“You shall go to-morrow, Roy; but even then I shall be loath to let you. There, you see I am quite cheerful again. You are perfectly right; your father is perhaps away with his men, and he may have sent, and the letter has miscarried in these troublous times.”
“I shouldn’t like to be the man who took it, if it has miscarried,” said the boy, laughing.
“Poor fellow! it may have been an accident. There, go to Master Pawson now; and Roy, my dear, don’t talk about our trouble to any one for the present.”
“Not to old Pawson?”
“Master Pawson.”
“Not to Master Pawson?” said Roy, smiling.
“Not unless he speaks to you about it; then, of course, you can.”
“But he won’t, mother. He only talks to me about the Greek and Latin poets and about music. I say, you don’t want to see me squeezing a big fiddle between my knees and sawing at it with a bow as if I wanted to cut all the strings, do you, mother?”
“My dear boy, not unless you wished to learn the violoncello.”
“Well, I don’t,” said Roy, pettishly; “but old Master Pawson is always bringing his out of its great green-baize bag and talking to me about it. He says that he will instruct me, and he is sure that my father would have one sent to me from London if I asked him. Just as if there are not noises enough in the west tower now without two of us sawing together. Thrrum, thrrum, throomp, throomp, throomp!”