think, time to breathe. The moment you begin to stammer, stop, fill the lungs thus, then try again! It is only a clever man who can learn to write,—that is, to compose; but any fool can be taught to speak. Courage!"
"If you really can teach me," cried the learned man, forgetting all self-reproach for his betrayal of Waife to Mrs. Crane in the absorbing interest of the hope that sprang up within him, "if you can teach me; if I can but con-con-con—conq—"
"Slowly, slowly, breath and time; take a whiff from my pipe; that's right. Yes, you can conquer the impediment."
"Then I will be the best friend to you that man ever had. There's my hand on it."
"I take it, but I ask leave to change the parties in the contract. I don't want a friend: I don't deserve one. You'll be a friend to my little girl instead; and if ever I ask you to help me in aught for her welfare and happiness—"
"I will help, heart and soul! slight indeed any service to her or to you compared with such service to me. Free this wretched tongue from its stammer, and thought and zeal will not stammer whenever you say, 'Keep your promise.' I am so glad your little girl is still with you."
Waife looked surprised, "Is still with me!--why not?" The scholar bit his tongue. That was not the moment to confess; it might destroy all Waife's confidence in him. He would do so later. "When shall I begin my lesson?"
"Now, if you like. But have you a book in your pocket?"
"I always have."
"Not Greek, I hope, sir?"
"No, a volume of Barrow's Sermons. Lord Chatham recommended those sermons to his great son as a study for eloquence."
"Good! Will you lend me the volume, sir? and now for it. Listen to me; one sentence at a time; draw your breath when I do."
The three magpies pricked up their ears again, and, as they listened, marvelled much.
CHAPTER
