And, throwing his Arm about me, draws me to him, saying, "This is my best
Walking-stick," and steps forward briskly and fearlessly.
Truly, I think Ned loves him as though he were his own Father; and, indeed, he hath scarce known any other. Kissing his Hand reverently, he says,—"Honoured Nunks, how fares it with you? Do you like Chalfont?"
"Indeed I do, Ned," responds Father heartily. "'Tis a little Zoar, whither I and my fugitive Family have escaped from the wicked City; and, I thank God, my Wife has no Mind to look back."
"We may as well go in now," says Mother.
"No, no," says Father; "I feel there is an Hour of Summer's Sunset still left. We will abide where we are, and keep as long as we can out of the Smell of your Soapsuds. . . . Let's sit upon the Ground."
"And tell strange Stories of the Deaths of Kings," says Ned, laughing,
"That was the Saying, Ned, of one who writ much well, and much amiss."
"Let's forgive what he writ amiss, for the Sake of what he writ well," says Ned.
"That will I never," says Father. "If paltry Wits cannot be holy and
witty at the same Time, that does not hold good with nobler
Spiritts. . . . If it did, they had best never be witty at all. Thy
Brother Jack hath yet to learn that Strength is not Coarseness."
Ned softly hummed—