"True, true, your uncle is no ale-bench haunter, and you are more likely to be taken with some tale of chivalry than with the talk of country clowns, or with volumes of divinity either, I should say. Tell me now, can you construe Latin?" "Oh, yes, your reverence," replied. Jack. "I have read Caesar his Commentaries, and Virgil, and a little of Horace, and I am to read more so soon as I can find a book." The old man rose and went to his cupboard, from whence, after some shuffling of papers, he brought forth a letter sealed with a gorgeous coat-of-arms. "See here," said he. "The Abbot of Glastonbury has sent me this epistle all in Latin. As far as I can make out, it is about certain lands which the abbey possesses in this parish. But, our Lady help me, I never was the brightest scholar in the world at my Latin, and I have forgotten all I ever knew, save so much as may serve me for mass. Do you think now you could construe this letter for me, and say nothing about it?" Greatly delighted with the turn things had taken, Jack promised secrecy, and proceeded to translate and expound the letter, not without sharply criticising in his own mind the Latinity of the reverend writer. "He writes like a booby of the fourth form," said he to himself. "Wouldn't Master Crabtree give it him for his concords?" "And you are sure now that you have the right sense?" asked Father John. "Oh, yes, sir. That is the whole of it." "And now he will be expecting an answer in Latin," groaned the poor father. "And how I am to compass that, I cannot guess. I might ask Brother Barnaby, but then—he is a good man, and learned, but he hath short patience with the mortal infirmities of other folks, seeing that he hath none of his own. He would be sure to deliver me a lecture and—" "So please your reverence, if you will give me in English the substance of your answer, I will put it into Latin for you," said Jack, who began to feel a great kindness for the poor, good-natured old man. "Oh, my dear son, but are you sure you can do it to the Abbot's satisfaction? He is a great man, you know, is the Abbot of Glastonbury." "I think I can, your reverence; I was accounted a good scholar in Bridgewater grammar school, where I took the gold medal last term," said Jack, adding to himself, "I am sure I never should have got it if I had not written better Latin than the abbot's secretary." "Well, well, I will think of it, and inquire about the land, and tell you what to say. And now see here." Father John opened once more the cupboard where he kept his papers, and brought forth a book beautifully bound and clasped. "You say you want a Horace. Well, here is one which was left me by an old college friend. I cannot use it, and you can, and it were better in your hands than mouldering away in this old nook. Take it then, my son, and the saints bless you. Surely I never thought to like you so well when you tumbled me into the brook the other day."