'But you, father?'
'It will be hard to lose you… things may change. You must have patience; wait a little while, will you?'
'Of course, father, as long as you like, but you'll come down and talk to me here?'
'Yes; I should have come oftener, but I know that I'm not clever, my conversation isn't amusing, so I stick at my work up there.'
'You live up there?'
'Yes; you've not seen my room—a little room under the slates— something like a monk's cell. I've often thought of going into a monastery. I daresay it is from me that you get the taste.'
'You live up there, father; your room is up there. May I go up and see you sometimes; I shan't be disturbing you at your work, shall I?'
'No; I should think not: just fancy you wishing to come to see me, and up there too!'
'When may I come, father? When are you least busy?'
'You can come now.'