“No, father; I shall not be a soldier.”
“A sailor, then?”
“I have not sufficient love of adventure, father.”
“Oh no, my boy, don’t be a sailor,” said Mrs Hexton piteously. “I have had sufferings enough over your father’s risks in the mine.”
“No, no, Phil; you must not be a sailor,” said sturdy, grey-haired old Hexton, laughing. “I should never get a wink of sleep if you did. Every time the wind blew your mother would be waking me up to ask me if I didn’t think you were wrecked.”
“No, dear; I shall not be a sailor,” said Philip Hexton; and leaving his chair at the breakfast table he went round to his mother’s side, sank down on one knee, passed his arm around her, and drew her to his broad breast.
It was a pleasant sight to see the look of pride come into the mother’s face, as she laid one hand upon her son’s shoulder, and pressed a few loose strands of hair away from his thoughtful forehead, which wrinkled slightly, and there was a look of anxiety in his face as he looked tenderly at the loving woman.
“That’s right, Phil dear,” she said; “don’t choose any life that is full of risks.”
“Don’t try to make a milksop of him, mother,” said Mr Hexton, laughing. “Why, one would think Phil was ten years old, instead of twenty. I say, my boy, had she aired your night-cap for you last night, and warmed the bed?”
“Well, I must confess to the warm bed, father,” said the young man. “A night-cap I never wear.”