THE youthful confuter of Locke was despatched to Merton School, and ranked, according to his merits, as lag of the penultimate form.

When he came home for the Christmas holidays he was more saturnine than ever; in fact, his countenance bore the impression of some absorbing grief.
He said, however, that he liked school very well, and eluded all other questions.

But early the next morning he mounted his black pony and rode to the Parson's rectory.

The reverend gentleman was in his farmyard examining his bullocks when Kenelm accosted him thus briefly,-- "Sir, I am disgraced, and I shall die of it if you cannot help to set me right in my own eyes." "My dear boy, don't talk in that way.

Come into my study." As soon as they entered that room, and the Parson had carefully closed the door, he took the boy's arm, turned him round to the light, and saw at once that there was something very grave on his mind.