“You shall be away from the Grevilles, and not under a governess. Your uncle is kind enough to take you with him to his house, and will endeavour to make you fit to try to get upon the foundation by the time there is a vacancy.” “O Papa! don’t,” sobbed Henry. “I can’t help it, Hal! You have shown yourself unfit either for the sea or for home. What can I do with you?” “Try me—only try me, Papa. I would—” “I cannot go by what you say you would be, but what you are. Deeds, not words.” “But if you won’t let me go into the navy, only let me be in real school.” “No, Henry; I have not the means of sending you there: excepting on the foundation; and if you get admittance there at all, it will only be by great diligence, and your uncle’s kindness in preparing you.” Henry cried bitterly. It was a dreadful prospect to do his lessons alone with Uncle John in the boys’ play-hours, and be kept in order by Aunt Alice when his uncle was in school. Perhaps his father would not have liked it himself, for his voice was very pitying, though cheering, as he said, “One half year, Hal, very likely no more if you take pains, and you’ll get into school, and be very happy, so long as you don’t make a Greville of every idle chap you meet.” Henry cried as though beyond consolation. “I hate leaving you this way,” continued his father; “but by the time I come home you will see it was the best thing for you; and look up to Uncle John as your best friend. Why, Hal, boy, you’ll be a tall fellow of fourteen! Let me find you godly and manly: you can’t be one without the other. There now, good night, God bless you.” More might have been said to Henry on his fault and what had led to it; but what his father did say was likely to sink deeper as he grew older, and had more sense and feeling. From him Captain Merrifield went to the school-room, where Miss Fosbrook was packing up for the little girls, and putting last stitches to their equipments, with hearty good-will and kindness, as if she had been their elder sister.