I have been to Whitbury once more, and followed my father about his garden, and sat upon my mother's knee.

And she taught me one text, and no more.

Over and over again she said it, as she looked down at me with still sad eyes, the same text which she spoke the day I left her for London.

I never saw her again.

'By this, my son, be admonished; of making of books there is no end; and much study is a weariness of the flesh.