called unto him Mrs. Rouncewell’s grandson, who, being out of his apprenticeship, and home from a journey in far countries, whither he was sent to enlarge his knowledge and complete his preparations for the venture of this life, stands leaning against the chimneypiece this very day in Mrs. Rouncewell’s room at Chesney Wold.
“And, again and again, I am glad to see you, Watt! And, once again, I am glad to see you, Watt!” says Mrs. Rouncewell. “You are a fine young fellow. You are like your poor uncle George. Ah!” Mrs. Rouncewell’s hands unquiet, as usual, on this reference.
“They say I am like my father, grandmother.”
“Like him, also, my dear—but most like your poor uncle George! And your dear father.” Mrs. Rouncewell folds her hands again. “He is well?”
“Thriving, grandmother, in every way.”
“I am thankful!” Mrs. Rouncewell is fond of her son but has a plaintive feeling towards him, much as if he were a very honourable soldier who had gone over to the enemy.