enthusiasm for rubbing as an art was from the first exceedingly
feeble.'

I was on the eve of revolting, but I remembered what there was
lacerating his poor breast, and consented. And when I heard hints of
our 'working the Welsh churches' my sudden enthusiasm for the
rubber's art astonished even my father.

'My dear,' he said to my mother at dinner one day, 'what do you
think? Henry has developed quite a sudden passion for rubbing.'

I saw an expression of perplexity and mystification overspread my
mother's sagacious face.

'And in the spring,' continued my father, 'we are going into Wales
to rub.'

'Into Wales, are you?' said my mother, in a tone of that soft voice
whose meaning I knew so well.

My thoughts were continually upon Winifred, now that I was alone in
the familiar spots. I had never seen her nor heard from her since we
parted as children. She had only known me as a cripple. What would
she think of me now? Did she ever think of me? She had not answered
my childish letter, and this had caused me much sorrow and
perplexity.

We did not go into Wales after all. But the result of this
conversation took a shape that amazed me. I was sent to stay with my
Aunt Prue in London in order that I might attend one of the Schools