Only Grey was happy; Grey, grown from the blue-eyed baby boy, who used
to dig his little heels so vigorously into the rotten base-board under
the bench in the wood-shed of the farm house, into the tall, blue-eyed,
open-faced lad of fourteen, of whom it could be truly said that never
had his parents been called upon to blush for a mean or vicious act
committed by him. Faulty he was, of course, with a hot temper when
roused, and a strong, indomitable will, which, however, was seldom
exercised on the wrong side. Honorable, generous, affectionate, and pure
in all his thoughts as a young girl, he was the idol of his aunts and
the pride of his father and mother, the latter of whom he treated with a
teasing playfulness such as he would have shown to a sister, if he had
one.
Mrs. Jerrold was very proud of her bright, handsome boy, and had a
brilliant career marked out for him; Andover first, then Harvard, and
two years or more at Oxford, and then some high-born English wife, for
Mrs. Jerrold was thoroughly European in her tastes, and toadied to the
English in a most disgusting manner.
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