“Of course!” saith Aunt Joyce. “They alway do. ’Tis men which have no true courage that dare others: and when they come on one that hath, they hold him the greater hero because ’tis not in themselves to do the like. Ned, lad, thou art thy father’s son. I know not how Wat gat changed.”
“Well, Aunt, I hope I am,” saith Ned. “I would liefer copy Father than any man ever I knew.”
“Hold thou there, and thou shalt make a fair copy,” saith Aunt Joyce.
We wrought a while in silence, when Aunt Joyce saith—
“Sure, if men’s eyes were not blinded by the sin of their nature, they should perceive the sheer folly of fearing the lesser thing, and yet daring the greater. ’Feared of the laughter of fools, that is but as the crackling of thorns under the pot: and not ’feared of the wrath of Him that liveth for ever and ever—which is able, when He hath killed, to destroy body and soul in Hell. Oh the folly and blindness of human nature!”
Selwick Hall, March ye vii.
Was ever any creature so good as this dear Aunt Joyce of ours? This morrow, when all were gone on their occasions saving her and Father, and Nell and me, up cometh she to Father, that was sat with a book of his hand, and saith—
“Aubrey!”
Father laid down his book, and looked up on her.
“Thou wert so good as to tell us three mornings gone,” saith she, “that thine income was three hundred pound by the year. Right interesting it were, for I never knew the figure aforetime.”