But I read all the poetry I could lay my hands on, and I wrote as well.” “Did you write poetry, Master Swift?” said Jan. “Ay, Jan, of a sort. At one time I worshipped Burns. And then I wrote verses in the dialect of my native place, which, ye must know, I can speak with any man when I’ve a mind,” said Master Swift, unconscious that he spoke it always. “And then it was Wordsworth, for the love of nature is just a passion with me, and it’s that that made the poet Keats a new world to me. Well, well, now I’m telling you how I came here. It was after my wife. She was lady’s-maid to Squire Ammaby’s mother, and the old Squire got me the school. Ah, those were happy days! I was a godless, rough sort of a fellow when she married me, but I became a converted man. And let me tell ye, lad, when a man and wife love GOD and each other, and live in the country, a bit of ground like this becomes a very garden of Eden.” “Did your wife like your poetry, sir?” said Jan, on whom the idea that the schoolmaster was a poet made a strong impression. “Ay, ay, Jan. She was a good scholar. I wrote a bit about that time called Love and Ambition, in the style of the poet Wordsworth. It was as much as to say that Love had killed Ambition, ye understand? But it wasn’t dead. It had only shifted to another object. “We had a child. I remember the first day his blue eyes looked at me with what I may call sense in ’em. He was in his cradle, and there was no one but me with him. I went on like a fool. ‘See thee, my son,’ I said, ‘thy father’s been a bad ’un, but he’ll keep thee as pure as thy mother. Thy father’s a poor scholar, but he’s not _that_ dull but what he’ll make _thee_ as learned as the parson. Thy father’s a needy man, a man in a small way, but he and thy mother’ll stick here in this dull bit of a village, content, ay, my lad, right happy, so thou’rt a rich man, and can see the world!’ I give ye my word, Jan, the child looked at me as if he understood it all. You’re wondering, maybe, what made me hope he’d do different to what I’d done. But, ye see, his mother was just an angel, and I reckoned he’d be half like her. Then she’d lived with gentlefolks from a child, and knew manners and such like that I never learned. And for as little as I’d taught myself, he’d at any rate begin where his father left off. He was all we had. There seemed no fault in him. His mother dressed him like a little prince, and his manners were the same. Ah, we _were_ happy! Then”— “Well, Master Swift?” said Jan, for the schoolmaster had paused. “Can’t ye see the place is empty?” he answered sharply. “Who takes bite or sup with me but Rufus? _She died_.