“Seems to me a terrable thing to think _Religion_ can be bad for any man. It have done me such powars of good. The late Moyle esq he was like a dirty pan all the milk turned sour no matter what. Dear friend I pored Praise into him and it come out Prayer and all for him self. But the dear Lord says I was to blame as much as Moyle esq so must do better next time but feel terrable timid. “My respects to Masr Taffy. Dear friend I done my best I come like _Nicodemus_ by night. Seeming to me when Christians fall out tis over what they pray for. When they _praise God_ forget diffnses and I cant think where the quaraling comes in and so no more at present from “Yours respffly “J. Pascoe.” After supper that night, in the Parsonage kitchen Humility kept rising from her chair, and laying her needlework aside to re-arrange the pans and kettles on the hearth. This restlessness was so unusual that Taffy, seated in the ingle with a book on his knee, had half raised his head to twit her when he felt a hand laid softly on his hair, and looked up into his mother’s eyes. “Taffy, should you like to go to Oxford?” “Don’t, mother!” “But you can.” The tears in her eyes answered his at once. She turned to his father. “Tell him!” “Yes, my boy, you can go,” said Mr. Raymond; “that is, if you can win a scholarship. Your mother and I have been talking it over.” “But--” Taffy began, and could get no further. “We have money enough--with care,” said Mr. Raymond. But the boy’s eyes were on his mother. Her cheeks, usually so pale, were flushed; but she turned her face away and walked slowly back to her chair. “The lace-work,” he heard her say: “I have been saving-- from the beginning--” “For this?” He followed and took her hand. With the other she covered her eyes; but nodded. “O mother--mother!” He knelt and let his brow drop on her lap. She ceased to weep; her palms rested on his bowed head, but now and then her body shook. And but for the ticking of the tall clock there was silence in the room. It was wonderful; and the wonder of it grew when they recovered themselves and fell to discussing their plans. In spite of his idolatry, Mr. Raymond could not help remembering certain slights which he, a poor miller’s son, had undergone at Christ Church. He had chosen Magdalen, which Taffy knew to be the most beautiful of all the colleges; and the news that his name had been entered on the college books for years past gave him a delicious shock. It was now July. He would matriculate in the October term, and in January enter for a demyship. But (the marvels followed so fast on each other’s heels) there would be an examination held in ten days’ time--actually in ten days’ time--a “certificate” examination, Mr. Raymond called it--which would excuse the boy not only the ordinary Matriculation test, but Responsions too. And, in short, Taffy was to pack his box and go. “But the subjects?”