"Taken from nature—eh?"
"Nature," said the Italian sententiously, perhaps evasively, "lets nothing be taken from her."
"Oh!" said Frank, puzzled again.
"Well, I must wish you good morning, sir; I am very glad you are coming."
"Without compliment?"
"Without compliment."
"A rivedersi—good-by for the present, my young signorino. This way," observing Frank make a bolt towards the wrong door.
"Can I offer you a glass of wine—it is pure, of our own making?"
"No, thank you, indeed, sir," cried Frank, suddenly recollecting his father's admonition. "Good-by—don't trouble yourself, sir; I know my way now."
But the bland Italian followed his guest to the wicket, where Frank had left the pony. The young gentleman, afraid lest so courteous a host should hold the stirrup for him, twitched off the bridle, and mounted in haste, not even staying to ask if the Italian could put him in the way to Rood Hall, of which way he was profoundly ignorant. The Italian's eye followed the boy as he rode up the ascent in the lane, and the Doctor sighed heavily. "The wiser we grow," said he to himself, "the more we regret the age of our follies: it is better to gallop with a light heart up the stony hill than sit in the summer-house and cry 'How true!' to the stony truths of Machiavelli!"