Aubrey was full of life and talk, and sat gazing from the window, as
if the line from Stoneborough to Whitford presented a succession of
novelties.

'What's that old place on the river there, with crow-stepped gables
and steep roofs, like a Flemish picture?'

'Don't you know?' said Leonard, 'it is the Vintry mill, where my
relative lives, that wants to make a dusty miller of me.'

'No fear of that, old fellow,' said Aubrey, regarding him in some
dismay, 'you've got better things to grind at.'

'Ay, even if I don't get the Randall next time, I shall be sure of it
another.'

'You'll have it next.'

'I don't know; here is a quarter clean gone, and the other fellows
will have got before me.'

'Oh, but most of them have had a spell of fever!'

'Yes, but they have not had it so thoroughly,' said Leonard. 'My
memory is not properly come back yet; and your father says I must not
try it too soon.'

'That's always his way,' said Aubrey. 'He would not let Ethel so
much as pack up my little Homer.'