But the day of childish romance was over, and life itself was too strong and fresh to allow me to brood on the past for more than an occasional half-hour. My thoughts were full of Oxford, whither my uncle had resolved I should go; and I worked hard in preparation. ‘I have not much money to spare, my boy,’ he said; ‘but I have insured my life for a sum sufficient to provide for your aunt, if she should survive me; and after her death it will come to you. Of course the old house and the park, which have been in the family for more years than I can tell, will be yours at my death. A good part of the farm was once ours too, but not for these many years. I could not recommend you to keep on the farm; but I confess I should be sorry if you were to part with our own little place, although I do not doubt you might get a good sum for it from Sir Giles, to whose park it would be a desirable addition. I believe at one time, the refusal to part with our poor little vineyard of Naboth was cause of great offence, even of open feud between the great family at the Hall and the yeomen who were your ancestors; but poor men may be as unwilling as rich to break one strand of the cord that binds them to the past. But of course when you come into the property, you will do as you see fit with your own.’ ‘You don’t think, uncle, I would sell this house, or the field it stands in, for all the Moldwarp estate? I too have my share of pride in the family, although as yet I know nothing of its history.’ ‘Surely, Wilfrid, the feeling for one’s own people who have gone before is not necessarily pride!’ ‘It doesn’t much matter what you call it, uncle.’ ‘Yes, it does, my boy. Either you call it by the right name or by the wrong name. If your feeling _is_ pride, then I am not objecting to the name, but the thing. If your feeling is not pride, why call a good thing by a bad name? But to return to our subject: my hope is that, if I give you a good education, you will make your own way. You might, you know, let the park, as we call it, for a term of years.’ ‘I shouldn’t mind letting the park,’ I answered, ‘for a little while; but nothing should ever make me let the dear old house. What should I do if I wanted it to die in?’ The old man smiled, evidently not ill-pleased. ‘What do you say to the bar?’ he asked. ‘I would rather not,’ I answered. ‘Would you prefer the Church?’ he asked, eyeing me a little doubtfully. ‘No, certainly, uncle,’ I answered. ‘I should want to be surer of a good many things before I dared teach them to other people.’ ‘I am glad of that, my boy. The fear did cross my mind for a moment that you might be inclined to take to the Church as a profession, which seems to me the worst kind of infidelity. A thousand times rather would I have you doubtful about what is to me the highest truth, than regarding it with the indifference of those who see in it only the prospect of a social position and livelihood. Have you any plan of your own?’