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Updated: May 31, 2025
It was impossible not to think, at such a time, of Sir William Follett, without being conscious of having sustained a grievous, if not an irreparable, loss.
For this he felt very tenderly toward them, wishing that they were brother and sister and his own. That evening, while they sat out of doors, she said, very resolutely: "I'm going to teach Mr. He says he has never been baptised in any church." Follett looked interested and cordial, but her father failed to display the enthusiasm she had expected, and seemed even a little embarrassed.
"It will give me such joy to do it and this is the last." She looked at Follett questioningly, but gave him her hand silently when he arose from the ground where he had been sitting. "He'd like it, and it's what we want, all simple," he said.
If he were taken quite unawares in such a case, and could not possibly procure its postponement, an instant's whisper with a junior a moment's glance at his papers would make him apparently master of the case; and, by some unexpected adroit manoeuvre, he would often contrive to throw the labouring oar upon his opponent and then, from him, would acquire that knowledge of the facts of the case which Sir William Follett rarely failed to turn to his own advantage, so as to secure him success.
What advantage could escape one so uniformly and surprisingly calm, vigilant, and guarded as Sir William Follett?
Wilson Follett, has recently noted that the novel of class or social consciousness, which only ten years ago those who teach literature were discussing as the latest of late developments, has already given way to a vigorous rival. It has yielded room, if not given place, to the novel of the discontented person.
He sat sleepless in his chair with candles burning for three nights when Follett, late in August, went off to meet a messenger from one of his father's wagon-trains which, he said, was on its way north. Fearful as was the meaning of his presence, he was inexpressibly glad when the Gentile returned to save him from the terrors of the night. And there was now a new goad of remorse.
He arose from the bed, wondering that his feet should be so heavy and clumsy, and his knees so weak, when he felt otherwise so strong. His head, too, felt large, and there rang in his ears a singing of incessant quick beats. He made his way to the door, where he heard the voices of Prudence and Follett.
But whatever weight may be attached to these considerations and generosity and forbearance towards the dead will attach great weight to them they are no answer to much of the charge brought against the late Sir William Follett, and which ought not to be glossed over and explained away that, in his excessive eagerness to accomplish his object, he was hurried into an occasional forgetfulness of that nice and high sense of moral principle which ought to regulate every one's conduct especially those in eminent positions for the sake of illustrious example, and, in a man's own case, with reference to the awful realities of HEREAFTER: for a man should strive so to pass through things temporal, as not to lose sight of things eternal.
Here and there Follett would flicker his hook over the surface of a shaded pool, poise it at the foot of a ripple, skim it across an eddy, cast it under a shelf of rock or dangle it in some promising nook by the willow roots, shielding himself meanwhile as best he could; here behind a boulder, there bending a willow in front of him, again lying flat on the bank, taking care to keep even his shadow off the stream and to go silently.
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