"Write!"
Harry groaned. Mr. Walthew raised his eyebrows. Mrs. Ringrose sat triumphant.
"Write what, my dear Mary?"
"Articles—poems—books."
A grim resignation was given to Harry, and he laughed aloud as the clergyman shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.
"On his own showing," said Uncle Spencer, "I should doubt whether he has—er—the education—for that."
Mrs. Ringrose looked displeased, and even dangerous, for the moment; but she controlled her feelings on perceiving that the boy himself was now genuinely amused.
"You are quite mistaken," she contented herself with saying. "Have I never shown you the parody on Gray's Elegy he won a guinea for when he was fourteen? Then I will now."
And the fond lady was on her feet, only to find her boy with his back to the door, and laughter, shame and anger fighting for his face.
"You shall do no such thing, mother," Harry said firmly. "That miserable parody!"