Mr. Trefalden was somewhat late that evening
for his dinner; but the cook at the Adler was an
expert artist, and not to be disconcerted by so
common-place an emergency. It was a very
recherché little dinner, and Mr. Trefalden was
unusually well disposed to enjoy it.  Never,
surely, was trout more fresh; never was Mayonnaise
better flavoured; never had Lafitte a more
delicate aroma. Mr. Trefalden dined deliberately,
praised the cook with the grace of a connoisseur,
and lingered luxuriously over his dessert. His
meditations were pleasant, and the claret was
excellent.

"A simple old pastor with a mania for archæology,"
muttered he, as he sipped his curaçoa
and watched the smoke of his cigar—"a simple
old pastor with a mania for archæology, and a
young barbarian who reads Theocritus and never
saw a Napoleon! What a delicious combination
of circumstances!  What a glorious field for
enterprise! Verily, the days of El Dorado have
come back again!"

   CHAPTER VII. PASTOR MARTIN'S THEORY.

The pastor had spoken from his heart of
hearts when he told Mr. Trefalden with what
solicitude he had educated his brother's orphan;
but he did not tell him all, or even half, of the
zeal, humility, and devotion, with which he had
fulfilled that heavy duty.  Knowing the full
extent of his responsibility, he had accepted it
from the very hour of the boy's birth. He had
lain awake night after night, while little Saxon
was yet in his cradle, pondering, and praying,
and asking himself how he should fortify this
young soul against the temptations of the world.
He had written out full a dozen elaborate schemes
of education for him, before the child could
babble an articulate word.  He spent his
leisure in studying the lives of great and virtuous
men, that he might thence gather something
of their tutelage; and, to this end, toiled
patiently once again through all Plutarch's
crabbed Greek, and Fuller's still more crabbed
English. He compiled formidable lists of all
kinds of instructive books for his pupil's future
reading, long before his young ears had ever
heard of the penances ending in "ology."  He
filled reams of sermon paper with unobjectionable
extracts from the classic poets, and
made easy abstracts of Euclid and Aristotle for
his sole use and benefit.  In short, he laid himself
down before the wheels of this baby Juggernaut
in a spirit of the uttermost self-devotion and
love, giving up to him every moment upon which
his pastoral duties held no claim, and sacrificing
even the Etruscans for his dear sake.

The boy's education may almost be said to
have dated from the day on which he first began
to laugh and put out his little arms at the sight
of those he loved.  Uncle Martin, in spite of
some maternal opposition, took care of that.
He asserted his position at once; and quietly,
but firmly, maintained it. He it was who taught
the child his first utterances—who guided his
first feeble steps upon the soft sward out of doors
— who trained his tongue to stammer its first
prayer. He taught him that God had made the
sun, and the stars, and the green trees. He led
him to see use and beauty in all created things
—even in the most unlovely.  He brought him
up to fear the darkness no more than the light;
to admire all that was beautiful; to reverence all
that was noble; to love every thing that had
life.  He would not even let him have a toy that
was not in some way suggestive of gracefulness
or service.

When little Saxon was but two years old, his
mother died; and the good pastor pursued his
labour henceforth without even a semblance of
opposition.  Saxon the elder believed in his
brother as of old, and deferred to him in everything.
Martin did not, perhaps, believe quite so
implicitly in himself; but, as he told his cousin,
he prayed for light, and only strove to know his
duty, that he might perform it.

As time went on, that duty became daily of
more extensive operation.  The boy grew
portentously both in ideas and inches.  He developed
an alarming appetite for books, as well as bread-
and-butter.  His curiosity became insatiable, and
his industry indefatigable.  In short, he perplexed
his tutor sorely, and unconsciously raised up a
host of difficulties which had been left quite
unprovided for in the good pastor's theories.

For Martin Trefalden had theories —very
strange, unworldly, eccentric theories, indeed,
which looked wonderfully well upon paper, and
had been proved by him to his brother over and
over again as they sat smoking together by their
fireside o' nights; but which had various
disagreeable ways of tripping him up, and leaving
him in the lurch, now that they came to be put
into practice.

Chief and foremost among these was his grand
theory about the Trefalden legacy.

Having persuaded his brother to marry, and
having, as it were, compelled Saxon the younger
to enter on this stage of mortal life, it obviously
behoved him, above all other things, to arm that
little Christian against the peculiar dangers and
temptations to which his singular destiny exposed
him.  He must be trained in habits of
innocence, frugality, charity, and self-denial.
He must be taught to prize only the simplest
pleasures. He must be doubly and trebly
fortified against pride, avarice, prodigality, self-
indulgence, and every other sin of which wealth
is fruitful. Above all, argued the pastor, he
must not love money.  Nay more, he must be
wholly indifferent to it.  He must regard it as a
mere sign—an expedient—a medium of exchange
—a thing valueless in itself, and desirable
only because it is convenient.  His childish hand
must never be sullied by it.  His innocent
thoughts must never entertain it.  He shall be
as pure from the taint of gold as the first
dwellers in Paradise.

"But when he grows up, brother Martin,"