“That’s nice,” was Jock’s comment. “How did you know it?”
“Mother made us learn the collects every Sunday, and she wrote that in my little book. I always begin the half with it, but afterwards I can’t go on.”
“Then it doesn’t do you much good,” was the not unnatural remark.
“I don’t know,” said Cecil, hesitating; “may be all this—your getting right, I mean, is the coming round of prayers—my mother’s, I mean, for if you take this turn, it will be much easier for me! Poor mother! it’s not for want of her caring and teaching.”
“My mother doesn’t bother about it.”
“I wish she did,” said Cecil. “If she had gone on like mine, you would have been ever so much better than I.”
“No, I should have been bored and bothered into being regularly good-for-nothing. You don’t know what she’s really like. She’s nicer than anyone—as jolly as any fellow, and yet a lady all over.”
“I know that,” said Cecil; “she was uncommonly jolly to me at Eton, and I know my mother and she will get on like a house on fire. We’re too old to have a scrimmage about them like disgusting little lower boys,” he added, seeing Jock still bristling in defence of Mother Carey.
This produced a smile, and he went on—
“Look here, Skipjack, we will be fellow-soldiers every way. My Uncle James can do anything at the Horse Guards, and he shall have us set down for the same regiment. I’ll tell him you are my good influence.”