The boy grew up into a sturdy bright-eyed little fellow, with plenty of
intelligence, and perhaps a trifle too great readiness at book learning.
Being kindly treated at home, he was as fond of his father and mother as
it was in his nature to be of anyone, but he was fond of no one else. He
had a good healthy sense of _meum_, and as little of _tuum_ as he could
help. Brought up much in the open air in one of the best situated and
healthiest villages in England, his little limbs had fair play, and in
those days children's brains were not overtasked as they now are; perhaps
it was for this very reason that the boy showed an avidity to learn. At
seven or eight years old he could read, write and sum better than any
other boy of his age in the village. My father was not yet rector of
Paleham, and did not remember George Pontifex's childhood, but I have
heard neighbours tell him that the boy was looked upon as unusually quick
and forward. His father and mother were naturally proud of their
offspring, and his mother was determined that he should one day become
one of the kings and councillors of the earth.
It is one thing however to resolve that one's son shall win some of
life's larger prizes, and another to square matters with fortune in this
respect.
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