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 custom then and in after-life, he was studying over his bread and milk.

"Rose will do as she is told, and Martin, too," observed the mother.

"I am going to church."

So her son replied, with the ineffable quietude of a true Yorke, who knows his will and means to have it, and who, if pushed to the wall, will let himself be crushed to death, provided no way of escape can be found—but will never capitulate.

"It is not fit weather," said the father.

No answer: the youth read studiously; he slowly broke his bread and sipped his milk.

"Martin hates to go to church, but he hates still more to obey," said Mrs. Yorke.

"I suppose I am influenced by pure perverseness?"

"Yes—you are."

"Mother—I am not"

"By what, then, are you influenced?"

"By a complication of motives; the intricacies of which I should as soon think of explaining to you, as I should of turning myself inside out to exhibit the internal machinery of my frame."

"Hear Martin! Hear him!" cried Mr. Yorke. "I must see and have this lad of mine brought up to the Bar: Nature meant him to live by his tongue. Hesther, your third son must certainly be a lawyer: he has the stock in trade—brass, self-conceit, and words—words—words."

"Some bread, Rose, if you please," requested Martin, with intense gravity, serenity, phlegm: the