Now Hugh was really to see the country. Except that the sun had shone pleasantly into his room in the morning, through waving trees, nothing had yet occurred to make him feel that he was in the country. Now, however, he was in the open air, with trees sprinkled all over the landscape, and green fields stretching away, and the old church tower half-covered with ivy. Hugh screamed with pleasure; and nobody thought it odd, for almost every boy was shouting. Hugh longed to pick up some of the shining brown chestnuts which he had seen yesterday in the road, under the trees; and he was now cantering away to the spot, when Phil ran after him, and roughly stopped him, saying he would get into a fine scrape for the first day, if he went out of bounds.

Hugh had forgotten there were such things as bounds, and was not at all glad to be reminded of them now. He sighed as he begged Phil to show him exactly where he might go and where he might not Phil did so in an impatient way, and then was off to trap-ball, because his party were waiting for him.

The chestnut-trees overhung one corner of the playground, within the paling: and in that corner Hugh found several chestnuts which had burst their sheaths, and lay among the first fallen leaves. He pocketed them with great delight, wondering that nobody had been before him to secure such a treasure. Agnes should have some; and little Harry would find them nice playthings. They looked good to eat too; and he thought he could spare one to taste; so he took out his knife, cut off the point of a fine swelling chestnut, and tasted a bit of the inside. Just as he was making a face over it, and wondering that it was so nasty, when those which his father roasted in the fire-shovel on Christmas-day were so good, he heard laughter behind him, and found that he was again doing something ridiculous, though he knew not what: and in a moment poor Hugh was as unhappy as ever.

He ran away from the laughing boys, and went quite to the opposite corner of the playground, where a good number of his schoolfellows were playing ball under the orchard-wall. Hugh ran hither and thither, like the rest, trying to catch the ball; but he never could do it; and he was jostled, and thrown down, and another boy fell over him; and he was told that he knew nothing about play, and had better move off.

He did so, with a heavy heart, wondering how he was ever to be like the other boys, if nobody would take him in hand, and teach him to play, or even let him learn. Remembering what his mother expected of him, he tried to sing, to prevent crying, and began to count the pales round the playground, for something to do. This presently brought him to a tree which stood on the very boundary, its trunk serving instead of two or three pales. It was only a twisted old apple-tree; but the more twisted and gnarled it was, the more it looked like a tree that Hugh could climb; and he had always longed to climb a tree. Glancing up, he saw a boy already there, sitting on the fork of two branches, reading.

"Have you a mind to come up?" asked the boy.

"Yes, sir, I should like to try and climb a tree. I never did."

"Well, this is a good one to begin with. I'll lend you a hand; shall I?"

"Thank you, sir."

"Don't call me, 'sir.' I'm only a schoolboy, like you. I am Dan Firth. Call me Firth, as I am the only one of the name here. You are little Proctor, I think—Proctor's brother."

"Yes: but, Firth, I shall pull you down, if I slip."

"Not you: but I'll come down, and so send you up to my seat, which is the safest to begin with. Stand off."

Firth swung himself down, and then, showing Hugh where to plant his feet, and propping him when he wanted it, he soon seated him on the fork, and laughed good-naturedly when Hugh waved his cap over his head, on occasion of being up in a tree. He let him get down and up again several times, till he could do it quite alone, and felt that he might have a seat here whenever it was not occupied by any one else.

While Hugh sat in the branches, venturing to leave hold with one hand, that he might fan his hot face with his cap, Firth stood on the rail of the palings, holding by the tree, and talking to him. Firth told him that this was the only tree the boys were allowed to climb, since Ned Reeve had fallen from the great ash, and hurt his spine. He showed what trees he had himself climbed before that accident; and it made Hugh giddy to think of being within eight feet of the top of the lofty elm in the churchyard, which Firth had thought nothing of mounting.

"Did anybody teach you?" asked Hugh.

"Yes; my father taught me to climb, when I was younger than you."

"And had you anybody to teach you games and things, when you came here?"

"No: but I had learned a good deal of that before I came; and so I soon fell into the ways here. Have you anybody to teach you?"

"No—yes—why, no. I thought Phil would have showed me things; but he does not seem to mind me at all." And Hugh bit his lip, and fanned himself faster.

"Ah! He attends to you more than you think."

"Does he? Then why—but what good does it do me?"

"What good? His holding off makes you push your own way. It lets you make friends for yourself."

"I have no friends here," said Hugh.

"Yes, you have. Here am I. You would not have had me, if you had been at Proctor's heels at this moment."

"Will you be my friend, then?"

"That I will."

"What, a great boy like you, that sits reading in a tree! But I may read here beside you. You said there was room for two."

"Ay; but you must not use it yet,—at least, not often, if you wish to do well here. Everybody knows I can play at anything. From the time I became captain of the wall at fives, I have had liberty to do what I like, without question. But you must show that you are up to play, before they will let you read in peace and quiet."

"But how can I, if—if—"

"Once show your spirit,—prove that you can shift for yourself, and you will find Phil open out wonderfully. He and you will forget all his shyness then. Once show him that he need not be ashamed of you—"

"Ashamed of me!" cried Hugh, firing up.

"Yes. Little boys are looked upon as girls in a school till they show that they are little men. And then again, you have been brought up with girls,—have not you?"

"To be sure; and so was he."

"And half the boys here, I dare say. Well, they are called Bettys till—"

"I am not a Betty," cried Hugh, flashing again.

"They suppose you are, because you part your hair, and do as you have been used to do at home."

"What business have they with my hair? I might as well call them Bruins for wearing theirs shaggy."

"Very true. They will let you and your hair alone when they see what you are made of; and then Phil will—"

"He will own me when I don't want it; and now, when he might help me, there he is, far off, never caring about what becomes of me!"

"O yes, he does. He is watching you all the time. You and he will have it all out some day before Christmas, and then you will see how he really cares about you. Really your hair is very long,—too like a girl's. Shall I cut it for you?"

"I should like it," said Hugh, "but I don't want the boys to think I am afraid of them; or to begin giving up to them."

"You are right there. We will let it alone now, and cut it when it suits our convenience."

"What a nice place this is, to be sure!" cried Hugh, as the feeling of loneliness went off. "But the rooks do not make so much noise as I expected."

"You will find what they can do in that way when spring comes,—when they are building."

"And when may we go out upon the heath, and into the fields where the lambs are?"

"We go long walks on Saturday afternoons; but you do not expect to see young lambs in October, do you?"

"O, I forgot I never can remember the seasons for things."

"That shows you are a Londoner. You will learn all those things here. If you look for hares in our walks, you may chance to see one; or you may start a pheasant; but take care you don't mention lambs, or goslings, or cowslips, or any spring things; or you will never hear the last of it."

"Thank you: but what will poor Holt do? He is from India, and he knows very little about our ways."

"They may laugh at him; but they will not despise him as they might a Londoner. Being an Indian, and being a Londoner, are very different things."

"And yet how proud the Londoners are over the country! It is very odd."

"People are proud of their own ways all the world over. You will be proud of being a Crofton boy, by-and-by."

"Perhaps I am now, a little," said Hugh, blushing.

"What, already? Ah! You will do, I see. I have known old people proud of their age, and young people of their youth. I have seen poor people proud of their poverty; and everybody has seen rich people proud of their wealth. I have seen happy people proud of their prosperity, and the afflicted proud of their afflictions. Yes; people can always manage to be proud: so you have boasted of being a Londoner up to this time; and from this time you will hold your head high as a Crofton boy."

"How long? Till when?"

"Ah! Till when? What next! What do you mean to be afterwards?"

"A soldier, or a sailor, or a great traveller, or something of that kind. I mean to go quite round the world, like Captain Cook."

"Then you will come home, proud of having been round the world; and you will meet with some old neighbour who boasts of having spent all his life in the house he was born in."

"Old Mr Dixon told mother that of himself, very lately. Oh dear, how often does the postman come?"

"You want a letter from home, do you? But you left them only yesterday morning."

"I don't know how to believe that,—it seems such an immense time! But when does the postman come?"

"Any day when he has letters to bring,—at about four in the afternoon. We see him come, from the school-room; but we do not know who the letters are for till school breaks up at five."

"O dear!" cried Hugh, thinking what the suspense must be, and the disappointment at last to twenty boys, perhaps, for one that was gratified. Firth advised him to write a letter home before he began to expect one. If he did not like to ask the usher, he himself would rule the paper for him, and he could write a bit at a time, after his lessons were done in the evening, till the sheet was full.

Hugh then told his grievance about the usher, and Firth thought that though it was not wise in Hugh to prate about Crofton on the top of the coach, it was worse to sit by and listen without warning, unless the listener meant to hold his own tongue. But he fancied the usher had since heard something which made him sorry; and the best way now was for Hugh to bear no malice, and remember nothing more of the affair than to be discreet in his future journeys.

"What is the matter there?" cried Hugh. "O dear! Something very terrible must have happened. How that boy is screaming!"

"It is only Lamb again," replied Firth. "You will soon get used to his screaming. He is a very passionate boy—I never saw such a passionate fellow."

"But what are they doing to him?"

"Somebody is putting him into a passion, I suppose. There is always somebody to do that."

"What a shame!" cried Hugh.

"Yes: I see no wit in it," replied Firth. "Anybody may do it. You have only to hold your little finger up to put him in a rage."

Hugh thought Firth was rather cool about the matter. But Firth was not so cool when the throng opened for a moment, and showed what was really done to the angry boy. Only his head appeared above ground. His schoolfellows had put him into a hole they had dug, and had filled it up to his chin, stamping down the earth, so that the boy was perfectly helpless, while wild with rage.

"That is too bad!" cried Firth. "That would madden a saint."

And he jumped down from the paling and ran towards the crowd. Hugh, forgetting his height from the ground, stood up in the tree, almost as angry as Lamb himself, and staring with all his might to see what he could. He saw Firth making his way through the crowd, evidently remonstrating, if not threatening. He saw him snatch a spade from a boy who was flourishing it in Lamb's face. He saw that Firth was digging, though half-a-dozen boys had thrown themselves on his back, and hung on his arms. He saw that Firth persevered till Lamb had got his right arm out of the ground, and was striking everywhere within reach. Then he saw Firth dragged down and away, while the boys made a circle round Lamb, putting a foot or hand within his reach, and then snatching it away again, till the boy yelled with rage at the mockery.

Hugh could look on no longer. He scrambled down from the tree, scampered to the spot, burst through the throng, and seized Lamb's hand. Lamb struck him a heavy blow, taking him for an enemy; but Hugh cried "I am your friend," seized his hand again, and tugged till he was first red and then black in the face, and till Lamb had worked his shoulders out of the hole, and seemed likely to have the use of his other arm in a trice.

Lamb's tormentors at first let Hugh alone in amazement; but they were not long in growing angry with him too. They hustled him—they pulled him all ways—they tripped him up; but Hugh's spirit was roused, and that brought his body up to the struggle again and again. He wrenched himself free, he scrambled to his feet again, as often as he was thrown down; and in a few minutes he had plenty of support. Phil was taking his part, and shielding him from many blows. Firth had got Lamb out of the hole, and the party against the tormentors was now so strong that they began to part off till the struggle ceased. Firth kept his grasp of the spade; for Lamb's passion still ran so high that there was no saying what might be the consequences of leaving any dangerous weapon within his reach. He was still fuming and stamping, Hugh gazing at him the while in wonder and fear.

"There stands your defender, Lamb," said Firth, "thinking he never saw a boy in a passion before. Come, have done with it for his sake: be a man, as he is. Here, help me to fill up this hole—both of you. Stamp down the earth, Lamb. Tread it well—tread your anger well down into it. Think of this little friend of yours here—a Crofton boy only yesterday."

Lamb did help to fill the hole, but he did not say a word—not one word to anybody till the dinner-bell rang. Then, at the pump, where the party were washing their hot and dirty and bruised hands, he held out his hand to Hugh, muttering, with no very good grace—

"I don't know what made you help me, but I will never be in a passion with you;—unless you put me out, that is."

Hugh replied that he had come to help because he never could bear to see anybody made worse. He always tried at home to keep the little boys and girls off "drunk old Tom," as he was called in the neighbourhood. It was such a shame to make anybody worse! Lamb looked as if he was going to fly at Hugh now: but Firth put his arm round Hugh's neck, and drew him into the house, saying in his ear—

"Don't say any more that you have no friends here. You have me for one; and you might have had another—two in one morning—but for your plain speaking about drunk old Tom."

"Did I say any harm?"

"No—no harm," replied Firth, laughing. "You will do, my boy—when you have got through a few scrapes. I'm your friend, at any rate."



CHAPTER SIX.

FIRST RAMBLE.

Hugh's afternoon lessons were harder than those of the morning; and in the evening he found he had so much to do that there was very little time left for writing his letter home. Some time there was, however; and Firth did not forget to rule his paper, and to let Hugh use his ink. Hugh had been accustomed to copy the prints he found in the Voyages and Travels he read; and he could never see a picture of a savage but he wanted to copy it. He was thus accustomed to a pretty free use of his slate-pencil. He now thought that it would save a great deal of description if he sent a picture or two in his letter: so he flourished off, on the first page, a sketch of Mr Tooke sitting at his desk at the top of the school, and of Mr Carnaby standing at his desk at the bottom of the school.

The next evening he made haste to fill up the sheet, for he found his business increasing upon his hands so fast that he did not know when he should get his letter off, if he did not despatch it at once. He was just folding it up when Tom Holt observed that it was a pity not to put some words into the mouths of the figures, to make them more animated; and he showed Hugh, by the curious carvings of their desks, how to put words into the mouths of figures. Hugh then remembered having seen this done in the caricatures in the print-shops in London; and he seized on the idea. He put into Mr Tooke's mouth the words which were oftenest heard from him, "Proceed, gentlemen;" and into Mr Carnaby's, "Hold your din."

Firth was too busy with his sense-verses to mind the little boys, as they giggled, with their heads close together, over Hugh's sheet of paper; but the usher was never too busy to be aware of any fun which might possibly concern his dignity. He had his eye on the new boys the whole while. He let Hugh direct his letter, and paint up a stroke or two which did not look so well as the rest; and it was not till Hugh was rolling the wafer about on his tongue that he interfered. Mr Carnaby then came up, tapped Hugh's head, told him not to get on so fast, for that every letter must be looked over before it went to the post. While saying this, he took the letter, and put it into his waistcoat pocket. In vain Hugh begged to have it again, saying he would write another. The more he begged, and the more dismayed Tom Holt looked, the less Mr Carnaby would attend to either. Firth let himself be interrupted to hear the case: but he could do nothing in it. It was a general rule, which he thought every boy had known; and it was too late now to prevent the letter being looked over.

Mr Carnaby was so angry at the liberty Hugh had taken with his face and figure, that, in spite of all prayers, and a good many tears, he walked up the school with the letter, followed by poor Hugh, as soon as Mr Tooke had taken his seat next morning. Hugh thought that Holt, who had put him up to the most offensive part of the pictures, might have borne him company; but Holt was a timid boy, and he really had not courage to leave his seat. So Hugh stood alone, awaiting Mr Tooke's awful words, while the whole of the first class looked up from their books, in expectation of what was to happen. They waited some time for the master's words; for he was trying to help laughing. He and Mr Carnaby were so much alike in the pictures, and both so like South Sea islanders, that it was impossible to help laughing at the thought of this sketch going abroad as a representation of the Crofton masters. At last all parties laughed aloud, and Mr Tooke handed Hugh his wafer-glass, and bade him wafer up his letter, and by all means send it. Mr Carnaby could not remain offended if his principal was not angry: so here the matter ended, except that Hugh made some strong resolutions about his future letters, and that the corners of the master's mouth were seen to be out of their usual order several times in the course of the morning.

This incident, and everything which haunted Hugh's mind, and engrossed his attention, was a serious evil to him; for his business soon grew to be more than his habit of mind was equal to. In a few days, he learned to envy the boys (and they were almost the whole school) who could fix their attention completely and immediately on the work before them, and relax as completely, when it was accomplished. When his eyes were wandering, they observed boy after boy frowning over his dictionary, or repeating to himself, earnestly and without pause; and presently the business was done, and the learner at ease, feeling confident that he was ready to meet his master. After double the time had passed Hugh was still trying to get the meaning of his lesson into his head—going over the same words a dozen times, without gaining any notion of their meaning—suffering, in short from his long habit of inattention at home. He did now try hard; but he seemed to get only headaches for his pains. His brother saw enough to make him very sorry for Hugh before ten days were over. He might not, perhaps, have been struck with his anxious countenance, his frequent starts, and his laying his head down on his desk because it ached so, if it had not been for what happened at night. Sometimes Hugh started out of bed, and began to dress, when the elder boys went up with their light, only an hour after the younger ones. Sometimes he would begin saying his syntax in the middle of the night, fancying he was standing before Mr Carnaby; and once he walked in his sleep as far as the head of the stairs, and then suddenly woke, and could not make out where he was. Phil should have told Mr Tooke of these things; but Hugh was so very anxious that nobody should know of his "tricks" (as the boys in his room called his troubles), that Phil only mentioned the matter to Mrs Watson, who had known so many bad sleepers among little boys, and had so little idea that the habit was anything new, that she took scarcely any notice of it. She had his hair cut very short and close, and saw that he took a moderate supper, and was satisfied that all would be well. Hugh did not part with his hair till he had joked himself about its length as much as any one could quiz him for it. When he had pulled it down over the end of his nose, and peeped through it, like an owl out of an ivy-bush, he might be supposed to part with it voluntarily, and not because he was laughed at.

Phil's observation of his brother's toil and trouble led him to give him some help. Almost every day he would hear Hugh say his lesson—or try to say it; for the poor boy seldom succeeded. Phil sometimes called him stupid, and sometimes refrained from saying so, whatever he might think; but there really was very little difference in the result, whether Phil heard the lessons beforehand or not; and it gave Joe Cape a great advantage over Phil that he had no little brother to attend to. Considering how selfish rivalship is apt to make boys (and even men), it was perhaps no wonder that Phil sometimes kept out of Hugh's way at the right hour, saying to himself that his proper business was to do his lessons, and get or keep ahead of Joe Cape; and that Hugh must take his chance, and work his own way, as other boys had to do. This conduct might not be wondered at in Phil; but it hurt Hugh, and made him do his lessons all the worse. He did not like to expose his brother's unkindness to any one, or he would oftener have asked Firth to help him. Firth, too, had plenty of work of his own to do. More than once, however, Firth met the little lad, wandering about, with his grammar in his hand, in search of the hidden Phil; and then Firth would stop him, and sit down with him, and have patience, and give him such clear explanations, such good examples of the rules he was to learn, that it all became easy, and Hugh found his lessons were to him only what those of other boys seemed to them. Still, however, and at the best, Hugh was, as a learner, far too much at the mercy of circumstances—the victim of what passed before his eyes, or was said within his hearing.

Boys who find difficulty in attending to their lessons are sure to be more teased with interruptions than any others. Holt had not the habit of learning; and he and Hugh were continually annoyed by the boys who sat near them watching how they got on, and making remarks upon them. One day, Mr Tooke was called out of the school-room to a visitor, and Mr Carnaby went up to take the master's place, and hear his class. This was too good an opportunity for the boys below to let slip; and they began to play tricks,—most of them directed against Hugh and Tom Holt. One boy, Warner, began to make the face that always made Holt laugh, however he tried to be grave. Page drew a caricature of Mrs Watson on his slate, and held it up; and Davison took a mask out of his desk, and even ventured to tie it on, as if it had not been school-time.

"I declare I can't learn my lesson—'tis too bad!" cried Hugh.

"'Tis a shame!" said Tom Holt, sighing for breath after his struggle not to laugh. "We shall never be ready."

Hugh made gestures of indignation at the boys, which only caused worse faces to be made, and the mask to nod.

"We wont look at them," proposed Holt. "Let us cover our eyes, and not look up at all."

Hugh put his hands before his eyes; but still his mind's eye saw the grinning mask, and his lesson did not get on. Besides, a piece of wet sponge lighted on the very page he was learning from. He looked up fiercely, to see who had thrown it. It was no other than Tooke, who belonged to that class:—it was Tooke, to judge by his giggle, and his pretending to hide his face, as if ashamed. Hugh tossed back the sponge, so as to hit Tooke on the nose. Then Tooke was angry, and threw it again, and the sponge passed backwards and forwards several times: for Hugh was by this time very angry,—boiling with indignation at the hardship of not being able to learn his lesson, when he really would if he could. While the sponge was still passing to and fro, Mr Carnaby's voice was heard from the far end of the room, desiring Warner, Page, Davison, and Tooke to be quiet, and let the boys alone till Mr Tooke came in, when Mr Tooke would take his own measures.

Hugh, wondering how Mr Carnaby knew, at that distance, what was going on, found that Holt was no longer by his side. In a moment, Holt returned to his seat, flushed and out of breath. A very slight hiss was heard from every form near, as he came down the room.

"O! Holt! You have been telling tales!" cried Hugh.

"Telling tales!" exclaimed Holt, in consternation, for Holt knew nothing of school ways. "I never thought of that. They asked me to tell Mr Carnaby that we could not learn our lessons."

"They! Who? I am sure I never asked you."

"No; you did not: but Harvey and Prince did,—and Gillingham. They said Mr Carnaby would soon make those fellows quiet; and they told me to go."

"You hear! They are calling you 'tell-tale.' That will be your name now. Oh, Holt! You should not have told tales. However, I will stand by you," Hugh continued, seeing the terror that Holt was in.

"I meant no harm," said Holt, trembling. "Was not it a shame that they would not let us learn our lessons?"

"Yes, it was—but—"

At this moment Mr Tooke entered the room. As he passed the forms, the boys were all bent over their books, as if they could think of nothing else. Mr Tooke walked up the room to his desk, and Mr Carnaby walked down the room to his desk; and then Mr Carnaby said, quite aloud,—

"Mr Tooke, sir."

"Well."

Here Holt sprang from his desk, and ran to the usher, and besought him not to say a word about what Warner's class had been doing. He even hung on Mr Carnaby's arm in entreaty; but Mr Carnaby shook him off, and commanded him back to his seat. Then the whole school heard Mr Tooke told about the wry faces and the mask, and the trouble of the little boys. Mr Tooke was not often angry; but when he was, his face grew white, and his lips trembled. His face was white now. He stood up, and called before him the little boy who had informed. Hugh chose to go with Holt, though Holt had not gone up with him about the letter, the other day; and Holt felt how kind this was. Mr Tooke desired to know who the offenders were; and as they were named, he called to them to stand up in their places. Then came the sentence. Mr Tooke would never forgive advantage being taken of his absence. If there were boys who could not be trusted while his back was turned, they must be made to remember him when he was out of sight, by punishment. Page must remain in school after hours, to learn twenty lines of Virgil; Davison twenty; Tooke forty—

Here everybody looked round to see how Tooke bore his father being so angry with him.

"Please, sir," cried one boy, "I saw little Proctor throw a sponge at Tooke. He did it twice."

"Never mind!" answered Tooke. "I threw it at him first. It is my sponge."

"And Warner," continued the master, as if he had not heard the interruption, "considering that Warner has got off too easily for many pranks of late,—Warner seventy."

Seventy! The idea of having anybody condemned, through him, to learn seventy lines of Latin by heart, made Holt so miserable that the word seventy seemed really to prick his very ears. Though Mr Tooke's face was still white, Holt ventured up to him, "Pray, sir—"

"Not a word of intercession for those boys," said the master. "I will not hear a word in their favour."

"Then, sir—"

"Well."

"I only want to say, then, that Proctor told no tales, sir. I did not mean any harm, sir, but I told because—"

"Never mind that," cried Hugh, afraid that he would now be telling of Harvey, Prince, and Gillingham, who had persuaded him to go up.

"I have nothing to do with that. That is your affair," said the master, sending the boys back to their seats.

Poor Holt had cause to rue this morning, for long after. He was weary of the sound of hissing, and of the name "tell-tale;" and the very boys who had prompted him to go up were at first silent, and then joined against him. He complained to Hugh of the difficulty of knowing what it was right to do. He had been angry on Hugh's account chiefly; and he still thought it was very unjust to hinder their lessons, when they wished not to be idle: and yet they were all treating him as if he had done something worse than the boys with the mask. Hugh thought all this was true: but he believed it was settled among schoolboys (though Holt had never had the opportunity of knowing it) that it was a braver thing for boys to bear any teasing from one another than to call in the power of the master to help. A boy who did that was supposed not to be able to take care of himself; and for this he was despised, besides being disliked, for having brought punishment upon his companions.

Holt wished Hugh had not been throwing sponges at the time:—he wished Hugh had prevented his going up. He would take good care how he told tales again.

"You had better say so," advised Hugh; "and then they will see that you had never been at school, and did not know how to manage."

The first Saturday had been partly dreaded, and partly longed for, by Hugh. He had longed for the afternoon's ramble; but Saturday morning was the time for saying tables, among other things. Nothing happened as he had expected. The afternoon was so rainy that there was no going out; and, as for the tables, he was in a class of five; and "four times seven" did not come to him in regular course. Eight times seven did, and he said "fifty-six" with great satisfaction, Mr Carnaby asked him afterwards the dreaded question, but he was on his guard; and as he answered it right, and the usher had not found out the joke, he hoped he should hear no more of the matter.

The next Saturday was fine, and at last he was to have the walk he longed for. The weekly repetitions were over, dinner was done, Mr Carnaby appeared with his hat on, the whole throng burst into the open air, and out of bounds, and the new boys were wild with expectation and delight. When they had passed the churchyard and the green, and were wading through the sandy road which led up to the heath, Firth saw Hugh running and leaping hither and thither, not knowing what to do with his spirits. Firth called him, and putting his arm round Hugh's neck, so as to keep him prisoner, said he did not know how he might want his strength before he got home, and he had better not spend it on a bit of sandy road. So Hugh was made to walk quietly, and gained his breath before the breezy heath was reached.

On the way, he saw that a boy of the name of Dale, whom he had never particularly observed before, was a good deal teased by some boys who kept crossing their hands before them, and curtseying like girls, talking in a mincing way, and calling one another Amelia, with great affectation. Dale tried to get away, but he was followed, whichever way he turned.

"What do they mean by that?" inquired Hugh of Firth.

"Dale has a sister at a school not far off, and her name is Amelia; and she came to see him to-day. Ah! You have not found out yet that boys are laughed at about their sisters, particularly if the girls have fine names."

"What a shame!" cried Hugh; words which he had used very often already since he came to Crofton.

He broke from Firth, ran up to Dale, and said to him, in a low voice, "I have two sisters, and one of them is called Agnes."

"Don't let them come to see you, then, or these fellows will quiz you as they do me. As if I could help having a sister Amelia!"

"Why, you are not sorry for that? You would not wish your sister dead, or not born, would you?"

"No; but I wish she was not hereabouts: that is, I wish she had not come up to the pales, with the maid-servant behind her, for everybody to see. And then, when Mr Tooke sent us into the orchard together, some spies were peeping over the wall at us all the time."

"I only wish Agnes would come," cried Hugh, "and I would—"

"Ah! You think so now; but depend upon it, you would like much better to see her at home. Why, her name is finer than my sister's! I wonder what girls ever have such names for!"

"I don't see that these names are finer than some boys' names. There's Frazer, is not his name Colin? And then there's Hercules Fisticuff—"

"Why, you know—to be sure you know that is a nick-name?" said Dale.

"Is it? I never thought of that," replied Hugh. "What is his real name?"

"Samuel Jones. However, there is Colin Frazer—and Fry, his name is Augustus Adolphus; I will play them off the next time they quiz Amelia. How old is your sister Agnes?"

Then the two boys wandered off among the furze bushes, talking about their homes; and in a little while they had so opened their hearts to each other, that they felt as if they had always been friends. Nobody thought any more about them when once the whole school was dispersed over the heath. Some boys made for a hazel copse, some way beyond the heath, in hopes of finding a few nuts already ripe. Others had boats to float on the pond. A large number played leap-frog, and some ran races. Mr Carnaby threw himself down on a soft couch of wild thyme, on a rising ground, and took out his book. So Dale and Hugh felt themselves unobserved, and they chatted away at a great rate. Not but that an interruption or two did occur. They fell in with a flock of geese, and Hugh did not much like their appearance, never having heard a goose make a noise before. He had eaten roast goose, and he had seen geese in the feathers at the poulterers'; but he had never seen them alive, and stretching their necks at passengers. He flinched at the first moment. Dale, who never imagined that a boy who was not afraid of his schoolfellows could be afraid of geese, luckily mistook the movement, and said, "Ay, get a switch,—a bunch of furze will do, and we will be rid of the noisy things."

He drove them away, and Hugh had now learned, for ever, how much noise geese can make, and how little they are to be feared.

They soon came upon some creatures which were larger and stronger, and with which Hugh was no better acquainted. Some cows were grazing, or had been grazing, till a party of boys came up. They were now restless, moving uneasily about, so that Dale himself hesitated for a moment which way to go. Lamb was near,—the passionate boy, who was nobody's friend, and who was therefore seldom at play with others. He was also something of a coward, as any one might know from his frequent bullying. He and Holt happened to be together at this time; and it was their appearance of fright at the restless cows which frightened Hugh. One cow at last began to trot towards them at a pretty good rate. Lamb ran off to the right, and the two little boys after him, though Dale pulled at Hugh's hand to make him stand still, as Dale chose to do himself. He pulled in vain—Hugh burst away, and off went the three boys, over the hillocks and through the furze, the cow trotting at some distance behind. They did not pause till Lamb had led them off the heath into a deep lane, different from the one by which they had come. The cow stopped at a patch of green grass, just at the entrance of the hollow way; and the runners therefore could take breath.

"Now we are here," said Lamb, "I will show you a nice place,—a place where we can get something nice. How thirsty I am!"

"And so am I," declared Holt, smacking his dry tongue. Hugh's mouth was very dry too, between the run and the fright.

"Well, then, come along with me, and I will show you," said Lamb.

Hugh thought they ought not to go farther from the heath: but Lamb said they would get back by another way,—through a gate belonging to a friend of his. They could not get back the way they came, because the cow was there still. He walked briskly on till they came to a cottage, over whose door swung a sign; and on the sign was a painting of a bottle and a glass, and a heap of things which were probably meant for cakes, as there were cakes in the window. Here Lamb turned in, and the woman seemed to know him well. She smiled, and closed the door behind the three boys, and asked them to sit down: but Lamb said there was no time for that to-day,—she must be quick. He then told the boys that they would have some ginger-beer.

"But may we?" asked the little boys.

"To be sure; who is to prevent us? You shall see how you like ginger-beer when you are thirsty."

The woman declared that it was the most wholesome thing in the world; and if the young gentleman did not find it so, she would never ask him to taste her ginger-beer again. Hugh thanked them both; but he did not feel quite comfortable. He looked at Holt, to find out what he thought: but Holt was quite engrossed with watching the woman untwisting the wire of the first bottle. The cork did not fly; indeed there was some difficulty in getting it out: so Lamb waived his right, as the eldest, to drink first; and the little boys were so long in settling which should have it, that the little spirit there was had all gone off before Hugh began to drink; and he did not find ginger-beer such particularly good stuff as Lamb had said. He would have liked a drink of water better. The next bottle was very brisk: so Lamb seized upon it; and the froth hung round his mouth when he had done: but Holt was no better off with his than Hugh had been. They were both urged to try their luck again. Hugh would not: but Holt did once; and Lamb, two or three times. Then the woman offered them some cakes upon a plate: and the little boys thanked her, and took each one. Lamb put some in his pocket, and advised the others to do the same, as they had no time to spare. He kept some room in his pocket, however, for some plums; and told the boys that they might carry theirs in their handkerchiefs, or in their caps, if they would take care to have finished before they came within sight of the usher. He then asked the woman to let them out upon the heath through her garden gate; and she said she certainly would when they had paid. She then stood drumming with her fingers upon the table, and looking through the window, as if waiting.

"Come, Proctor, you have half-a-crown," said Lamb. "Out with it!"

"My half-crown!" exclaimed Proctor. "You did not say I had anything to pay."

"As if you did not know that, without my telling you! You don't think people give away their good things, I suppose! Come,—where's your half-crown? My money is all at home."

Holt had nothing with him either. Lamb asked the woman what there was to pay. She seemed to count and consider; and Holt told Hugh afterwards that he saw Lamb wink at her. She then said that the younger gentlemen had had the most plums and cakes. The charge was a shilling a piece for them, and sixpence for Master Lamb:—half-a-crown exactly. Hugh protested he never meant anything like this, and that he wanted part of his half-crown to buy a comb with; and he would have emptied out the cakes and fruit he had left; but the woman stopped him, saying that she never took back what she had sold. Lamb hurried him, too, declaring that their time was up; and he even thrust his finger and thumb into Hugh's inner pocket, and took out the half-crown, which he gave to the woman. He was sure that Hugh could wait for his comb till Holt paid him, and the woman said she did not see that any more combing was wanted: the young gentleman's hair looked so pretty as it was. She then showed them through the garden, and gave them each a marigold full-blown. She unlocked her gate, pushed them through, locked it behind them, and left them to hide their purchases as well as they could. Though the little boys stuffed their pockets till the ripest plums burst, and wetted the linings, they could not dispose of them all; and they were obliged to give away a good many.

Hugh went in search of his new friend, and drew him aside from the rest to relate his trouble. Dale wondered he had not found out Lamb before this, enough to refuse to follow his lead. Lamb would never pay a penny. He always spent the little money he had upon good things, the first day or two; and then he got what he could out of any one who was silly enough to trust him.

"But," said Hugh, "the only thing we had to do with each other before was by my being kind to him."

"That makes no difference," said Dale.

"But what a bad boy he must be! To be sure, he will pay me, when he knows how much I want a comb."

"He will tell you to buy it out of your five shillings. You let him know you had five shillings in Mrs Watson's hands."

"Yes; but he knows how I mean to spend that,—for presents to carry home at Christmas. But I'll never tell him anything again. Oh! Dale! Do you really think he will never pay me?"

"He never pays anybody; that is all I know. Come,—forget it all, as fast as you can. Let us go and see if we can get any nuts."

Hugh did not at all succeed in his endeavours to forget his adventure. The more he thought about it, the worse it seemed; and the next time he spoke to Holt, and told him to remember that he owed him a shilling, Holt said he did not know that,—he did not mean to spend a shilling; and it was clear that it was only his fear of Hugh's speaking to Mrs Watson or the usher, that prevented his saying outright that he should not pay it. Hugh felt very hot, and bit his lip to make his voice steady when he told Dale, on the way home, that he did not believe he should ever see any part of his half-crown again. Dale thought so too; but he advised him to do nothing more than keep the two debtors up to the remembrance of their debt. If he told so powerful a person as Firth, it would be almost as much tale-telling as if he went to the master at once; and Hugh himself had no inclination to expose his folly to Phil, who was already quite sufficiently ashamed of his inexperience. So poor Hugh threw the last of his plums to some cottager's children on the green, in his way home; and, when he set foot within bounds again, he heartily wished that this Saturday afternoon had been rainy too; for any disappointment would have been better than this scrape.

While learning his lessons for Monday, he forgot the whole matter; and then he grew merry over the great Saturday night's washing; but after he was in bed, it flashed upon him that he should meet uncle and aunt Shaw in church to-morrow, and they would speak to Phil and him after church; and his uncle might ask after the half-crown. He determined not to expose his companions, at any rate: but his uncle would be displeased; and this thought was so sad that Hugh cried himself to sleep. His uncle and aunt were at church the next morning; and Hugh could not forget the ginger-beer, or help watching his uncle: so that, though he tried several times to attend to the sermon; he knew nothing about it when it was done. His uncle observed in the churchyard that they must have had a fine ramble the day before; but did not say anything about pocket-money. Neither did he name a day for his nephews to visit him, though he said they must come before the days grew much shorter. So Hugh thought he had got off very well thus far. In the afternoon, however, Mrs Watson, who invited him and Holt into her parlour, to look over the pictures in her great Bible, was rather surprised to find how little Hugh could tell her of the sermon, considering how much he had remembered the Sunday before. She had certainly thought that to-day's sermon had been the simpler, and the more interesting to young people, of the two. Her conversation with Hugh did him good, however. It reminded him of his mother's words, and of her expectations from him; and it made him resolve to bear, not only his loss, but any blame which might come upon him silently, and without betraying anybody. He had already determined, fifty times within the twenty-four hours, never to be so weakly led again, when his own mind was doubtful, as he had felt it all the time from leaving the heath to getting back to it again. He began to reckon on the Christmas holidays, when he should have five weeks at home, free from the evils of both places,—from lessons with Miss Harold, and from Crofton scrapes.

It is probable that the whole affair would have passed over quietly, and the woman in the lane might have made large profits by other inexperienced boys, and Mr Carnaby might have gone on being careless as to where the boys went out of his sight on Saturdays, but that Tom Holt ate too many plums on the present occasion. On Sunday morning he was not well; and was so ill by the evening, and all Monday, that he had to be regularly nursed; and when he left his bed, he was taken to Mrs Watson's parlour,—the comfortable, quiet place where invalid boys enjoyed themselves. Poor Holt was in very low spirits; and Mrs Watson was so kind that he could not help telling her that he owed a shilling, and he did not know how he should ever pay it; and that Hugh Proctor, who had been his friend till now, seemed on a sudden much more fond of Dale; and this made it harder to be in debt to him.

The wet, smeared lining of the pockets had told Mrs Watson already that there had been some improper indulgence in good things; and when she heard what part Lamb had played towards the little boys, she thought it right to tell Mr Tooke. Mr Tooke said nothing till Holt was in the school again, which was on Thursday; and not then till the little boys had said their lessons, at past eleven o'clock. They were drawing on their slates, and Lamb was still mumbling over his book, without getting on, when the master's awful voice was heard, calling up before him Lamb, little Proctor, and Holt. All three started, and turned red; so that the school concluded them guilty before it was known what they were charged with. Dale knew,—and he alone; and very sorry he was, for the intimacy between Hugh and him had grown very close indeed since Saturday.

The master was considerate towards the younger boys. He made Lamb tell the whole. Even when the cowardly lad "bellowed" (as his school-fellows called his usual mode of crying) so that nothing else could be heard, Mr Tooke waited, rather than question the other two. When the whole story was extracted, in all its shamefulness, from Lamb's own lips, the master expressed his disgust. He said nothing about the money part of it—about how Hugh was to be paid. He probably thought it best for the boys to take the consequences of their folly in losing their money. He handed the little boys over to Mr Carnaby to be caned—"To make them remember," as he said; though they themselves were pretty sure they should never forget. Lamb was kept to be punished by the master himself. Though Lamb knew he should be severely flogged, and though he was the most cowardly boy in the school, he did not suffer so much as Hugh did in the prospect of being caned—being punished at all. Phil, who knew his brother's face well, saw, as he passed down the room, how miserable he was—too miserable to cry; and Phil pulled him by the sleeve, and whispered that being caned was nothing to mind—only a stroke or two across the shoulders. Hugh shook his head, as much as to say, "It is not that."

No—it was not the pain. It was the being punished in open school, and when he did not feel that he deserved it. How should he know where Lamb was taking him? How should he know that the ginger-beer was to be paid for, and that he was to pay? He felt himself injured enough already: and now to be punished in addition! He would have died on the spot for liberty to tell Mr Tooke and everybody what he thought of the way he was treated. He had felt his mother hard sometimes; but what had she ever done to him compared with this? It was well he thought of his mother. At the first moment, the picture of home in his mind nearly made him cry—the thing of all others he most wished to avoid while so many eyes were on him; but the remembrance of what his mother expected of him—her look when she told him he must not fail, gave him courage. Hard as it was to be, as he believed, unjustly punished, it was better than having done anything very wrong—anything that he really could not have told his mother.

Mr Carnaby foresaw that a rebuke was in store for him for his negligence during the walk on Saturday; and this anticipation did not sweeten his mood. He kept the little boys waiting, though Holt was trembling very much, and still weak from his illness. It occurred to the usher that another person might be made uncomfortable; and he immediately acted on the idea. He had observed how fond of one another Dale and Hugh had become; and he thought he would plague Dale a little. He therefore summoned him, and desired him to go, and bring him a switch, to cane these boys with.

"I have broken my cane; so bring me a stout switch," said he. "Bring me one out of the orchard; one that will lay on well—one that will not break with a good hard stroke;—mind what I say—one that will not break."

"Yes, sir," replied Dale, readily; and he went as if he was not at all unwilling. Holt shivered. Hugh never moved.

It was long, very long, before Dale returned. When he did, he brought a remarkably stout broomstick.

"This won't break, I think, sir," said he.

The boys giggled. Mr Carnaby knuckled Dale's head as he asked him if he called that a switch.

"Bring me a switch" said he. "One that is not too stout, or else it will not sting. It must sting, remember,—sting well. Not too stout, remember."

"Yes, sir," said Dale; and away he went again.

He was now gone yet longer; and by the time he returned everybody's eyes were fixed on the door, to see what sort of a switch would next appear. Dale entered, bringing a straw.

"I think this will not be too stout, sir."

Everybody laughed but Hugh—even Holt.

There was that sneer about Mr Carnaby's nose which made everybody sorry now for Dale: but everybody started, Mr Carnaby and all, at Mr Tooke's voice, close at hand. How much he had seen and heard, there was no knowing; but it was enough to make him look extremely stern.

"Are these boys not caned yet, Mr Carnaby?"

"No, sir:—I have not—I—"

"Have they been standing here all this while?"

"Yes, sir. I have no cane, sir. I have been sending—"

"I ordered them an immediate caning, Mr Carnaby, and not mental torture. School is up," he declared to the boys at large. "You may go—you have been punished enough," he said to the little boys. "Mr Carnaby, have the goodness to remain a moment."

And the large room was speedily emptied of all but the master, the usher, and poor Lamb.

"The usher will catch it now," observed some boys, as the master himself shut the door behind them. "He will get well paid for his spite."

"What will be done to him?" asked Hugh of Dale, whom he loved fervently for having saved him from punishment.

"Oh, I don't know; and I don't care—though he was just going to give my head some sound raps against the wall, if Mr Tooke had not come up at the moment."

"But what will be done to Mr Carnaby?"

"Never mind what: he won't be here long, they say. Fisher says there is another coming; and Carnaby is here only till that other is at liberty."

This was good news, if true: and Hugh ran off, quite in spirits, to play. He had set himself diligently to learn to play, and would not be driven off; and Dale had insisted on fair scope for him. He played too well to be objected to any more. They now went to leap-frog; and when too hot to keep it up any longer, he and Dale mounted into the apple-tree to talk, while they were cooling, and expecting the dinner-bell.

Something happened very wonderful before dinner. The gardener went down to the main road, and seemed to be looking out. At last he hailed the London coach. Hugh and Dale could see from their perch. The coach stopped, the gardener ran back, met Mr Carnaby under the chestnuts, relieved him of his portmanteau, and helped him to mount the coach.

"Is he going? Gone for good?" passed from mouth to mouth, all over the playground.

"Gone for good," was the answer of those who knew to a certainty.

The boys set up first a groan, so loud that perhaps the departing usher heard it. Then they gave a shout of joy, in which the little boys joined with all their might—Hugh waving his cap in the apple-tree.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

WHAT IS ONLY TO BE HAD AT HOME.

Hugh got on far better with his lessons as he grew more intimate with Dale. It was not so much that Dale helped him with his grammar and construing (for Dale thought every boy should make shift to do his own business) as that he liked to talk about his work, even with a younger boy; and so, as he said, clear his head. A great deal that he said was above Hugh's comprehension; and much of his repetitions mere words: but there were other matters which fixed Hugh's attention, and proved to him that study might be interesting out of school. When Dale had a theme to write, the two boys often walked up and down the playground for half an hour together, talking the subject over, and telling of anything they had heard or read upon it. Hugh presently learned the names and the meanings of the different parts of a theme; and he could sometimes help with an illustration or example, though he left it to his friend to lay down the Proposition, and search out the Confirmation. Dale's nonsense-verses were perfect nonsense to Hugh: but his construing was not: and when he went over it aloud, for the purpose of fixing his lesson in his ear, as well as his mind, Hugh was sorry when they arrived at the end, and eager to know what came next,—particularly if they had to stop in the middle of a story of Ovid's. Every week, almost every day now, made a great difference in Hugh's school-life. He still found his lessons very hard work, and was often in great fear and pain about them,—but he continually perceived new light breaking in upon his mind: his memory served him better; the little he had learned came when he wanted it, instead of just a minute too late. He rose in the morning with less anxiety about the day: and when playing, could forget school.

There was no usher yet in Mr Carnaby's place; and all the boys said their lessons to Mr Tooke himself: which Hugh liked very much, when he had got over the first fear. A writing-master came from a distance twice a week, when the whole school was at writing and arithmetic all the afternoon: but every other lesson was said to the master; and this was likely to go on till Christmas, as the new usher, of whom, it was said, Mr Tooke thought so highly as to choose to wait for him, could not come before that time. Of course, with so much upon his hands, Mr Tooke had not a moment to spare; and slow or idle boys were sent back to their desks at the first trip or hesitation in their lessons. Hugh was afraid, at the outset, that he should be like poor Lamb, who never got a whole lesson said during these weeks: and he was turned down sometimes; but not often enough to depress him. He learned to trust more to his ear and his memory: his mind became excited, as in playing a game: and he found he got through, he scarcely knew how. His feeling of fatigue afterwards proved to him that this was harder work than he had ever done at home; but he did not feel it so at the time. When he could learn a lesson in ten minutes, and say it in one; when he began to use Latin phrases in his private thoughts, and saw the meaning of a rule of syntax, so as to be able to find a fresh example out of his own head, he felt himself really a Crofton boy, and his heart grew light within him.

The class to which Hugh belonged was one day standing waiting to be heard, when the master was giving a subject and directions for an English theme to Dale's class. The subject was the Pleasures of Friendship. In a moment Hugh thought of Damon and Pythias, and of David and Jonathan,—of the last of whom there was a picture in Mrs Watson's great Bible. He thought how happy he had been since he had known Dale, and his heart was in such a glow, he was sure he could write a theme. He ran after Mr Tooke when school was over, and asked whether he might write a theme with Dale's class. When Mr Tooke found he knew what was meant by writing a theme, he said he might try, if he neglected nothing for it, and wrote every word of it himself, without consultation with any one.

Hugh scampered away to tell Dale that they must not talk over this theme together, as they were both to do it; and then, instead of playing, he went to his desk, and wrote upon his slate till it was quite full. He had to borrow two slates before he had written all he had to say. Phil ruled his paper for him; but before he had copied one page, his neighbours wanted their slates back again,—said they must have them, and rubbed out all he had written. Much of the little time he had was lost in this way, and he grew wearied. He thought at first that his theme would be very beautiful: but he now began to doubt whether it would be worth anything at all; and he was vexed to have tired himself with doing what would only make him laughed at. The first page was well written out,—the Confirmation being properly separated from the Proposition: but he had to write all the latter part directly from his head upon the paper, as the slates were taken away; and he forgot to separate the Conclusion from the Inference.

He borrowed a penknife, and tried to scratch out half a line; but he only made a hole in the paper, and was obliged to let the line stand. Then he found he had strangely forgotten to put in the chief thing of all,—about friends telling one another of their faults,—though, on consideration, he was not sure that this was one of the Pleasures of Friendship: so, perhaps, it did not much matter. But there were two blots; and he had left out Jonathan's name, which had to be interlined. Altogether, it had the appearance of a very bad theme. Firth came and looked over his shoulder, as he was gazing at it; and Firth offered to write it out for him; and even thought it would be fair, as he had had nothing to do with the composition: but Hugh could not think it would be fair, and said, sighing, that his must take its chance. He did not think he could have done a theme so very badly.

Mr Tooke beckoned him up with Dale's class, when they carried up their themes; and, seeing how red his face was, the master bade him not be afraid. But how could he help being afraid? The themes were not read directly. It was Mr Tooke's practice to read them out of school-hours. On this occasion, judgment was given the last thing before school broke up the next morning.

Hugh had never been more astonished in his life. Mr Tooke praised his theme very much, and said it had surprised him. He did not mind the blots and mistakes, which would, he said, have been great faults in a copy-book, but were of less consequence than other things in a theme. Time and pains would correct slovenliness of that kind; and the thoughts and language were good. Hugh was almost out of his wits with delight; so nearly so that he spoiled his own pleasure completely. He could not keep his happiness to himself, or his vanity: for Hugh had a good deal of vanity,—more than he was aware of before this day. He told several boys what Mr Tooke had said: but he soon found that would not do. Some were indifferent, but most laughed at him. Then he ran to Mrs Watson's parlour, and knocked. Nobody answered; for the room was empty: so Hugh sought her in various places, and at last found her in the kitchen, boiling some preserves.

"What do you come here for? This is no place for you," said she, when the maids tried in vain to put Hugh out.

"I only want to tell you one thing," cried Hugh; and he repeated exactly what Mr Tooke had said of his theme. Mrs Watson laughed, and the maids laughed, and Hugh left them, angry with them, but more angry with himself. They did not care for him,—nobody cared for him, he said to himself; he longed for his mother's look or approbation when he had done well, and Agnes' pleasure, and even Susan's fondness and praise. He sought Dale. Dale was in the midst of a game, and had not a word or look to spare till it was over. The boys would have admitted Hugh; for he could now play as well as anybody; but he was in no mood for play now. He climbed his tree, and sat there, stinging his mind with the thought of his having carried his boastings into the kitchen, and with his recollection of Mrs Watson's laugh.

It often happened that Firth and Hugh met at this tree; and it happened now. There was room for both; and Firth mounted, and read for some time. At last he seemed to be struck by Hugh's restlessness and heavy sighs; and he asked whether he had not got something to amuse himself with.

"No. I don't want to amuse myself," said Hugh, stretching so as almost to throw himself out of the tree.

"Why, what's the matter? Did you not come off well with your theme? I heard somebody say you were quite enough set up about it."

"Where is the use of doing a thing well, if nobody cares about it?" said Hugh. "I don't believe anybody at Crofton cares a bit about me—cares whether I get on well or ill—except Dale. If I take pains and succeed, they only laugh at me."

"Ah! You don't understand school and schoolboys yet," replied Firth. "To do a difficult lesson well is a grand affair at home, and the whole house knows of it. But it is the commonest thing in the world here. If you learn to feel with these boys, instead of expecting them to feel with you (which they cannot possibly do), you will soon find that they care for you accordingly."

Hugh shook his head.

"You will find it in every school in England," continued Firth, "that it is not the way of boys to talk about feelings—about anybody's feelings. That is the reason why they do not mention their sisters or their mothers—except when two confidential friends are together, in a tree, or by themselves in the meadows. But, as sure as ever a boy is full of action—if he tops the rest at play—holds his tongue, or helps others generously—or shows a manly spirit without being proud of it, the whole school is his friend. You have done well, so far, by growing more and more sociable; but you will lose ground if you boast about your lessons out of school. To prosper at Crofton, you must put off home, and make yourself a Crofton boy."

"I don't care about that," said Hugh. "I give it all up. There is nothing but injustice here."

"Nothing but injustice! Pray, am I unjust?"

"No—not you—not so far. But—"

"Is Mr Tooke unjust?"

"Yes—very."

"Pray how, and when?"

"He has been so unjust to me, that if it had not been for something, I could not have borne it. I am not going to tell you what that something is: only you need not be afraid but that I can bear everything. If the whole world was against me—"

"Well, never mind what that something is; but tell me how Mr Tooke is unjust to you."

"He punished me when I did not deserve it; and he praised me when I did not deserve it. I was cheated and injured that Saturday; and, instead of seeing me righted, Mr Tooke ordered me to be punished. And to-day, when my theme was so badly done that I made sure of being blamed, he praised me."

"This might be injustice at home," replied Firth, "because parents know, or ought to know, all that is in their children's minds, and exactly what their children can do. A schoolmaster can judge only by what he sees. Mr Tooke does not know yet that you could have done your theme better than you did—as your mother would have known. When he finds you can do better, he will not praise such a theme again. Meantime, how you can boast of his praise, if you think it unjust, is the wonder to me."

"So it is to me now. I wish I had never asked to do that theme at all," cried Hugh, again stretching himself to get rid of his shame. "But why did Mr Tooke order me to be caned? Why did he not make Lamb and Holt pay me what they owe? I was injured before: and he injured me more."

"You were to be caned because you left the heath and entered a house without leave—not because you had been cheated of your money."

"But I did not know where I was going. I never meant to enter a house."

"But you did both; and what you suffered will prevent your letting yourself be led into such a scrape again. As for the money part of the matter—a school is to boys what the world is when they become men. They must manage their own affairs among themselves. The difference is, that here is the master to be applied to, if we choose. He will advise you about your money, if you choose to ask him: but, for my part, I would rather put up with the loss, if I were you."

"Nobody will ever understand what I mean about justice," muttered Hugh.

"Suppose," said Firth, "while you are complaining of injustice in this way, somebody else should be complaining in the same way of your injustice."

"Nobody can—fairly," replied Hugh.

"Do you see that poor fellow, skulking there under the orchard-wall?"

"What, Holt?"

"Yes, Holt. I fancy the thought in his mind at this moment is that you are the most unjust person at Crofton."

"I! Unjust!"

"Yes; so he thinks. When you first came, you and he were companions. You found comfort in each other while all the rest were strangers to you. You were glad to hear, by the hour together, what he had to tell you about India, and his voyages and travels. Now he feels himself lonely and forsaken, while he sees you happy with a friend. He thinks it hard that you should desert him because he owes you a shilling, when he was cheated quite as much as you."

"Because he owes me a shilling!" cried Hugh, starting to his feet, "as if—"

Once more he had nearly fallen from his perch. Firth caught him; and then asked him how Holt should think otherwise than as he did, since Hugh had been his constant companion up to that Saturday afternoon, and had hardly spoken to him since.

Hugh protested that the shilling had nothing to do with the matter; and he never meant to take more than sixpence from Holt, because he thought Lamb was the one who ought to pay the shilling. The thing was, he did not, and could not, like Holt half so well as Dale. He could not make a friend of Holt, because he wanted spirit—he had no courage. What could he do? He could not pretend to be intimate with Holt when he did not like him; and if he explained that the shilling had nothing to do with the matter, he could not explain how it really was, when the fault was in the boy's character, and not in his having given any particular offence. What could he do?

Firth thought he could only learn not to expect, anywhere out of the bounds of home, what he thought justice. He must, of course, try himself to be just to everybody; but he must make up his mind in school, as men have to do in the world, to be misunderstood—to be wrongly valued; to be blamed when he felt himself the injured one; and praised when he knew he did not deserve it.

"But it is so hard," said Hugh.

"And what do people leave home for but to learn hard lessons?"

"But still, if it were not for—"

"For what? Do you see any comfort under it?" asked Firth, fixing his eyes on Hugh.

Hugh nodded, without speaking.

"That One understands us who cannot be unjust!" whispered Firth. "I am glad you feel that."

"Even home would be bad enough without that," said Hugh. "And what would school be?"

"Or the world?" added Frith. "But do not get cross, and complain again. Leave that to those who have no comfort."

Hugh nodded again. Then he got down, and ran to tell Holt that he did not want a shilling from him, because he thought sixpence would be fairer.

Holt was glad to hear this at first; but he presently said that it did not much matter, for that he had no more chance of being able to pay sixpence than a shilling. His parents were in India, and his uncle never offered him any money. He knew indeed that his uncle had none to spare; for he had said in the boy's hearing, that it was hard on him to have to pay the school-bills (unless he might pay them in the produce of his farm), so long as it must be before he could be repaid from India. So Holt did not dare to ask for pocket-money; and for the hundredth time he sighed over his debt. He had almost left off hoping that Hugh, would excuse him altogether, though everybody knew that Hugh had five shillings in Mrs Watson's hands. This fact and Hugh's frequent applications to Lamb for payment, had caused an impression that Hugh was fond of money. It was not so; and yet the charge was not unfair. Hugh was ready to give if properly asked; but he did not relish, and could not bear with temper, the injustice of such a forced borrowing as had stripped him of his half-crown. He wanted his five shillings for presents for his family; and for these reasons, and not because he was miserly, he did not offer to excuse Holt's debt; which it would have been more generous to have done. Nobody could wish that he should excuse Lamb's.

"When are you going to your uncle's?" asked Holt. "I suppose you are going some day before Christmas."

"On Saturday, to stay till Sunday night," said Hugh.

"And Proctor goes too, I suppose?"

"Yes; of course, Phil goes too."

"Anybody else?"

"We are each to take one friend, just for Saturday, to come home at night."

"Oh? Then, you will take me. You said you would."

"Did I? That must have been a long time ago."

"But you did say so,—that, whenever you went, you would ask leave to take me."

"I don't remember any such thing. And I am going to take Dale this time. I have promised him."

Holt cried with vexation. Dale was always in his way. Hugh cared for nobody but Dale; but Dale should not go to Mr Shaw's till he had had his turn. He had been promised first, and he would go first. He would speak to Mrs Watson, and get leave to go and tell Mrs Shaw, and then he was sure Mr Shaw would let him go.

Hugh was very uncomfortable. He really could not remember having made this promise: but he could not be sure that he had not. He asked Holt if he thought he should like to be in people's way, to spoil the holiday by going where he was not wished for; but this sort of remonstrance did not comfort Holt at all. Hugh offered that he should have the very next turn, if he would give up now.

"I dare say! And when will that be? You know on Sunday it will want only nineteen days to the holidays; and you will not be going to your uncle's again this half-year. A pretty way of putting me off!"

Then, as if a sudden thought had struck him, he cried,—

"But Proctor has to take somebody."

"Yes; Phil takes Tooke. They settled that a week ago."

"Oh! Can't you ask him to take me?"

"No; I shall not meddle with Phil. Besides, I am glad he has chosen Tooke. Tooke behaved well to me about the sponge that day. Tooke has some spirit."

This put Holt in mind of the worst of his adventures since he came to Crofton, and of all the miseries of being shunned as a tell-tale. He cried so bitterly as to touch Hugh's heart. As if thinking aloud, Hugh told him that he seemed very forlorn, and that he wished he would find a friend to be intimate with. This would make him so much happier as he had no idea of; as he himself had found since he had had Dale for a friend.

This naturally brought out a torrent of reproaches, which was followed by a hot argument; Holt insisting that Hugh ought to have been his intimate friend; and Hugh asking how he could make a friend of a boy who wanted spirit. They broke away from one another at last, Hugh declaring Holt to be unreasonable and selfish, and Holt thinking Hugh cruel and insulting.

Of course Mrs Watson would not hear of Holt's going to Mr Shaw, to ask for an invitation for Saturday. He was told he must wait till another time. It was no great consolation to Holt that on Sunday it would want only nineteen days to the holidays: for he was to remain at Crofton. He hoped to like the holidays better than school-days, and to be petted by Mrs Watson, and to sit by the fire, instead of being forced into the playground in all weathers; but still he could not look forward to Christmas with the glee which other boys felt.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

A LONG DAY.

Hugh, meantime, was counting the hours till Saturday. Perhaps, if the truth were known, so was Phil, though he was too old to acknowledge such a longing. But the climbing about the mill,—the play encouraged there by his uncle and the men,—his uncle's stories within doors, his aunt's good dinners,—the fire-side, the picture-books, the talk of home, altogether made up the greatest treat of the half-year. Phil had plenty of ways of passing the time. Hugh began a long letter home,—the very last letter, except the short formal one which should declare when the Christmas vacation should commence. Hugh meant to write half the letter before Saturday, and then fill it up with an account of his visit to his uncle's.

The days were passed, however, when Hugh had the command of his leisure time, as on his arrival, when his hours were apt to hang heavy. He had long since become too valuable in the playground to be left to follow his own devices. As the youngest boy, he was looked upon as a sort of servant to the rest, when once it was found that he was quick and clever. Either as scout, messenger, or in some such capacity, he was continually wanted; and often at times inconvenient to himself. He then usually remembered what Mr Tooke had told him of his boy, when Tooke was the youngest,—how he bore things—not only being put on the high wall, but being well worked in the service of the older boys. Usually Hugh was obliging, but he could and did feel cross at times. He was cross on this Friday,—the day when he was so anxious to write his letter before going to his uncle's. On Saturday there would be no time. The early mornings were dark now; and after school he should have to wash and dress, and be off to his uncle's. On Friday then, his paper was ruled, and he had only to run across the playground to borrow Firth's penknife, and then nothing should delay his letter.

In that ran across the playground he was stopped. He was wanted to collect clean snow for the boys who were bent on finishing their snow-man while it would bind. He should be let off when he had brought snow enough. But he knew that by that time his fingers would be too stiff to hold his pen; and he said he did not choose to stop now. Upon this Lamb launched a snowball in his face. Hugh grew angry,—or, as his schoolfellows said, insolent. Some stood between him and the house, to prevent his getting home, while others promised to roll him in the snow till he yielded full submission. Instead of yielding, Hugh made for the orchard-wall, scrambled up it, and stood for the moment out of the reach of his enemies. He kicked down such a quantity of snow upon any one who came near, that he held all at bay for some little time. At last, however, he had disposed of all the snow within his reach, and they were pelting him thickly with snow-balls. It was not at any time very easy to stand upright, for long together, upon this wall, as the stones which capped it were rounded. Now, when the coping-stones were slippery after the frost, and Hugh nearly blinded with the shower of snow-balls, he could not keep his footing, and was obliged to sit astride upon the wall. This brought one foot within reach from below; and though Hugh kicked, and drew up his foot as far and as often as he could, so as not to lose his balance, it was snatched at by many hands. At last, one hand kept its hold, and plenty more then fastened upon his leg. They pulled: he clung. In another moment, down he came, and the large, heavy coping-stone, loosened by the frost, came after him, and fell upon his left foot as he lay.

It was a dreadful shriek that he gave. Mrs Watson heard it in her store-room, and Mr Tooke in his study. Some labourers felling a tree in a wood, a quarter of a mile off, heard it, and came running to see what could be the matter. The whole school was in a cluster round the poor boy in a few seconds. During this time, while several were engaged in lifting away the stone, Tooke stooped over him, and said, with his lips as white as paper,—

"Who was it that pulled you,—that got the first hold of you? Was it I? O! Say it was not I."

"It was you," said Hugh. "But never mind! You did not mean it."—He saw that Tooke's pain was worse than his own, and he added, in a faint whisper,—

"Don't you tell, and then nobody will know. Mind you don't!"

One boy after another turned away from the sight of his foot, when the stone was removed. Tooke fainted, but, then, so did another boy who had nothing to do with the matter. Everybody who came up asked who did it; and nobody could answer. Tooke did not hear; and so many felt themselves concerned, that no one wished that any answer should be given.

"Who did it, my dear boy?" asked Firth, bending over him.

"Never mind!" was all Hugh could say. He groaned in terrible pain.

He must not lie there; but who could touch him? Firth did; and he was the right person, as he was one of the strongest. He made two boys pass their handkerchiefs under the leg, and sling it, without touching it; and he lifted Hugh, and carried him across his arms towards the house. They met Mr Tooke, and every person belonging to the household, before they reached the door.

"To my bed!" said the master, when he saw: and in an instant the gardener had his orders to saddle Mr Tooke's horse, and ride to London for an eminent surgeon: stopping by the way to beg Mr and Mrs Shaw to come, and bring with them the surgeon who was their neighbour, Mr Annanby.

"Who did it?"

"Who pulled him down?" passed from mouth to mouth of the household.

"He won't tell,—noble fellow," cried Firth. "Don't ask him. Never ask him who pulled him down."

"You will never repent it, my dear boy," whispered Firth. Hugh tried to smile, but he could not help groaning again. There was a suppressed groan from some one else. It was from Mr Tooke. Hugh was sadly afraid he had, by some means, found out who did the mischief. But it was not so. Mr Tooke was quite wretched enough without that.

Everybody was very kind, and did the best that could be done. Hugh was held up on the side of Mr Tooke's bed, while Mrs Watson took off his clothes, cutting the left side of his trousers to pieces, without any hesitation. The master held the leg firmly while the undressing went on; and then poor Hugh was laid back, and covered up warm, while the foot was placed on a pillow, with only a light handkerchief thrown over it.

It was terrible to witness his pain; but Mr Tooke never left him all day. He chafed his hands, he gave him drink; he told him he had no doubt his mother would arrive soon; he encouraged him to say or do anything that he thought would give him ease.

"Cry, my dear," he said, "if you want to cry. Do not hide tears from me."

"I can't help crying," sobbed Hugh: "but it is not the pain,—not only the pain; it is because you are so kind!"

"Where is Phil?" he said at last.

"He is so very unhappy, that we think he had better not see you till this pain is over. When you are asleep, perhaps."

"Oh! When will that be?" and poor Hugh rolled his head on the pillow.

"George rides fast; he is far on his way by this time," said Mr Tooke. "And one or other of the surgeons will soon be here; and they will tell us what to do, and what to expect."

"Do tell Phil so,—will you?"

Mr Tooke rang the bell; and the message was sent to Phil, with Hugh's love.

"Will the surgeon hurt me much, do you think?" Hugh asked. "I will bear it. I only want to know."

"I should think you hardly could be in more pain than you are now," replied Mr Tooke. "I trust they will relieve you of this pain. I should not wonder if you are asleep to-night as quietly as any of us; and then you will not mind what they may have done to you."

Hugh thought he should mind nothing, if he could ever be asleep again.

He was soon asked if he would like to see his uncle and aunt, who were come. He wished to see his uncle; and Mr Shaw came up, with the surgeon. Mr Annanby did scarcely anything to the foot at present. He soon covered it up again, and said he would return in time to meet the surgeon who was expected from London. Then Hugh and his uncle were alone.

Mr Shaw told him how sorry the boys all were, and how they had come in from the playground at once, and put themselves under Firth, to be kept quiet; and that very little dinner had been eaten; and that, when the writing-master arrived, he was quite astonished to find everything so still, and the boys so spiritless: but that nobody told him till he observed how two or three were crying, so that he was sure something was the matter.

"Which? Who? Who is crying?" asked Hugh.

"Poor Phil, and I do not know who else,—not being acquainted with the rest."

"How glad I am that Dale had nothing to do with it!" said Hugh. "He was quite on the other side of the playground."

"They tell me below that I must not ask you how it happened."

"Oh, yes! You may. Everything except just who it was that pulled me down. So many got hold of me that nobody knows exactly who gave the pull, except myself and one other. He did not mean it; and I was cross about playing with them; and the stone on the wall was loose or it would not have happened. O dear! O dear! Uncle, do you think it a bad accident?"

"Yes, my boy, a very bad accident."

"Do you think I shall die? I never thought of that," said Hugh. And he raised himself a little, but was obliged to lie back again.

"No; I do not think you will die."

"Will they think so at home? Was that the reason they were sent to?"

"No: I have no doubt your mother will come to nurse you, and to comfort you: but—"

"To comfort me? Why, Mr Tooke said the pain would soon be over, he thought, and I should be asleep to-night."

"Yes; but though the pain may be over, it may leave you lame. That will be a misfortune; and you will be glad of your mother to comfort you."

"Lame!" said the boy. Then, as he looked wistfully in his uncle's face, he saw the truth.

"Oh! Uncle, they are going to cut off my leg."

"Not your leg, I hope, Hugh. You will not be quite so lame as that: but I am afraid you must lose your foot."

"Was that what Mr Tooke meant by the surgeon's relieving me of my pain?"

"Yes, it was."

"Then it will be before night. Is it quite certain, uncle?"

"Mr Annanby thinks so. Your foot is too much hurt ever to be cured. Do you think you can bear it, Hugh?"

"Why, yes, I suppose so. So many people have. It is less than some of the savages bear. What horrid things they do to their captives,—and even to some of their own boys! And they bear it."

"Yes; but you are not a savage."

"But one may be as brave, without being a savage. Think of the martyrs that were burnt, and some that were worse than burnt! And they bore it."

Mr Shaw perceived that Hugh was either in much less pain now, or that he forgot everything in a subject which always interested him extremely. He told his uncle what he had read of the tortures inflicted by savages, till his uncle, already a good deal agitated, was quite sick: but he let him go on, hoping that the boy might think lightly in comparison of what he himself had to undergo. This could not last long, however. The wringing pain soon came back; and as Hugh cried, he said he bore it so very badly, he did not know what his mother would say if she saw him. She had trusted him not to fail; but really he could not bear this much longer.

His uncle told him that nobody had thought of his having such pain as this to bear: that he had often shown himself a brave little fellow; and he did not doubt that, when this terrible day was over, he would keep up his spirits through all the rest.

Hugh would have his uncle go down to tea. Then he saw a gown and shawl through the curtain, and started up; but it was not his mother yet. It was only Mrs Watson come to sit with him while his uncle had his tea.

Tea was over, and the younger boys had all gone up to bed, and the older ones were just going when there was a ring at the gate. It was Mrs Proctor; and with her the surgeon from London.

"Mother! Never mind, mother!" Hugh was beginning to say; but he stopped when he saw her face,—it was so very pale and grave. At least, he thought so; but he saw her only by fire-light; for the candle had been shaded from his eyes, because he could not bear it. She kissed him with a long, long kiss; but she did not speak.

"I wish the surgeon had come first," he whispered, "and then they would have had my foot off before you came. When will he come?"

"He is here,—they are both here."

"Oh, then, do make them make haste. Mr Tooke says I shall go to sleep afterwards. You think so? Then we will both go to sleep, and have our talk in the morning. Do not stay now,—this pain is so bad,—I can't bear it well at all. Do go, now, and bid them make haste, will you?"

His mother whispered that she heard he had been a brave boy, and she knew he would be so still. Then the surgeons came up, and Mr Shaw. There was some bustle in the room, and Mr Shaw took his sister down-stairs, and came up again, with Mr Tooke.

"Don't let mother come," said Hugh.

"No, my boy, I will stay with you," said his uncle.

The surgeons took off his foot. As he sat in a chair, and his uncle stood behind him, and held his hands, and pressed his head against him, Hugh felt how his uncle's breast was heaving,—and was sure he was crying. In the very middle of it all, Hugh looked up in his uncle's face, and said,—

"Never mind, uncle! I can bear it."

He did bear it finely. It was far more terrible than he had fancied; and he felt that he could not have gone on a minute longer. When it was over, he muttered something, and Mr Tooke bent down to hear what it was. It was—

"I can't think how the Red Indians bear things so."

His uncle lifted him gently into bed, and told him that he would soon feel easy now.

"Have you told mother?" asked Hugh.

"Yes; we sent to her directly."

"How long did it take?" asked Hugh.

"You have been out of bed only a few minutes—seven or eight, perhaps."

"Oh, uncle, you don't mean really?"

"Really: but we know they seemed like hours to you. Now, your mother will bring you some tea. When you have had that, you will go to sleep: so I shall wish you good-night now."

"When will you come again?"

"Very often, till you come to me. Not a word more now. Good-night."

Hugh was half asleep when his tea came up, and quite so directly after he had drunk it. Though he slept a great deal in the course of the night, he woke often,—such odd feelings disturbed him! Every time he opened his eyes, he saw his mother sitting by the fire-side; and every time he moved in the least, she came softly to look. She would not let him talk at all till near morning, when she found that he could not sleep any more, and that he seemed a little confused about where he was,—what room it was, and how she came to be there by fire-light. Then she lighted a candle, and allowed him to talk about his friend Dale, and several school affairs; and this brought back gradually the recollection of all that had happened.

"I don't know what I have been about, I declare," said he, half laughing. But he was soon as serious as ever he was in his life, as he said, "But oh! Mother, tell me,—do tell me if I have let out who pulled me off the wall."

"You have not,—you have not indeed," replied she. "I shall never ask. I do not wish to know. I am glad you have not told; for it would do no good. It was altogether an accident."

"So it was," said Hugh; "and it would make the boy so unhappy to be pointed at! Do promise me, if I should let it out in my sleep, that you will never, never tell anybody."

"I promise you. And I shall be the only person beside you while you are asleep, till you get well. So you need not be afraid.—Now, lie still again."

She put out the light, and he did lie still for some time; but then he was struck with a sudden thought which made him cry out.

"O, mother, if I am so lame, I can never be a soldier or a sailor.—I can never go round the world!"

And Hugh burst into tears, now more really afflicted than he had been yet. His mother sat on the bed beside him, and wiped away his tears as they flowed, while he told her, as well as his sobs would let him, how long and how much he had reckoned on going round the world, and how little he cared for anything else in the future; and now this was just the very thing he should never be able to do! He had practised climbing ever since he could remember;—and now that was of no use;—he had practised marching, and now he should never march again. When he had finished his complaint, there was a pause, and his mother said—

"Hugh, do you remember Richard Grant?"

"What,—the cabinet-maker? The man who carved so beautifully?"

"Yes. Do you remember—No, you could hardly have known: but I will tell you. He had planned a most beautiful set of carvings in wood for a chapel belonging to a nobleman's mansion. He was to be well paid,—his work was so superior; and he would be able to make his parents comfortable, as well as his wife and children. But the thing he most cared for was the honour of producing a noble work which would outlive him. Well, at the very beginning of his task, his chisel flew up against his wrist: and the narrow cut that it made,—not more than half an inch wide,—made his right-hand entirely useless for life. He could never again hold a tool;—his work was gone,—his business in life seemed over,—the support of the whole family was taken away—and the only strong wish Richard Grant had in the world was disappointed."

Hugh hid his face with his handkerchief, and his mother went on:

"You have heard of Huber."

"The man who found out so much about bees. Miss Harold read that account to us."

"Bees and ants. When Huber had discovered more than had ever been known before about bees and ants, and when he was sure he could learn more still, and was more and more anxious to peep and pry into their tiny homes, and their curious ways, Huber became blind."

Hugh sighed, and his mother went on:

"Did you ever hear of Beethoven? He was one of the greatest musical composers that ever lived. His great, his sole delight was in music. It was the passion of his life. When all his time and all his mind were given to music, he became deaf—perfectly deaf; so that he never more heard one single note from the loudest orchestra. While crowds were moved and delighted with his compositions, it was all silence to him."

Hugh said nothing.

"Now, do you think," asked his mother,—and Hugh saw by the grey light that began to shine in, that she smiled—"do you think that these people were without a heavenly Parent?"

"O no! But were they all patient?"

"Yes, in their different ways and degrees. Would you say that they were hardly treated? Or would you rather suppose that their Father gave them something more and better to do than they had planned for themselves?"

"He must know best, of course: but it does seem hard that that very thing should happen to them. Huber would not have so much minded being deaf, perhaps; or that musical man being blind; or Richard Grant losing his foot, instead of his hand: for he did not want to go round the world."

"No doubt their hearts often swelled within them at their disappointments: but I fully believe that they found very soon that God's will was wiser than their wishes. They found, if they bore their trial well, that there was work for their hearts to do, far nobler than any work that the head can do through the eye, and the ear, and the hand. And they soon felt a new and delicious pleasure, which none but the bitterly disappointed can feel."

"What is that?"

"The pleasure of rousing their souls to bear pain, and of agreeing with God silently, when nobody knows what is in their hearts. There is a great pleasure in the exercise of the body,—in making the heart beat, and the limbs glow, in a run by the sea-side, or a game in the playground; but this is nothing to the pleasure there is in exercising one's soul in bearing pain,—in finding one's heart glow with the hope that one is pleasing God."

"Shall I feel that pleasure?"

"Often and often, I have no doubt,—every time that you can willingly give up your wish to be a soldier or a sailor,—or anything else that you have set your mind upon, if you can smile to yourself, and say that you will be content at home.—Well, I don't expect it of you yet. I dare say it was long a bitter thing to Beethoven to see hundreds of people in raptures with his music, when he could not hear a note of it. And Huber—"

"But did Beethoven get to smile?"

"If he did, he was happier than all the fine music in the world could have made him."

"I wonder—O! I wonder if I ever shall feel so."

"We will pray to God that you may. Shall we ask Him now?"

Hugh clasped his hands. His mother kneeled beside the bed, and, in a very few words, prayed that Hugh might be able to bear his misfortune well, and that his friends might give him such help and comfort as God should approve.