“You said I was not to lecture you.”
“But I like it when you talk that way.”
“Ah, Ned, Ned! there’s no fear of one’s getting to the end,” said Murray, half sadly; “life is far too short for that, but the life of even the most humble naturalist is an unceasing education. He is always learning—always finding out how beautiful are the works of the Creator. They are endless, Ned, my boy. The grand works of creation are spread out before us, and the thirst for knowledge increases, and the draughts we drink from the great fount of nature are more delicious each time we raise the cup.”
Ned’s chin was now upon his thumbs, his elbows on the table once more, and his eyes sparkled with intense delight as he gazed on the animated countenance of the man before him; for that face was lit up, the broad forehead looked noble, and his voice was now deep and low, and now rang out loudly, as if he were some great teacher declaiming to his pupil on the subject nearest to his heart. Till it suddenly dawned upon him that, instead of quenching, he was increasing the thirst of the boy gazing excitedly in his eyes, and he stopped short in the lamest way, just as he was rising up to the highest pitch of his eloquence.
“Yes, uncle, yes!” cried Ned. “Go on—go on.”
“Eh? No; that’s all, my boy; that’s all.”
“But that isn’t all!” cried Ned excitedly, rising now. “That’s only the beginning of what I want to learn. I want to road in those books, uncle. I want to drink from that glorious fountain whose draughts are sweeter every time. I want to—I want to—I want to— Oh uncle, oh uncle, go on! do take me with you, there’s a dear old chap.”
The boy stretched out his hand, which was slowly taken and pressed as Johnstone Murray said in a subdued tone: “God grant that I may be doing rightly for you, Ned. You’ve beaten me finely with my own weapons, my boy.”
“And you’ll take me?”
“Yes, Ned, I give in. You shall be my companion now.”