henry smiled and waved his arm. But he was dimly conscious he had lost something he could not define. It had to do with tears on a woman's wrinkled face. CHAPTER III THE REAL AND THE IDEAL