"Remember, my dear Henry, labor omnia vincit improbus, as the Latinists say," using one of his few but favourite Latin phrases, and rolling it lovingly like a chocolate-cream 'twixt tongue and palate. "And remember also, my dear Henry, that les belles actions cachées sont les plus estimables," pronouncing atrociously a phrase he had picked up a few hours before, "which means, my dear young friend, that you should do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame."
Henry blushed forthwith.
"And let me present you with a little keepsake. It is a copy of my new book, my poem on Queen Victoria, which the Midland Agricultural News has described in terms of praise that I hope I am too modest to quote. I have signed it with my autograph, and I trust you will lay to heart its lessons."
The poem in question was a sixteen-page pamphlet in a gaudy cover. It enjoyed a large circulation by gratuitous distribution. To the vicar's great regret, he had found at the end of a dictionary the French phrase about beautiful actions too late to be incorporated in his verses.
Henry was profoundly moved, but like all great people in their great moments, he was deplorably commonplace.
"I thank you, sir," was all his genius prompted. He was gravelled for a Latin snatch to cap the vicar's, and the Rev. Godfrey Needham stood supreme.
"Eh, but tempus do fugit, passon," Edward John broke in at this juncture. "It's only loike yesterday that 'Enry was a-startin' school, and 'ere 'e's a-goin' out into the great world to carve out a name for hisself—'oo knows 'e ain't?"
"With youth all things are possible." returned Mr. Needham. "We shall be proud of Henry yet. He certainly has my best wishes for his success. Sursum corda, my friend, as the Latin hath it. And to you, Henry, Deus vobiscum. Good-bye!"
"Good-bye, and thank you, sir," said the overwhelmed Henry.
In a moment more the white-socked calipers had carried Mr. Needham out of Henry's life for some years to come.