"Never, never, dear father!" exclaimed Jack, starting up and speaking with an energy which brought a flush to his pale cheeks. "Never will I leave you for the sake of becoming a lazy drone, like the monks yonder, or a proud priest like their prior, who rides abroad in such state upon his mule, and grinds the faces of poor men, and robs widows and orphans as he does. I would rather be a shepherd on the hillside all day like my old uncle Thomas, or a sailor like Davy Brent, or a miner underground, than live such a life!" "Well, well, boy, I am glad on't with all my heart, but you need not speak so loud or put yourself in such a heat about it. The priests are not all alike neither. Never was a better man than our Sir William." "That is so, father; and yet I would not be in his shoes. I hear the others are complaining that he preaches too much, and that he sets a bad example in not exacting all his dues. They say he would not take the last dues from Prudence Wither when her husband died, though she offered it. 'Nay, dame,' he said, 'it were more fitting I should give to you than you to me.' And he will take no christening gifts or marriage fees, because he says the sacraments should be free to all." "'Tis a wonder if they do not accuse him of heresy before all is done!" muttered the baker. "Well, here comes cousin Cicely to tell us that your room is ready, and I dare say she has brewed a fine posset for you—eh, old girl?" "That have I, that have I, John Lucas!" replied the cheery old woman. "And made up his bed with clean well-lavendered sheets to boot. So come along, Jacky, if you will not sit up to supper—and truly your eyes are rarely heavy." "You will spoil me among you," said Jack, gratefully. "I am not worth so much care. Well, good-night, dear father. I dare say I shall be well enough in the morning." CHAPTER II. THE SHEPHERD. Jack's prophecy was not destined to be fulfilled. For many days, he tossed restlessly on his bed, or crept from it only to recline in the great armchair which had been placed in his room. In vain did Cicely prepare her most tempting delicacies, and brew her choicest sleeping draughts—he could neither eat nor sleep. In vain did Anne, more awake to sublunary matters than she had been for a long time, try to divert him with legends of saints. He could not care for them any more than for the news of the school and the town which his playmates brought him. He grew thinner and weaker day by day. The physician talked learnedly of degeneration of the animal spirits, and so on, but confessed that he could do no good. He feared there was a hereditary tendency to consumption, which nothing would counteract, and being a wise and humane man, he forbore to torment his patient with useless drugs.