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such a place had to exist, it was well that it were honest.
    I enjoyed helping mother with her brewing, for brewing well is a fine art, which requires a judicious and observant character, as well as a great deal of good fortune. At these times mother was too occupied to be cross, and she would even hum to herself in a tuneless voice.
    It was the second summer after she had taken up brewing, when we were engaged in making mash in several large kettles over an open fire outdoors, that Sir Ambrose came looking for us at home.
    “I have been looking for your husband, goodwife, for I have business with him,” called the priest. “I have not found him in his field, so I seek him here.”
    “Yes, he’s inside, Father. He’s taken ill again,” she responded agreeably. “But surely you’ll have some ale as a remedy against the heat.”
    Sir Ambrose, sweat rolling from under his wide-brimmed hat, answered, “It is a kindly offer, Mother Anne, and one that I’ll accept this day.”
    As she left me to tend the kettles, she explained apologetically to him, “The boys are all at the haying, but the heat affected him too greatly. He’s not getting younger, Father.” Her voice faded into the house. I left my work at an auspicious moment and peeked in at the low, open window. I could see them both standing by the wide, sagging bed where father sprawled.
    “Hmm, indeed, the heat has affected him greatly,” Father Ambrose said, wrinkling up his nose at the smell of stale drink that rose from father.
    “Wake up, arouse yourself, good husband, for Sir Ambrose has business with you,” said mother, hiding her embarrassment with busy, fluttering motions of housework. Father groaned and sat up in bed.
    “I have important business, business that should bring you great pride and pleasure.” Sir Ambrose shouted a little, as if father were deaf. Father winced.
    “Pleasure?” mumbled father, getting his bearings.
    “And pride,” prompted mother, who had begun to suspect, as I did, what the business was about.
    “Goodman Hugh, your son David is a boy of talent, possibly great talent.”
    “Oh?” Father was scratching and blinking.
    “I have taught him all I can. He drinks in learning like a sponge.”
    “He drinks? When is that?”
    “Drinks learning, drinks learning, husband, dear,” prompted mother.
    “I propose that he be sent to the abbey school at St. Matthew’s. I myself will recommend him.”
    “School, doesn’t that cost money?” grumbled father.
    “The fees are not great. And remember, they include feeding and housing. So they count even less if you think of the savings at home. Not all boys are capable of learning. You must not deny him his promise.” Sir Ambrose certainly did have the gift of flattery when the occasion demanded.
    “Pay to send him away? Those monks should pay me for him. I need him here. There’s a lot of work that I need him for.” Father looked annoyed as he stared drunkenly at the end of the priest’s nose.
    “Think of the honor, husband!”
    “He needs higher teaching, if I can make you understand that,” said Sir Ambrose, in a condescending tone.
    “Teaching?” protested father. “ I teach him!”
    “Not the rustic arts, my son, but the higher learning is what I speak of.” Father Ambrose was growing annoyed.
    “Higher learning? Higher learning?” Father’s voice was sarcastic.
    “It’s very great, this proposal of Sir Ambrose’s. You must consider it.” Mother put her hand on father’s shoulder in a conciliatory fashion.
    “Hah, what do you know?” Father whirled on mother in a rage.
    “Why, it’s, it’s— higher , that’s what, and higher is better.”
    “Better than what, better than his old father? I’ll teach him higher ! Higher than being an old eunuch of a priest, who battens on tithes!” Sir Ambrose looked furious and turned to go. But before he could speak, mother grabbed his sleeve and begged him, “Oh, please, please, worshipful Father, consider