"I am from Devonshire; I was formerly head of the grammar school at ---; but, sir, my principles would not allow me to retain my situation; rectitude of conduct, sir, is absolutely necessary to the profession which inculcates morality and virtue, as well as instruction to youth, sir. Here's to our better acquaintance, sir." "Sir, to your's; I honour your sentiments. By the powers! but you're right, Mr ---, I beg your pardon--but I don't catch your name exactly." "Furness, sir, at your service. Yes, sir, the directors of the foundation which I presided over, I may say, with such credit to myself, and such advantage to the pupils under my care, wished to make a job-- yes, sir--of a charity; I could not consent to such deeds, and I resigned." "And you have been in London ever since?" "No, sir; I repaired to the small village of Grassford, where I set up a school, but circumstances compelled me to resign, and I am now about to seek for employment in another hemisphere; in short, I have an idea of going out to New South Wales as a preceptor. I understand they are in great want of tuition in that quarter." "I should think so," replied McShane; "and they have a great deal to unlearn as well as to learn." "I speak of the junior branches--the scions or offsets, I may say--born in the colony, and who I trust, will prove that crime is not hereditary." "Well, I wish you luck, sir," replied McShane; "you must oblige me by taking another glass, for I never shall be able to finish this decanter myself." "I gladly avail myself of the pleasure of your company, sir." As the reader is well aware that Furness was an intemperate man, it is not surprising that he accepted the offer; and before the second glass was finished, the ale and brandy had begun to have the effect, and he had become very communicative. "What was the name of the village which you stated you had resided in lately, sir?" inquired McShane. "The village of Grassford." "There is something I recollect about that village; let me see-- something that I read in the newspapers. I remember now--it was the murder of a pedlar." "Very true, sir, such a circumstance did take place; it was a dreadful affair--and, what is more strange, committed by a mere child, who absconded." "Indeed! What was his name?" "Rushbrook, sir; his father was a well-known poacher--a man who had been in the army, and had a pension for wounds. There is an old saying, sir, of high authority--`Bring up a child in the way he should go, and he will not depart from it.' I instructed that boy, sir; but alas! what avails the instruction of a preceptor when a father leads a child into evil ways?" "That's the truth, and no mistake," replied McShane. "So the boy ran away? Yes; I recollect now. And what became of the father?" "The father, sir, and mother have since left the village, and gone nobody knows where." "Indeed! are you sure of that?"