“He’ll have to learn a little Latin,” he explained to my mother, “to qualify. H’m. He could go down to the chap at the grammar school here—it’s just been routed into existence again by the Charity Commissioners and have lessons.” “What, me learn Latin!” I cried, with emotion. “A little,” he said. “I’ve always wanted” I said and; “_Latin!_” I had long been obsessed by the idea that having no Latin was a disadvantage in the world, and Archie Garvell had driven the point of this pretty earnestly home. The literature I had read at Bladesover had all tended that way. Latin had had a quality of emancipation for me that I find it difficult to convey. And suddenly, when I had supposed all learning was at an end for me, I heard this! “It’s no good to you, of course,” said my uncle, “except to pass exams with, but there you are!” “You’ll have to learn Latin because you have to learn Latin,” said my mother, “not because you want to. And afterwards you will have to learn all sorts of other things....” The idea that I was to go on learning, that to read and master the contents of books was still to be justifiable as a duty, overwhelmed all other facts. I had had it rather clear in my mind for some weeks that all that kind of opportunity might close to me for ever. I began to take a lively interest in this new project. “Then shall I live here?” I asked, “with you, and study... as well as work in the shop?” “That’s the way of it,” said my uncle. I parted from my mother that day in a dream, so sudden and important was this new aspect of things to me. I was to learn Latin! Now that the humiliation of my failure at Bladesover was past for her, now that she had a little got over her first intense repugnance at this resort to my uncle and contrived something that seemed like a possible provision for my future, the tenderness natural to a parting far more significant than any of our previous partings crept into her manner. She sat in the train to return, I remember, and I stood at the open door of her compartment, and neither of us knew how soon we should cease for ever to be a trouble to one another. “You must be a good boy, George,” she said. “You must learn.... And you mustn’t set yourself up against those who are above you and better than you.... Or envy them.” “No, mother,” I said. I promised carelessly. Her eyes were fixed upon me. I was wondering whether I could by any means begin Latin that night. Something touched her heart then, some thought, some memory; perhaps some premonition.... The solitary porter began slamming carriage doors. “George” she said hastily, almost shamefully, “kiss me!” I stepped up into her compartment as she bent downward. She caught me in her arms quite eagerly, she pressed me to her—a strange thing for her to do. I perceived her eyes were extraordinarily bright, and then this brightness burst along the lower lids and rolled down her cheeks.