‘There,’ he said, ‘is your father’s watch. Let it keep you in mind that to be good is to be great.’ ‘Oh, thank you, uncle!’ I said, heeding only my recovered treasure. ‘But didn’t it belong to somebody before my father? Grannie gave it me as if it had been hers.’ ‘Your grandfather gave it to your father; but when he died, your great-grandmother took it. Did she tell you anything about it?’ ‘Nothing particular. She said it was her husband’s.’ ‘So it was, I believe.’ ‘She used to call him my father.’ ‘Ah, you remember that!’ ‘I’ve had so much time to think about things, uncle!’ ‘Yes. Well--I hope you will think more about things yet.’ ‘Yes, uncle. But there’s something else I should like to ask you about.’ ‘What’s that?’ ‘The old sword.’ My uncle smiled, and rose again, saying, ‘Ah! I thought as much. Is that anything like it?’ he added, bringing it from the bottom of a cupboard. I took it from his hands with awe. It was the same. If I could have mistaken the hilt, I could not mistake the split sheath. ‘Oh, uncle!’ I exclaimed, breathless with delight. ‘That’s it--isn’t it?’ he said, enjoying my enjoyment. ‘Yes, that it is! Now tell me all about it, please.’ ‘Indeed I can tell you very little. Some ancestor of ours fought with it somewhere. There was a story about it, but I have forgot it. You may have it if you like.’ ‘No, uncle! May I? To take away with me?’ ‘Yes. I think you are old enough now not to do any mischief with it.’ I do not believe there was a happier boy in England that night. I did not mind where I went now. I thought I could even bear to bid Mrs Elder farewell. Whether therefore possession had done me good, I leave my reader to judge. But happily for our blessedness, the joy of possession soon palls, and not many days had gone by before I found I had a heart yet. Strange to say, it was my aunt who touched it. I do not yet know all the reasons which brought my uncle to the resolution of sending me abroad: it was certainly an unusual mode of preparing one for the university; but the next day he disclosed the plan to me. I was pleased with the notion. But my aunt’s apron went up to her eyes. It was a very hard apron, and I pitied those eyes although they were fierce. ‘Oh, auntie!’ I said, ‘what are you crying for? Don’t you like me to go?’ ‘It’s too far off, child. How am I to get to you if you should be taken ill?’ Moved both by my own pleasure and her grief, I got up and threw my arms round her neck. I had never done so before. She returned my embrace and wept freely. As it was not a fit season for travelling, and as my uncle had not yet learned whither it would be well to send me, it was after all resolved that I should return to Mr Elder’s for another half-year. This gave me unspeakable pleasure; and I set out for school again in such a blissful mood as must be rare in the experience of any life. CHAPTER XII. THE HOUSE-STEWARD.