Bella, the young poetess, who writes sonnets on Leonidas; the fiery Louis; and quicksilver Amy, to whom the worst penance is to have to sit still—these, with blue-eyed, kind-hearted, dull-headed Jessy, delighted to escape from a schoolroom in London, had come to Ivy Lodge in the beginning of the week, for change of air and the pleasures of the country. There remains but one of the party to be mentioned, Percy Manners, a schoolfellow and companion of the Gores—a sickly youth, stunted in his growth, and supported on crutches, whose chief pleasure appeared to be a quiet corner and a book. He was buried in the recess of one of the windows, with the curtain drawn before him to screen him from view, till the entrance of Mr. Presgrave drew him from his retirement, and he gathered with the others around the old man.
Mr. Presgrave was the uncle of Tom and Willy's mother. He had been as a parent to her in the days of her youth, and now, in his old age, he and his invalid wife were the beloved inmates of her home. Mr. Presgrave had passed through a long pilgrimage in this world, with his eyes steadily fixed upon a better. Religion to him was a thing of reality, not confined to the Sabbath or the hour of prayer, but a living principle that governed his life, that was seen in his actions and known by his words—nay, that left its calm imprint even on his countenance, which few could behold without loving.
"Doing nothing!" exclaimed the old gentleman, slowly seating himself, and looking round upon the party. "Why, that is the most tedious occupation that I know of!"
"Why, uncle, we've nothing to do," replied Louis. "We had expected to have got out, and to have had cricket, and trap-ball, and kite-flying; but this horrible weather—"
"Hush! my boy," said Mr. Presgrave gently. "I never like to hear any one abuse the weather; it is the Almighty's sending, and of what He sends, man has no right to complain. But," added he in a more lively tone, "I find you all in a difficulty from which I am bound to try to relieve you, for if 'idleness is the mother of mischief,' she is also the parent of a large family of other evils. Can you name to me any of her sons and daughters?"
"Gossip," said Bella.
"Discontent," added Willy.
"Fighting and quarrelling," whispered little Julia.
"Now, knowing the evil, let us find out the remedy."
"O uncle! Do tell us one of your long stories!" At these words of Julia's there rose a little storm of entreaties, for Uncle Presgrave was famous for his tales and adventures.