Said Rolfe, “The young barbarian, as you call him, has disarmed me: he plays the fiddle like a civilized angel.”
“Oh, Mr. Rolfe!”
“What, you his mother, and not found that out yet? Oh yes, he has a heaven-born genius for music.”
Rolfe then related the musical feats of the urchin.
Sir Charles begged to observe that this talent would go a very little way toward fitting him to succeed his father and keep up the credit of an ancient family.
“Dear Charles, Mr. Rolfe knows that; but it is like him to make the best of things, to encourage us. But what do you think of him, on the whole, Mr. Rolfe? has Sir Charles more to hope or to fear?”
“Give me another day or two to study him,” said Rolfe.
That night there was a loud alarm. Mr. Bassett was running about the veranda in his night-dress.
They caught him and got him to bed, and Rolfe said it was fever; and, with the assistance of Sir Charles and a footman, laid him between two towels steeped in tepid water, then drew blankets tight over him, and, in short, packed him.
“Ah!” said he, complacently; “I say, give me a drink of moonshine, old chap.”