"Yes; his first wife had no children; and after he had buried her,--which, by the way, I believe was the happiest hour of his life,--he married a very different sort of person, Margaret Vassall, this boy's mother." "What, one of the old Vassall race?" "Exactly; and, I suppose, the last survivor. I used to know her. She was a handsome woman, and, bating her family pride, altogether a very fine character. She managed her husband admirably." "Why, what need had John Morton of being managed?" "O, Morton was a noble old gentleman, a merchant of the old school, and generous as the day; but he had his faults. He made nothing of his three bottles of Madeira at dinner, and besides-- Ah, Mr. Jacobs, so you have found Macknight." "Yes, sir," said Mr. Jacobs, coming up, "I have the volumes." "See that young man, yonder. That's the son of your old friend, Mr. Morton." "Really! upon my word! Ah! Mr. Morton _was_ a friend to me, sir--a very kind friend." And, in the simplicity of his heart, Mr. Jacobs glided up to the student, and blandly accosted him. "How do you do, young gentleman? I knew your worthy father. I knew him well. I have often sat at his hospitable board on anniversary week." Thus addressed, Vassall Morton looked up from his book,--it was Froissart's Chronicle,--inclined his head in acknowledgment, and waited to hear more. "Ahem!" coughed Mr. Jacobs, a little embarrassed: "your father was a most worthy and estimable gentleman: a true friend of the feeble and destitute. Ahem!--what class are you in, Mr. Morton?" "The junior class," said the young man, a suppressed smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. "Ahem! I hope, sir, that, like your father, you will long live to be an honor to your native town." "Thank you, sir." "I wish you good morning." "Good morning, sir," said Morton, divided between an inclination to smile at the odd, humble little figure before him, and an unwillingness to wound the other's feelings. "Are you ready to go, Mr. Jacobs?" said Dr. Steele. "If you please, sir, we will now take our departure;"--gathering the four volumes of Macknight on the Epistles under his arm;--"Good morning, Mr. Stillingfleet; good morning, Mr. Rubens. I am indebted to your kindness, gentlemen--ahem!" "This is the way out, Mr. Jacobs," said Steele to his diffident friend from West Weathersfield, who, in his embarrassment, was going out at the wrong door. "I beg your pardon, sir--ahem!" replied Mr. Jacobs, with a bashful smile. And Dr. Steele, pointing to the true exit, ushered his rustic and reverend protege from the sacred precinct of learning. CHAPTER II. Richt hardie baith in ernist and play.--_Sir David Lyndsay_. "Morton, what was the little old fogy in the white cravat saying to you just now in the library?" "Telling me that my father was a worthy man, and that he hoped I should make just such another." "Ah, that was kind of him."