“And do you still visit her?”
“No, she soon grew tired of me, and told people that she found me very stupid; she gave me the Armenian books, however.”
“Saul,” said my father, musingly, “Saul; I am afraid she was only too right there; he disobeyed the commands of his master, and brought down on his head the vengeance of Heaven—he became a maniac, prophesied, and flung weapons about him.”
“He was, indeed, an awful character—I hope I shan’t turn out like him.”
“God forbid!” said my father, solemnly; “but in many respects you are headstrong and disobedient like him. I placed you in a profession, and besought you to make yourself master of it, by giving it your undivided attention. This, however, you did not do; you know nothing of it, but tell me that you are acquainted with Armenian; but what I dislike most is your want of candour—you are my son, but I know little of your real history; you may know fifty things for what I am aware: you may know how to shoe a horse for what I am aware.”
“Not only to shoe a horse, father, but to make horse-shoes.”
“Perhaps so,” said my father; “and it only serves to prove what I was just saying, that I know little about you.”
“But you easily may, my dear father; I will tell you anything that you may wish to know—shall I inform you how I learnt to make horse-shoes?”
“No,” said my father; “as you kept it a secret so long, it may as well continue so still. Had you been a frank, open-hearted boy, like one I could name, you would have told me all about it of your own accord. But I now wish to ask you a serious question—what do you propose to do?”
“To do, father?”