“Yes, he told me so; and I talked so much about you, and about your teaching me to read and write, and how fond I was of learning, and how I should like to be married to an elderly man who was a great scholar, who would teach me Latin and Greek, that the old gentleman became quite chatty, and sat for two hours talking to me. He desired me to say that he should call here to-morrow afternoon, and I begged him to stay the evening, as you are to have two more of your friends here. Now, who do you think are those?”
“I have no others, except old Tom Beazeley and his son.”
“Well, it is your old Tom after all, and a nice old fellow he is, although I would not like him for a husband; but as for his son—he’s a lad after my own heart—I’m quite in love with him.”
“Your love will do you no harm, Mary; but, recollect, what may be a joke to you may not be so to other people. As for the Dominie meeting old Beazeley and his son, I don’t exactly know how that will suit, for I doubt if he will like to see them.”
“Why not?” inquired Mary.
Upon a promise never to hint at them, I briefly stated the circumstances attending the worthy man’s voyage on board of the lighter. Mary paused, and then said, “Jacob, did we not read the last time that the most dangerous rocks to men were wine and women?”
“Yes, we did, if I recollect right.”
“Humph,” said she; “the old gentleman has given plenty of lessons in his time, and it appears that he has received one.”
“We may do so to the last day of our existence, Mary.”
“Well, he is a very clever, learned man, I’ve no doubt, and looks down upon all of us (not you, Jacob) as silly people. I’ll try if I can’t give him a lesson.”