One day the eldest boy but one, aged nineteen, came to his mother, and, with that outward composure which has so misled some persons as to the real nature of this people, begged her to intercede with his father to send him to Amsterdam, and place him with a merchant. “It is the way of life that likes me: merchants are wealthy; I am good at numbers; prithee, good mother, take my part in this, and I shall ever be, as I am now, your debtor.”
Catherine threw up her hands with dismay and incredulity.
“What! leave Tergou!”
“What is one street to me more than another? If I can leave the folk of Tergou, I can surely leave the stones.”
“What! quit your poor father now he is no longer young?”
“Mother, if I can leave you, I can leave”
“What! leave your poor brothers and sisters, that love you so dear?”
“There are enough in the house without me.”
“What mean you, Richart? Who is more thought of than you Stay, have I spoken sharp to you? Have I been unkind to you?”
“Never that I know of; and if you had, you should never hear of it from me. Mother,” said Richart gravely, but the tear was in his eye, “it all lies in a word, and nothing can change my mind. There will be one mouth less for you to feed.'