No, no -I warrant me! no more than thou wast t' other day, when the Bible dropped out o' thy hands upon the church floor.

An' waked the parson, father.

Oh, my poor boy! sleep or no sleep, asleep or awake, thou 'rt the strangest he in all Warrickshire – added the father, readjusting his night-cap with a petulant twitch- and if thou do n't cure thyself o' these idle pranks, I'll — I'll — zounds! if I do n'tWhat, father?

Bind thee 'prentice to an attorney.

Why, dad! you would n't, though.

Yes, but I would, though -or to a chimney-sweep. Oh, as to that, father, I've not a word to say. Thou graceless vagabond! — that would suit thee, would n't it? I verily believe it would.

The boy laughed, and began to whistle.

Here, the attention of the father was called off;

but he returned to the window, after a few minutes, and renewed the conversation

with the boy's pertness.

Not asleep, hey?

No, father, not asleep.

Dreaming, though?

evidently pleased

Ay! that I was! And angels were about me like birds, father; waters, like singing creatures.

Fiddle-de-dee!

Yes, father! And the summer-winds blew, and the sunshine flashed through the wet green leaves,

till they shivered and sparkled like live butterflies: and I thought, father- Oh, my dear father, you must let me look at the great sea before I die!

Is the boy mad?

not

No, father! But there was a huge wide feeling somehow, all about me -it came up, with one vast, long, steady heave, like the Ocean we read of like the undulations of a newly-found spring in the wilderness, or a fountain bubbling up among strawberry-blossoms.

The old gentleman stared with astonishment - the people stared and before he knew it, he was walking fore and aft the shop, and whistling too, with all his might and main.

Yes, father! And I saw the Wonders of the great deep, holding council together: Leviathans at play Robin Goodfellow, astride of a swift dolphin, with gold and blue burnished scales-mighty ships, holding on their way, with the instinct of birds, to the ends of the earthstars, dropping fire-and the great Sea flashing to the wind.

The father stopped-gazed at the strange boy with brimming eyes, for a moment, and then walking forth, he laid his two hands reverentially upon his upturned forehead, saying-The Lord be with thee! and prosper thee, thou wonderful creature! Others may believe thee underwitted, or beside thyself, my poor boy; but, in the eyes of one who knows thee better, much better, thou art the type of something

unheard of in the history of mankind. Awake, therefore!stand up! and thy foolish old father will stand up with thee!

Here the people began to whisper together and the boy, understanding by their eyes what another might have understood only by their language, drew his father into the shop; while the multitude slowly went their way- the foremost, tapping his forehead with his finger-the next, thrusting his tongue into his cheek, as he turned the corner and all the rest wagging their heads.

And now, Willy, my boy-said his father, doffing his red night-cap, and wiping his bald pate, with a portentous flourish - I do n't care that for the knaves! (snapping his fingers) and from this day forth, instead of being tied to the shop, as they would have thee, thou shalt have books to read, and clothes to wear: and it shall go hard but thy old father 'll make a gentleman of thee, in spite of their talk, (fetching the boy a slap on the back ;) what d'ye think o' that, you dog, you?

Thank ye, father; but I've no desire to be a gentleman.

No desire to be a gentleman!

No, father, an' it please ye.

And why not, Willy?

Because, father

Because, father-because what, my boy? what's the matter with thee? - why dost turn away thy face? Out with it, my boy-because what?

Because I've observed that no woman ever falls in love with a gentleman, father.

Odds, my life!-how shouldst thou know anything about love?

Well, what now?-leave playin' with thy fingers, and answer me. God's life! as her majesty saithbut I shall be out of all patience with thee! if thou speak not soon.

Did ye ever happen to see old Hathaway's daughter?

Which daughter? - Mary?

Mary indeed!

why, Mary is a child.

A child, hey? older than thou, by almost a year, my boy.

Yes, father; but not old enough an' it please ye

for me.

What hey!-let me look into your eyes, you young rogue, you! Thou 'rt not thinking of Anne Hathaway, I hope — hey?

And why not, father? Is n't she the bravest girl in Warrickshire?did n't you tell mother so yourself, not a month ago?

To be sure I did; and as beautiful as brave. But how, in the name of all the saints, camest thou to know anything about Anne Hathaway?-why, she's old enough to be thy mother, thou scapegrace.

No, father, not quite — only seven years and four months older, come next Michaelmas.

But how camest thou acquainted with her, I say? Answer me that, Willy.

I'm not acquainted with her, sir.
Not acquainted with her?

No sir; I never saw her but once.

And when was that, pray?-thou mouthful of gilt gingerbread.

When you took me to Kennilworth, to see the

show.

What! four years ago, when thou wast but thirteen years of age?

Yes, father.

And there thou saw'st Anne Hathaway?

Yes, father.

And what then?

Nothing, father.

Boy-boy-I will be answered!

There's a

mystery here, and it must be cleared up. It must, and it shall.

The boy's lip trembled a tear stood in his eyeand he breathed hard for a moment; and then planting his foot, and upheaving his forehead to the sky, and speaking with a voice he had never employed before, he continued.

The mystery shall be cleared up, father. You shall be satisfied. I saw Anne Hathaway when the Queen spoke to her, and all eyes were upon her: I saw her