That was more than his bond. Our hero’s countenance fell: and he acknowledged that he did not understand it perfectly.
“Then I cannot write a coot account of you and your crammer studies to your mother; my conscience coes against it,” said the conscientious Mr. Owen ap Jones.
No entreaties could move him. Dominick never saw the letter that was written to his mother; but he felt the consequence. She wrote word this time punctually by return of the post, that she was sorry that she could not send for him home these holydays, as she heard so bad an account from Mr. Jones, &c. and as she thought it her duty not to interrupt the course of his education, especially his grammar studies. Little Dominick heaved many a sigh when he saw the packings-up of all his school-fellows, and dropped a few tears as he looked out of the window, and saw them, one after another, get on their Welsh ponies, and gallop off towards their homes.
“I have no home to go to,” said he.
“Yes, you have,” cried Edwards; “and our horses are at the door to carry us there.”
“To Ireland? me!—the horses!” said the poor boy, quite bewildered: “and will they bring me to Ireland?”
“No; the horses cannot carry you to Ireland,” said Edwards, laughing good-naturedly, “but you have a home now in England. I asked my father to let me take you home with me; and he says ‘Yes,’ like a dear, good father, and has sent the horses. Come, let’s away.”
“But will Mr. Jones let me go?”
“Yes; he dare not refuse; for my father has a living in his gift that Jones wants, and which he will not have, if he do not change his tone to you.”
Little Dominick could not speak one word, his heart was so full. No boy could be happier than he was during these holydays: “the genial current of his soul,” which had been frozen by unkindness, flowed with all its natural freedom and force. When Dominick returned to school after these holydays were over, Mr. Owen ap Jones, who now found that the Irish boy had an English protector with a living in his gift, changed his tone. He never more complained unjustly that Dominick broke Priscian’s head, seldom called him Irish plockit, and once would have flogged a Welsh boy for taking up this cast-off expression of the master’s, but the Irish blockhead begged the culprit off.