"Now, my dear, you will sleep again," she said, as she arose.

"If you will lie down too, instead of sitting by the fire. Do, mother."

She did so; and they were soon both asleep.



CHAPTER NINE.

CROFTON QUIET.

The boys were all in the school-room in the grey of the morning;—no one late. Mr Tooke was already there. Almost every boy looked wistfully in the grave face of the master;—almost every one but his own son. He looked down; and it seemed natural: for his eyes were swollen with crying. He had been crying as much as Proctor: but, then, so had Dale.

"Your school-fellow is doing well," said Mr Tooke, in a low voice, which, however, was heard to the farthest end of the room. "His brother will tell you that he saw him quietly asleep; and I have just seen him so. He deserves to do well; for he is a brave little boy. He is the youngest of you; but I doubt whether there is a more manly heart among you all."

There was a murmur, as if everybody wished to agree to this. That murmur set Phil crying again.

"As to how this accident happened," continued the master, "I have only to say this. The coping-stone of the wall was loose,—had become loosened by the frost. Of that I am aware. But it would not,—it could not have fallen, if your school-fellow had not been pulled from the top of the wall. Several hands pulled him,—as many as could get a hold. Whose these hands were, it would be easy to ascertain; and it would not be difficult to discover whose was the hand which first laid hold, and gave the rest their grasp. But—" How earnestly here did every one look for the next words!—"But your school-fellow considers the affair an accident,—says he himself was cross."

"No! No! We plagued him," cried many voices.

"Well! He is sure no one meant him any harm, and earnestly desires that no further inquiry may be made. For his part, nothing, he declares, shall ever induce him to tell who first seized him."

The boys were about to give a loud cheer, but stopped, for Hugh's sake, just in time. There was no want of signs of what they felt. There was no noise; but there were many tears.

"I do not think that a promise of impunity can be any great comfort to those concerned," continued Mr Tooke: "but such comfort as they can find in it, they may. Both from my wish to indulge one who has just sustained so great a misfortune, and because I think he is right, I shall never inquire,—never wish to know more than I do of the origin of this accident. His mother declares the same, on the part of both of his parents. I hope you will every one feel yourselves put upon honour, to follow my example."

Another general murmur, in sign of agreement.

"The only thing you can now do for your school-fellow," concluded the master, "is to be quiet throughout the day. As soon as he can be removed, he will be carried to Mr Shaw's. Till then, you will take care that he loses no rest through you,—Now, first class, come up."

While this class was up, Phil's neighbour began whispering; and the next boy leaned over to hear; and one or two came softly up behind: but, though they were busily engaged in question and answer, the master's stern voice was not heard (as usual when there was talking) to say "Silence there!" His class saw him looking that way, once or twice; but he took no notice. Phil had seen his brother, and was privileged to tell.

"So you saw him! Did you get a real good sight of him?"

"Yes. I stayed some time; half-an-hour, I dare say."

"What did he look like? Did he say anything?"

"Say anything!" cried Dale: "why, did you not hear he was asleep?"

"What did he look like, then?"

"He looked as he always does when he is asleep, as far as I could see. But we did not bring the light too near, for fear of waking him."

"Did you hear—did anybody tell you anything about it?"

"Yes: my mother told me whatever I wanted to know."

"What? What did she tell you?"

"She says it will not be so very bad a lameness as it might have been— as if he had not had his knee left. That makes a great difference. They make a false foot now, very light; and if his leg gets quite properly well, and we are not too much in a hurry, and we all take pains to help Hugh to practise walking carefully at first, he may not be very lame."

"Oh! Then, it is not so bad," said one, while Tooke, who was listening, gave a deep sigh of relief.

"Not so bad!" exclaimed Phil. "Why, he will never be so strong—so able and active as other men. He will never be able to take care of himself and other people. He will be so unlike other people always; and now, while he is a boy, he will never—"

The images of poor Hugh's privations and troubles as a schoolboy were too much for Phil, and he laid down his head on his desk, to hide his grief. As for Tooke, he walked away, looking the picture of wretchedness.

"When will you see him again?" asked Dale, passing his arm round Phil's neck.

"To-day, if he is pretty well. My mother promised me that."

"Do you think you could get leave for me too? I would not make any noise, nor let him talk too much, if I might just see him."

"I'll see about it," said Phil.

As Mrs Proctor was placing the pillows comfortably, for Hugh to have his breakfast, after he was washed, and the bed made nicely smooth, he yawned, and said he was sleepy still, and that he wondered what o'clock it was. His mother told him it was a quarter past ten.

"A quarter past ten! Why, how odd! The boys are half through school, almost, and I am only just awake!"

"They slept through the whole night, I dare say. You were awake a good many times; and you and I had some talk. Do you remember that? Or has it gone out of your head with your sound sleep?"

"No, no: I remember that," said Hugh. "But it was the oddest, longest night!—and yesterday too! To think that it is not a whole day yet since it all happened! Oh! Here comes my breakfast. What is it? Coffee!"

"Yes: we know you are fond of coffee; and so am I. So we will have some together."

"How comfortable!" exclaimed Hugh; for he was really hungry; which was no wonder, after the pain and exhaustion he had gone through. His state was like that of a person recovering from an illness—extremely ready to eat and drink, but obliged to be moderate.

When warmed and cheered by his coffee, Hugh gave a broad hint that he should like to see Phil, and one or two more boys—particularly Dale. His mother told him that the surgeon, Mr Annanby, would be coming soon. If he gave leave, Phil should come in, and perhaps Dale. So Hugh was prepared with a strong entreaty to Mr Annanby on the subject; but no entreaty was needed. Mr Annanby thought he was doing very well; and that he would not be the worse for a little amusement and a little fatigue this morning, if it did not go on too long. So Phil was sent for, when the surgeon was gone. As he entered, his mother went out to speak to Mr Tooke, and write home.

She then heard from Mr Tooke and from Firth and Dale, how strong was the feeling in Hugh's favour—how strong the sympathy for his misfortune throughout the school. Hugh had seen no tears from her; but she shed them now. She then earnestly entreated that Hugh might not hear what she had just been told. He felt no doubt of the kindness of his schoolfellows, and was therefore quite happy on that score. He was very young, and to a certain degree vain; and if this event went to strengthen his vanity, to fill his head with selfish thoughts, it would be a misfortune indeed. The loss of his foot would be the least part of it. It lay with those about him to make this event a deep injury to him, instead of the blessing which all trials are meant by Providence eventually to be. They all promised that, while treating Hugh with the tenderness he deserved, they would not spoil the temper in which he had acted so well, by making it vain and selfish. There was no fear, meantime, of Phil's doing him any harm in that way; for Phil had a great idea of the privileges and dignity of seniority; and his plan was to keep down little boys, and make them humble; not being aware that to keep people down is not the way to make them humble, but the contrary. Older people than Phil, however, often fall into this mistake. Many parents do, and many teachers; and very many elder brothers and sisters.

Phil entered the room shyly, and stood by the fire, so that the bed-curtain was between him and Hugh.

"Are you there, Phil?" cried Hugh, pulling aside the curtain.

"Yes," said Phil; "how do you do this morning?"

"Oh, very well. Come here. I want to know ever so many things. Have you heard yet anything real and true about the new usher?"

"No," replied Phil. "But I have no doubt it is really Mr Crabbe who is coming, and that he will be here after Christmas. Why, Hugh, you look just the same as usual!"

"So I am just the same, except under this thing," pointing to the hoop, or basket, which was placed over his limb, to keep off the weight of the bed-clothes. "I am not hurt anywhere else, except this bruise;" and he showed a black bruise on his arm, such as almost any schoolboy can show, almost any day.

"That's nothing," pronounced Phil.

"The other was, though, I can tell you," declared Hugh.

"Was it very, very bad? Worse than you had ever fancied?"

"Oh! Yes. I could have screamed myself to death. I did not, though. Did you hear me, did anybody hear me call out?"

"I heard you—just outside the door there—before the doctors came."

"Ah! But not after, not while uncle was here. He cried so! I could not call out while was he crying so. Where were you when they were doing it?"

"Just outside the door there. I heard you once—only once; and that was not much."

"But how came you to be there? It was past bedtime. Had you leave to be up so late?"

"I did not ask it; and nobody meddled with me."

"Was anybody there with you?"

"Yes, Firth. Dale would not. He was afraid and he kept away."

"Oh! Is not he very sorry?"

"Of course. Nobody can help being sorry."

"Do they all seem sorry? What did they do? What do they say?"

"Oh! They are very sorry; you must know that."

"Anybody more than the rest?"

"Why some few of them cried; but I don't know that that shows them to be more sorry. It is some people's way to cry—and others not."

Hugh wished much to learn something about Tooke; but, afraid of showing what was in his thoughts, he went off to quite another subject.

"Do you know, Phil," said he, "you would hardly believe it, but I have never been half so miserable as I was the first day or two I came here? I don't care now, half so much, for all the pain, and for being lame, and—Oh! But I can never be a soldier or a sailor—I can never go round the world! I forgot that."

And poor Hugh hid his face in his pillow.

"Never mind!" said Phil, stooping over him very kindly. "Here is a long time before you; and you will get to like something else just as well. Papa wanted to be a soldier, remember, and could not; and he is as happy as ever he can be, now that he is a shop-keeper in London. Did you ever see anybody merrier than my father is? I never did. Come! Cheer up, Hugh! You will be very happy somehow."

Phil kissed him: and when Hugh looked up in surprise, Phil's eyes were full of tears.

"Now I have a good mind to ask you," said Hugh, "something that has been in my mind ever since."

"Ever since when?"

"Ever since I came to Crofton. What could be the reason that you were not more kind to me then?"

"I! Not kind?" said Phil, in some confusion. "Was not I kind?"

"No. At least I thought not. I was so uncomfortable,—I did not know anybody, or what to do; and I expected you would show me, and help me. I always thought I could not have felt lonely with you here; and then when I came, you got out of my way, as if you were ashamed of me, and you did not help me at all; and you laughed at me."

"No; I don't think I did that."

"Yes, you did, indeed."

"Well, you know, little boys always have to shift for themselves when they go to a great school—"

"But why, if they have brothers there? That is the very thing I want to know. I think it is very cruel."

"I never meant to be cruel, of course. But—but—the boys were all ready to laugh at me about a little brother that was scarcely any better than a girl;—and consider how you talked on the coach, and what ridiculous hair you had,—and what a fuss you made about your money and your pocket,—and how you kept popping out things about Miss Harold, and the girls, and Susan."

"You were ashamed of me, then."

"Well, what wonder if I was?"

"And you never told me about all these things. You let me learn them all without any warning, or any help."

"To be sure. That is the way all boys have to get on. They must make their own way."

"If ever little Harry comes to Crofton," said Hugh, more to himself than to Phil, "I will not leave him in the lurch,—I will never be ashamed of him. Pray," said he, turning quickly to Phil, "are you ashamed of me still?"

"Oh, no," protested Phil. "You can shift for yourself,—you can play, and do everything like other boys, now. You—"

He stopped short, overcome with the sudden recollection that Hugh would never again be able to play like other boys,—to be like them in strength, and in shifting for himself.

"Ah! I see what you are thinking of," said Hugh. "I am so afraid you should be ashamed of me again, when I come into the playground. The boys will quiz me;—and if you are ashamed of me—"

"Oh, no, no!" earnestly declared Phil. "There is nobody in the world that will quiz you;—or, if there is, they had better take care of me, I can tell them. But nobody will. You don't know how sorry the boys are. Here comes Dale. He will tell you the same thing."

Dale was quite sure that any boy would, from this time for ever, be sent to Coventry who should quiz Hugh for his lameness. There was not a boy now at Crofton who would not do anything in the world to help him.

"Why, Dale, how you have been crying!" exclaimed Hugh. "Is anything wrong in school? Can't you manage your verses yet?"

"I'll try that to-night," said Dale, cheerfully. "Yes; I'll manage them. Never mind what made my eyes red; only, if such a thing had happened to me, you would have cried,—I am sure of that."

"Yes, indeed," said Phil.

"Now, Proctor, you had better go," said Dale. "One at a time is enough to-day; and I shall not stay long."

Phil agreed, and actually shook hands with Hugh before he went.

"Phil is so kind to-day!" cried Hugh, with glee; "though he is disappointed of going to uncle Shaw's on my account. And I know he had reckoned on it. Now, I want to know one thing,—where did Mr Tooke sleep last night? For this is his bed."

Dale believed he slept on the sofa. He was sure, at least, that he had not taken off his clothes; for he had come to the door several times in the course of the night, to know how all was going on.

"Why, I never knew that!" cried Hugh. "I suppose I was asleep. Dale, what do you think is the reason that our fathers and mothers and people take care of us as they do?"

"How do you mean?"

"Why, Agnes and I cannot make it out. When we were by the sea-side, mother took us a great way along the beach, to a place we did not know at all; and she bade us pick up shells, and amuse ourselves, while she went to see a poor woman that lived just out of sight. We played till we were quite tired; and then we sat down; and still she did not come. At last, we were sure that she had forgotten all about us; and we did not think she would remember us any more: and we both cried. Oh! How we did cry! Then a woman came along, with a basket at her back, and a great net over her arm: and she asked us what was the matter; and when we told her, she said she thought it was not likely that mother would forget us. And then she bade us take hold of her gown, one on each side, and she would try to take us to mother; and the next thing was mother came in sight. When the woman told her what we had said, they both laughed; and mother told us it was impossible that she should leave us behind. I asked Agnes afterwards why it was impossible; and she did not know; and I am sure she was as glad as I was to see mother come in sight. If she really never can forget us, what makes her remember us?"

Dale shook his head. He could not tell.

"Because," continued Hugh, "we can't do anything for anybody, and we give a great deal of trouble. Mother sits up very late, sometimes till near twelve, mending our things. There is that great basket of stockings she has to mend, once a fortnight! And papa works very hard to get money; and what a quantity he pays for our schooling, and our clothes, and everything!"

"Everybody would think it very shameful if he did not," suggested Dale. "If he let you go ragged and ignorant, it would be wicked."

"But why?" said Hugh, vehemently. "That is what I want to know. We are not worth anything. We are nothing but trouble. Only think what so many people did yesterday! My mother came a journey; and uncle and aunt Shaw came: and mother sat up all night; and Mr Tooke never went to bed,—and all about me! I declare I can't think why."

Dale felt as if he knew why; but he could not explain it. Mrs Proctor had heard much of what they were saying. She had come in before closing her letter to Mr Proctor, to ask whether Hugh wished to send any particular message home. As she listened, she was too sorry to feel amused. She perceived that she could not have done her whole duty to her children, if there could be such a question as this in their hearts—such a question discussed between them, unknown to her. She spoke now; and Hugh started, for he was not aware that she was in the room.

She asked both the boys why they thought it was that, before little birds are fledged, the parent birds bring them food, as often as once in a minute, all day long for some weeks. Perhaps no creatures can go through harder work than this; and why do they do it? For unfledged birds, which are capable of nothing whatever but clamouring for food, are as useless little creatures as can be imagined. Why does the cat take care of her little blind kitten with so much watchfulness, hiding it from all enemies till it can take care of itself. It is because love does not depend on the value of the creature loved—it is because love grows up in our hearts at God's pleasure, and not by our own choice; and it is God's pleasure that the weakest and the least useful and profitable should be the most beloved, till they become able to love and help in their turn.

"Is it possible, my dear," she said to Hugh, "that you did not know this,—you who love little Harry so much, and take such care of him at home? I am sure you never stopped to think whether Harry could do you any service, before helping him to play."

"No; but then—"

"But what?"

"He is such a sweet little fellow, it is a treat to look at him. Every morning when I woke, I longed to be up, and to get to him."

"That is, you loved him. Well: your papa and I love you all, in the same way. We get up with pleasure to our business—your father to his shop, and I to my work-basket—because it is the greatest happiness in the world to serve those we love."

Hugh said nothing; but still, though pleased, he did not look quite satisfied.

"Susan and cook are far more useful to me than any of you children," continued his mother, "and yet I could not work early and late for them, with the same pleasure as for you."

Hugh laughed; and then he asked whether Jane was not now as useful as Susan.

"Perhaps she is," replied his mother; "and the more she learns and does, and the more she becomes my friend,—the more I respect her: but it is impossible to love her more than I did before she could speak or walk. There is some objection in your mind still, my dear. What is it?"

"It makes us of so much consequence,—so much more than I ever thought of,—that the minds of grown people should be busy about us."

"There is nothing to be vain of in that, my dear, any more than for young kittens, and birds just hatched. But it is very true that all young creatures are of great consequence; for they are the children of God. When, besides this, we consider what human beings are,—that they can never perish, but are to live for ever,—and that they are meant to become more wise and holy than we can imagine, we see that the feeblest infant is indeed a being of infinite consequence. This is surely a reason for God filling the hearts of parents with love, and making them willing to work and suffer for their children, even while the little ones are most unwise and unprofitable. When you and Agnes fancied I should forget you and desert you, you must have forgotten that you had another Parent who rules the hearts of all the fathers and mothers on earth."

Hugh was left alone to think this over, when he had given his messages home, and got Dale's promise to come again as soon as he could obtain leave to do so. Both the boys were warned that this would not be till to-morrow, as Hugh had seen quite company enough for one day. Indeed, he slept so much, that night seemed to be soon come.



CHAPTER TEN.

LITTLE VICTORIES.

Though Mr Tooke was so busy from having no usher, he found time to come and see Hugh pretty often. He had a sofa moved into that room: and he carried Hugh, without hurting him at all, and laid him down there comfortably, beside the fire. He took his tea there, with Mrs Proctor; and he brought up his newspaper, and read from it anything which he thought would amuse the boy. He smiled at Hugh's scruple about occupying his room, and assured him that he was quite as well off in Mr Carnaby's room, except that it was not so quiet as this, and therefore more fit for a person in health than for an invalid. Mr Tooke not only brought up plenty of books from the school library, but lent Hugh some valuable volumes of prints from his own shelves.

Hugh could not look at these for long together. His head soon began to ache, and his eyes to be dazzled; for he was a good deal weakened. His mother observed also that he became too eager about views in foreign countries, and that he even grew impatient in his temper when talking about them.

"My dear boy," said she one evening, after tea, when she saw him in this state, and that it rather perplexed Mr Tooke, "if you remember your resolution, I think you will put away that book."

"O, mother!" exclaimed he, "you want to take away the greatest pleasure I have!"

"If it is a pleasure, go on. I was afraid it was becoming a pain."

Mr Tooke did not ask what this meant; but he evidently wished to know. He soon knew, for Hugh found himself growing more fidgety and more cross, the further he looked in the volume of Indian Views, till he threw himself back upon the sofa, and stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth, and stared at the fire, struggling, as his mother saw, to help crying. "I will take away the book,—shall I, my dear?"

"Yes, mother. O dear! I shall never keep my vow, I know."

Mrs Proctor told Mr Tooke that Hugh had made a resolution which she earnestly hoped he might be able to keep;—to bear cheerfully every disappointment and trouble caused by this accident, from the greatest to the least,—from being obliged to give up being a traveller by-and-by, to the shoemaker's wondering that he wanted only one shoe. Now, if looking at pictures of foreign countries made him less cheerful, it seemed to belong to his resolution to give up that pleasure for the present. Hugh acknowledged that it did; and Mr Tooke, who was pleased at what he heard, carried away the Indian Views, and brought instead a very fine work on Trades, full of plates representing people engaged in every kind of trade and manufacture. Hugh was too tired to turn over any more pages to-night: but his master said the book might stay in the room now, and when Hugh was removed, it might go with him; and, as he was able to sit up more, he might like to copy some of the plates.

"Removed!" exclaimed Hugh.

His mother smiled, and told him that he was going on so well that he might soon now be removed to his uncle's.

"Where," said Mr Tooke, "you will have more quiet and more liberty than you can have here. Your brother, and any other boys you like, can run over to see you at any time; and you will be out of the noise of the playground."

"I wonder how it is there is so little noise from the playground here," said Hugh.

"It is because the boys have been careful to make no noise since your accident. We cannot expect them to put themselves under such restraint for long."

"O no, no! I had better go. But, mother, you—you—aunt Shaw is very kind, but—"

"I shall stay with you as long as you want me."

Hugh was quite happy.

"But how in the world shall I get there?" he presently asked. "It is two whole miles; and we can't lay my leg up in the gig: besides its being so cold."

His mother told him that his uncle had a very nice plan for his conveyance. Mr Annanby approved of it, and thought he might be moved the first sunny day.

"What, to-morrow?"

"Yes, if the sun shines."

Mr Tooke unbolted the shutter, and declared that it was such a bright starry evening that he thought to-morrow would be fine.

The morning was fine; and during the very finest part of it came Mr Shaw. He told Hugh that there was a good fire blazing at home in the back room that looked into the garden, which was to be Hugh's. From the sofa by the fire-side one might see the laurustinus on the grass-plot,— now covered with flowers: and when the day was warm enough to let him lie in the window, he could see the mill, and all that was going on round it.

Hugh liked the idea of all this: but he still looked anxious.

"Now tell me," said his uncle, "what person in all the world you would like best for a companion?"

"In all the world!" exclaimed Hugh. "Suppose I say the Great Mogul!"

"Well; tell us how to catch him, and we will try. Meantime, you can have his picture. I believe we have a pack of cards in the house."

"But do you mean really, uncle,—the person I should like best in all the world,—out of Crofton?"

"Yes; out with it!"

"I should like Agnes best," said Hugh, timidly.

"We thought as much. I am glad we were right. Well, my boy, Agnes is there."

"Agnes there! Only two miles off! How long will she stay?"

"O, there is no hurry about that. We shall see when you are well what to do next."

"But will she stay till the holidays?"

"O yes, longer than that, I hope."

"But then she will not go home with me for the holidays?"

"Never mind about the holidays now. Your holidays begin to-day. You have nothing to do but to get well now, and make yourself at home at my house, and be merry with Agnes. Now shall we go, while the sun shines? Here is your mother all cloaked up in her warm things."

"O, mother! Agnes is come," cried Hugh.

This was no news; for it was his mother who had guessed what companion he would like to have. She now showed her large warm cloak, in which Hugh was to be wrapped; and his neck was muffled up in a comforter.

"But how am I to go?" asked Hugh, trembling with this little bustle.

"Quietly in your bed," said his uncle. "Come, I will lift you into it."

And his uncle carried him down-stairs to the front door, where two of Mr Shaw's men stood with a litter, which was slung upon poles, and carried like a sedan-chair. There was a mattress upon the litter, on which Hugh lay as comfortably as on a sofa. He said it was like being carried in a palanquin in India,—if only there was hot sunshine, and no frost and snow.

Mr Tooke, and Mrs Watson, and Firth shook hands with Hugh, and said they should be glad to see him back again: and Mr Tooke added that some of the boys should visit him pretty often till the breaking-up. Nobody else was allowed to come quite near; but the boys clustered at that side of the playground, to see as much as they could. Hugh waved his hand; and every boy saw it; and in a moment every hat and cap was off, and the boys gave three cheers,—the loudest that had ever been heard at Crofton. The most surprising thing was that Mr Tooke cheered, and Mr Shaw too. The men looked as if they would have liked to set down the litter, and cheer too: but they did not quite do that. They only smiled as if they were pleased.

There was one person besides who did not cheer. Tooke stood apart from the other boys, looking very sad. As the litter went down the by-road, he began to walk away; but Hugh begged the men to stop, and called to Tooke. Tooke turned: and when Hugh beckoned, he forgot all about bounds, leaped the paling, and came running. Hugh said,—

"I have been wanting to see you so! But I did not like to ask for you particularly."

"I wish I had known that."

"Come and see me,—do," said Hugh. "Come the very first, wont you?"

"If I may."

"Oh, you may, I know."

"Well, I will, thank you. Good-bye."

And on went the litter, with Mrs Proctor and Mr Shaw walking beside it. The motion did not hurt Hugh at all; and he was so warmly wrapped up, and the day so fine, that he was almost sorry when the two miles were over. And yet there was Agnes out upon the steps; and she sat beside him on the sofa in his cheerful room, and told him that she had nothing to do but to wait on him, and play with him. She did not tell him yet that she must learn directly to nurse him, and, with her aunt's help, fill her mother's place, because her mother was much wanted at home: but this was in truth one chief reason for her coming.

Though there was now really nothing the matter with Hugh—though he ate, drank, slept, and gained strength—his mother would not leave him till she saw him well able to go about.

The carpenter soon came, with some crutches he had borrowed for Hugh to try; and when they were sure of the right length, Hugh had a new pair. He found it rather nervous work at first, using them; and he afterwards laughed at the caution with which he began. First, he had somebody to lift him from his seat, and hold him till he was firm on his crutches. Then he carefully moved forwards one crutch at a time, and then the other; and he put so much strength into it, that he was quite tired when he had been once across the room and back again. Every stumble made him shake all over. He made Agnes try; and he was almost provoked to see how lightly she could hop about; but then, as he said, she could put a second foot down to save herself, whenever she pleased. Every day, however, walking became easier to him; and he even discovered, when accidentally left alone, and wanting something from the opposite end of the room, that he could rise, and set forth by himself, and be independent. And in one of these excursions it was that he found the truth of what Agnes had told him—how much easier it was to move both crutches together. When he showed his mother this, she said she thought he would soon learn to do with only one.

Hugh found himself subject to very painful feelings sometimes—such as no one quite understood, and such as he feared no one was able to pity as they deserved. A surprise of this sort happened to him the evening before his father was to come to see him, and to fetch away his mother.

It was the dark hour in the afternoon—the hour when Mrs Proctor and her children enjoyed every day a quiet talk, before Mr Shaw came to carry Hugh into his aunt's parlour to tea. Nothing could be merrier than Hugh had been; and his mother and Agnes were chatting, when they thought they heard a sob from the sofa. They spoke to Hugh, and found that he was indeed crying bitterly.

"What is it, my dear?" said his mother. "Agnes, have we said anything that could hurt him?"

"No, no," sobbed Hugh. "I will tell you presently."

And presently he told them that he was so busy listening to what they said, that he forgot everything else, when he felt as if something had got between two of his toes; unconsciously he put his hand down; and his foot was not there! Nothing could be plainer than the feeling in his toes: and, then, when he put out his hand, and found nothing, it was so terrible—it startled him so.

It was a comfort to him to find that his mother knew all about this. She came and kneeled beside his sofa, and told him that many persons who had lost a limb considered this odd feeling the most painful thing they had to bear for some time; but that, though the feeling would return occasionally through life, it would cease to be painful. When he had become so used to do without his foot as to leave off wanting or wishing for it, he would perhaps make a joke of the feeling, instead of being disappointed. At least she knew that some persons did so who had lost a limb.

This did not comfort Hugh much, for every prospect had suddenly become darkened. He said he did not know how he should bear his misfortune;— he was pretty sure he could not bear it. It seemed so long already since it had happened! And when he thought of the long long days, and months, and years, to the end of his life, and that he should never run and play, and never be like other people, and never able to do the commonest things without labour and trouble, he wished he was dead. He had rather have died.

Agnes thought he must be miserable indeed, if he could venture to say this to his mother. She glanced at her mother's face; but there was no displeasure there. Mrs Proctor said this feeling was very natural. She had felt it herself, under smaller misfortunes than Hugh's; but she had found that, though the prospect appears all strewn with troubles, they come singly, and are not worth minding, after all. She told Hugh that, when she was a little girl, very lazy—fond of her bed—fond of her book—and not at all fond of washing and dressing—

"Why, mother, you!" exclaimed Hugh.

"Yes; that was the sort of little girl I was. Well, I was in despair, one day, at the thought that I should have to wash, and clean my teeth, and brush my hair, and put on every daily article of dress every morning, as long as I lived. There was nothing I disliked so much; and yet it was the thing that must be done every day of my whole life."

"Did you tell anybody?" asked Hugh.

"No; I was ashamed to do that: but I remember I cried. You see how it turns out. Grown people, who have got to do everything by habit, so easily as not to think about it, wash and dress every morning, without ever being weary of it. We do not consider so much as once a year what we are doing at dressing-time, though at seven years old it is a very laborious and tiresome affair to get ready for breakfast."

"It is the same about writing letters," observed Agnes. "The first letter I ever wrote was to Aunt Shaw; and it took so long, and was so tiresome, that, when I thought of all the exercises I should have to write for Miss Harold, and all the letters that I must send to my relations when I grew up, I would have given everything I had in the world not to have learned to write. Oh! How I pitied papa, when I saw sometimes the pile of letters that were lying to go to the post!"

"And how do you like corresponding with Phil now?"

Agnes owned, with blushes, that she still dreaded the task for some days before, and felt particularly gay when it was done. Her mother believed that, if infants could think and look forward, they would be far more terrified with the prospect of having to walk on their two legs all their lives, than lame people could be at having to learn the art in part over again. Grown people are apt to doubt whether they can learn a new language, though children make no difficulty about it: the reason of which is, that grown people see at one view the whole labour, while children do not look beyond their daily task. Experience, however, always brings relief. Experience shows that every effort comes at its proper time, and that there is variety or rest in the intervals. People who have to wash and dress every morning have other things to do in the after part of the day; and, as the old fable tells us, the clock that has to tick, before it is worn out, so many millions of times, as it perplexes the mind to think of, has exactly the same number of seconds to do it in; so that it never has more work on its hands than it can get through. So Hugh would find that he could move about on each separate occasion, as he wanted; and practice would, in time, enable him to do it without any more thought than it now cost him to put all the bones of his hands in order, so as to carry his tea and bread-and-butter to his mouth.

"But that is not all—nor half what I mean," said Hugh. "No, my dear; nor half what you will have to make up your mind to bear. You will have a great deal to bear, Hugh. You resolved to bear it all patiently, I remember: but what is it that you dread the most?"

"Oh! All manner of things. I can never do things like other people."

"Some things. You can never play cricket, as every Crofton boy would like to do. You can never dance at your sisters' Christmas parties."

"Oh! Mamma!" cried Agnes, with tears in her eyes, and the thought in her mind that it was cruel to talk so.

"Go on! Go on!" cried Hugh, brightening. "You know what I feel, mother; and you don't keep telling me, as Aunt Shaw does (and even Agnes sometimes), that it wont signify much, and that I shall not care, and all that; making out that it is no misfortune hardly, when I know what it is, and they don't."

"That is a common way of trying to give comfort, and it is kindly meant," said Mrs Proctor. "But those who have suffered much themselves know a better way. The best way is not to deny any of the trouble or the sorrow, and not to press on the sufferer any comforts which he cannot now see and enjoy. If comforts arise, he will enjoy them as they come."

"Now then, go on," said Hugh. "What else?"

"There will be little checks and mortifications continually—when you see boys leaping over this, and climbing that, and playing at the other, while you must stand out, and can only look on. And some people will pity you in a way you don't like; and some may even laugh at you."

"O mamma!" exclaimed Agnes.

"I have seen and heard children in the street do it," replied Mrs Proctor. "This is a thing almost below notice; but I mentioned it while we were reckoning up our troubles."

"Well, what else?" said Hugh.

"Sooner or later, you will have to follow some way of life, determined by this accident, instead of one that you would have liked better. But we need not think of this yet:—not till you have become quite accustomed to your lameness."

"Well, what else?"

"I must ask you now. I can think of nothing more; and I hope there is not much else; for indeed I think here is quite enough for a boy—or any one else—to bear."

"I will bear it, though,—you will see."

"You will find great helps. These misfortunes, of themselves, strengthen one's mind. They have some advantages too. You will be a better scholar for your lameness, I have no doubt. You will read more books, and have a mind richer in thoughts. You will be more beloved;— not out of mere pity; for people in general will soon leave off pitying you, when once you learn to be active again; but because you have kept faith with your schoolfellows, and shown that you can bear pain. Yes, you will be more loved by us all; and you yourself will love God more for having given you something to bear for his sake."

"I hope so,—I think so," said Hugh. "O mother! I may be very happy yet."

"Very happy; and, when you have once made up your mind to everything, the less you think and speak about it, the happier you will be. It is very right for us now, when it is all new, and strange, and painful, to talk it well over; to face it completely; but when your mind is made up, and you are a Crofton boy again, you will not wish to speak much of your own concerns, unless it be to me, or to Agnes, sometimes, when your heart is full."

"Or to Dale, when you are far off."

"Yes,—to Dale, or some one friend at Crofton. But there is only one Friend that one is quite sure to get strength from,—the same who has given strength to all the brave people that ever lived, and comfort to all sufferers. When the greatest of all sufferers wanted relief, what did He do?"

"He went by Himself, and prayed," said Agnes.

"Yes, that is the way," observed Hugh, as if he knew by experience.

Mr Shaw presently came, to say that tea was ready.

"I am too big a baby to be carried now," cried Hugh, gaily. "Let me try if I cannot go alone."

"Why,—there is the step at the parlour-door," said Mr Shaw, doubtfully. "At any rate, stop till I bring a light."

But Hugh followed close upon his uncle's heels, and was over the step before his aunt supposed he was half way across the hall. After tea, his uncle and he were so full of play, that the ladies could hardly hear one another speak till Hugh was gone to bed, too tired to laugh any more.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

DOMESTIC MANNERS.

After Mr Proctor had come and was gone, and Mrs Proctor was gone with him, Hugh began to wonder why Tooke had never paid the visit he had promised. Several boys had called; some to thank Hugh for balls that he had quilted; some to see how he got on; and some to bring him Crofton news. Mr Tooke had fastened his horse up at the door, in passing, and stepped in for a few minutes, two or three times a week: but it was now within six days of the holidays, and the one Hugh most wished to see had not appeared. His uncle observed his wistful look when the door-bell rang, and drew his conclusions. He said, on the Wednesday before the breaking-up, that he was going to drive past the Crofton school; that it was such a fine day that he thought Hugh might go with him, and perhaps they might persuade some one to come home to dinner with them.

Hugh had never enjoyed the open air more than during this drive. He had yet much to learn about the country, and it was all as beautiful as it was new. His uncle pointed out to him the fieldfares wheeling in flocks over the fallows; and the rabbits in the warren, scampering away with their little white tails turned up; and the robin hopping in the frosty pathway; and the wild ducks splashing among the reeds in the marshes. They saw the cottagers' children trying to collect snow enough from the small remains of the drifts to make snow-balls, and obliged to throw away the dirty snow that would melt, and would not bind. As they left the road, and turned through a copse, because Mr Shaw had business with Mr Sullivan's gamekeeper, a pheasant flew out, whirring, from some ferns and brambles, and showed its long tail-feathers before it disappeared over the hedge. All these sights were new to Hugh: and all, after pain and confinement, looked beautiful and gay.

Mr Shaw could not stop for Hugh to get out at Crofton; so, when his arrival was seen, the boys were allowed to go out of bounds, as far as the gig, to speak to their school-fellow. Mr Shaw asked Tooke to mount, and go home with them for the day; and Tooke was so pleased,—so agreeably surprised to see Hugh look quite well and merry, that he willingly ran off to ask leave, and to wash his face, and change his jacket. When he had jumped in, and Hugh had bidden the rest good-bye, a sudden shyness came over his poor conscious visitor: and it was not lessened by Mr Shaw telling Tooke that he did not do credit to Crofton air,—so puny as he seemed: and that he looked at that moment more like one that had had a bad accident than Hugh did. When Mr Shaw perceived how the boy's eyes filled with tears in an instant, he probably thought within himself that Tooke was sadly weak-spirited, and altogether more delicate than he had been aware of.

Hugh was full of questions about Crofton matters, however; and long before they reached Mr Shaw's, they were chattering as busily as possible. But then it was all spoiled to Tooke again by seeing Hugh lifted out, and his crutches brought to him, and Agnes ready to take his hat and cloak, instead of his being able to run about, doing everything for himself.

The sofa had been left in Hugh's room, and there was a fire there every afternoon, for him and Agnes, that their aunt might have the parlour to herself till tea-time. The three young people went therefore to this room after dinner. Agnes felt a little uncomfortable, as she always did when any Crofton boys came. They had so much to say to each other of things that she did not understand, and so very little to say to her, that she continually felt as if she was in the way. When she proposed, as usual, that Hugh should go through his exercises in walking and running (for she was indefatigable in helping him to learn to walk well, and superintended his practice every afternoon), he refused hastily and rather rudely. Of course, she could not know that he had a reason for wishing not to show off his lameness before Tooke; and she thought him unkind. He might indeed have remembered to ask her before to say nothing this afternoon about his exercises. She took out her work, and sat down at some distance from the boys; but they did not get on. It was very awkward. At last, the boys' eyes met, and they saw that they should like to talk freely, if they could.

"Agnes," said Hugh, "cannot you go somewhere, and leave us alone?"

"I hardly know where I can go," replied Agnes. "I must not disturb aunt; and there is no fire anywhere else."

"O, I am sure aunt won't mind, for this one afternoon. You can be still as a mouse; and she can doze away, as if nobody was there."

"I can be as still as a mouse here," observed Agnes. "I can take my work to that farthest window; and if you whisper, I shall not hear a word you say. Or, if I do hear a word, I will tell you directly. And you will let me come, now and then, and warm myself, if I find I cannot hold my needle any longer."

"No, no; that won't do. We can't talk so. Do just go, and see whether aunt cannot let you be there for this one afternoon."

Agnes did not like to refuse anything to Hugh: but she hesitated to take such a bold step as this. In his eagerness, Hugh requested the same favour of Tooke; but Tooke, more anxious even than Agnes to oblige, had not courage for such an errand. Hugh snatched his crutches, and declared he would go himself. But now Agnes gave way. She gathered up her work, and left the room. Hugh little imagined where she went, this cold, darkening December afternoon. She went to her own room, put on her cloak, and walked up and down till tea was ready, without fire or candle, and not very happy in her mind.

Meanwhile the boys basked before a glowing fire. Tooke began directly to open his full heart.

"Was that true that your sister said at dinner, about your always longing so to come to Crofton!"

"Yes."

"How sorry you must be that you came! How you must wish that you had never seen me!"

"I knew that there would be things to bear, whenever I came; and particularly while I was the youngest. Your father told me that: and one of the things that made me want to come more than ever was his telling me how you bore things when you were the youngest—being set on the top of that wall, and so on."

"Indeed, indeed, I never meant to hurt you when I pulled your foot—I suppose you are quite sure that it was I that gave the first pull? Are you?"

"Why, yes; I am sure of that; and so are you: but I know very well that you meant no harm; and that is the reason I would not tell. After what you did about the sponge, I could not think you meant any harm to me."

Tooke could not remember anything about a sponge; and when he was told, he thought nothing of it. He went on—

"Do you think you shall never tell anybody, as long as you live, who pulled you first?"

"Never," said Hugh, "unless I tell it in my sleep; and that is not likely, for I never think about it in the daytime,—or scarcely ever; and when I can run about again, I dare say I shall never think of it at all."

"But will you ever run about?"

"O yes! Finely, you will see. I shall begin first with a little stick-leg, very light. Mother is going to send some for me to try. When I am a man, I shall have one that will look like a real foot; but that will not be so light as the one you will see me with after the holidays. But you do not half know what I can do now, with my crutches. Here, I will show you."

As he flourished about, and played antics, Agnes heard the pit-pat of his crutches, and she thought she might as well have been there, if they had told all their secrets, and had got to play. But the noise did not last long, for Hugh's performances did not make Tooke very merry; and the boys sat down quietly again.

"Now, I'll tell you what," said Tooke. "I am a bigger and stronger boy than you, without considering this accident I'll take care of you all the time you are at Crofton: and always afterwards, if I can. Mind you that. If anybody teases you, you call me,—that's all. Say you will."

"Why," said Hugh, "I had rather take care of myself. I had rather make no difference between you and everybody else."

"There now! You don't forgive me, after all."

"I do,—upon my word, I do. But why should I make any difference between you and the rest, when you did not mean me any harm,—any more than they? Besides, it might make people suspect."

"Well, let them. Sometimes I wish," continued Tooke, twisting himself about in the uneasiness of his mind, "sometimes I wish that everybody knew now. They say murderers cannot keep their secret. They are sure to tell, when they cannot bear it any longer."

"That is because of their consciences," said Hugh. "But you are not guilty of anything, you know. I am sure I can keep a secret easily enough, when I am not to blame in it."

"Yes! You have shown that. But—"

"Come! Don't let us talk any more about that—only just this. Has anybody accused you? Because I must know,—I must be on my guard."

"Nobody has said a word, because my father put us all upon honour never to mention it: but I always feel as if all their eyes were upon me all day,—and sometimes in the night."

"Nonsense! I don't believe anybody has pitched on you particularly. And when school opens again, all their eyes will be on me, to see how I manage. But I don't mean to mind that. Anybody may stare that likes."

Hugh sighed, however, after saying this; and Tooke was silent. At length he declared,—

"Whatever you say against it, I shall always take your part: and you have only to ask me, and I will always run anywhere, and do anything for you. Mind you that."

"Thank you," said Hugh. "Now tell me about the new usher; for I dare say you know more than the other boys do. Holt and I shall be under him altogether, I suppose."

"Yes: and you will be well off, by what I hear. He is as little like Mr Carnaby as need be."

All the rest of the afternoon was taken up with stories of Mr Carnaby and other ushers, so that the boys were surprised when the maid came to tell them that tea was ready.

Agnes was making tea. Hugh was so eager to repeat to his uncle some of the good stories that he had just heard, that he did not observe, as his aunt did, how red his sister's fingers were, and how she shivered still.

"My dear," said Mrs Shaw, "you have let these boys keep you away from the fire."

"Yes, aunt; never mind! I shall be warm enough presently."

"But you should not allow it, Agnes. How are they ever to learn manners, if they are not made to give way to young ladies while they are young? Boys are sure to be rude enough, at any rate. Their sisters should know better than to spoil them."

While poor Agnes' hardships were ending with a lecture, Hugh was chattering away, not at all aware that he had treated his sister much as Phil had treated him on his going to Crofton. If any one had told him that he was tyrannical, he would have been as much surprised as he had been at Phil's tyranny over him. He did not know indeed that his sister had been in the cold and in the dark; but he might have felt that he had used her with a roughness which is more painful to a loving heart than cold and darkness are to the body.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

HOLT AND HIS DIGNITY.

There was no reason now why Hugh should not go to church. He and his crutches went between his uncle and aunt in the gig one way, and between his uncle and Agnes home again; and he could walk up the aisle quite well. He had been pleased at the idea of attending church again, and had never thought of the pain of being stared at for his lameness. This pain came upon him as he entered the church; and as he went up towards his uncle's pew, and saw the crowd of Crofton boys all looking at him, and some of the poor people turning their heads as he passed, to observe how he got on, he felt covered with confusion, and wished that he had waited one more Sunday, when the Crofton boys would have been all gone, and there would have been fewer eyes to mark his infirmity. But better thoughts soon arose, and made him ashamed of his false shame; and before the service was over, he felt how trifling is any misfortune while we are friends with God, in comparison with the least wrong-doing which sets us at a distance from him. He could not but feel after church that he had rather, a thousand times, be as he was than be poor Lamb, who slunk away from him, and hid himself behind the other boys,—his mind sore and troubled, no doubt, about his debt, and his cheating transaction, so long ago. Hugh asked some of the boys to bring up Lamb, to shake hands before parting for the holidays; but he would not come, and wriggled himself out of sight. Then Hugh recollected that he could forgive Lamb as well without Lamb's knowing it; and he let him alone.

Then there was Holt. He and Holt had parted on uneasy terms; and Holt now looked shy and uncomfortable. Hugh beckoned to him, and asked him whether he was really to remain at Crofton all the holidays.

"Yes," said Holt. "I am the only one not going home, unless you are to stay hereabouts. Even Tooke is to be at his uncle's in London. When do you go home?"

"Not quite yet;—not at the beginning of the holidays," said Hugh, hesitating, and looking up at his uncle. For, in truth, he did not know exactly what was planned for him, and had been afraid to ask.

His uncle said, very kindly, that he was not going to part with Hugh till school opened again. He would recover his full strength better in the country; and his aunt had promised his parents that he should be a stout boy again by the time he was wanted at Crofton.

This was what Hugh had dreaded to hear; and when he thought that he should not see his parents, nor little Harry, for so many months, his heart sank. But he was still in the church; and perhaps the place helped him to remember his mother's expectation that he should not fail, and his own resolution to bear cheerfully whatever troubles his misfortune brought upon him, from the greatest to the least. So when he heard his uncle saying to Holt that he should ask Mr Tooke to let him come and spend two or three weeks at his house, he said so heartily that he hoped Holt would come, that Holt felt that whatever discontent had been between them was forgiven and forgotten.

Phil went home, of course; and when Holt arrived at Mr Shaw's, Agnes also returned to London, that she might see something of Phil. Then the two boys were glad to be together, though Hugh would rather have had his dear friend Dale for a companion; and Holt knew that this was the case. Yet Hugh saw, and was glad to see, that Holt was improved. He had plucked up some spirit, and was more like other lads, though still, by his own account, too much like a timid, helpless foreigner among the rough Crofton boys.

All the boys had some lessons to prepare in the holidays. Every one who had ever written a theme had a theme to write now. Every boy who could construe had a good piece of Latin to prepare; and all had either Latin or English verses to learn by heart. Mrs Shaw made a point of her young visitors sitting down every morning after breakfast to their business; and Hugh was anxious to spare no pains, this time, about his theme, that, if he was to be praised, he might deserve it. He saw that Holt could not fix his attention well, either upon work or play; and one morning, when Hugh was pondering how, without knowing anything of history, he should find a modern example to match well with his ancient one (which he had picked up by chance), Holt burst upon his meditation with—

"I have a good mind to tell you what has been upon my mind this ever so long."

"Wait a minute," said Hugh. "I must find my example first."

No example could he find, to his satisfaction, this day. He gave it up till to-morrow, and then asked Holt what was on his mind. But Holt now drew back, and did not think he could tell. This made Hugh press; and Hugh's pressing looked like sympathy, and gave Holt courage: so that the thing came out at last. Holt was very miserable, for he was deep in debt, and the boys never let him alone about it; and he did not see how he should ever pay, as nobody was likely to give him any money.

"Remember, it is only sixpence that you owe me—not a shilling," said Hugh.

Holt sighed. Perhaps he had hoped that Hugh would excuse him altogether. He explained that this sixpence was not all, nor the chief part. He told that, when the whole school was on the heath, one Saturday, they had seen a balloon rising at a distance, and some boys began betting about what direction it would move in when it ceased to rise perpendicularly. The betting spread till the boys told him he must bet, or he would be the only one left out, and would look like a shabby fellow.

"And you did?" exclaimed Hugh. "How silly!"

"You would have done it, if you had been there."

"No: I should not."

"Yes, you would. Or, if you had not, it would have been because of—I know what."

"Because of what, pray?"

"Because of something the boys say about you. They say you are very fond of money."

"I! Fond of money! I declare I never heard of such a thing."

"Well, you know you made a great fuss about that half-crown."

"As if it was about the money!" cried Hugh. "I should not have cared a bit if my uncle had asked me for it back again the next day. It was the being cheated. That was the thing. What a shame—"

"By-the-by, did your uncle ever ask what you did with that half-crown?"

"No; but he will next week, at the January fair. He will be sure to ask then. What a shame of the boys to say so, when I forgave—"

He remembered, just in time, that he had better not boast, or speak aloud, of having forgiven Lamb his debt in secret. He resolved that he would not say another word, but let the boys see that he did not care for money for its own sake. They were all wrong, but he would be above noticing it; and, besides, he really had been very anxious about his half-crown, and they had only mistaken the reason.

"How much did you bet on the balloon?" he inquired of Holt.

"A shilling; and I lost."

"Then you owe eighteen-pence."

"But that is not all. I borrowed a shilling of Meredith to pay school-fines—"

"What for?"

"Chiefly for leaving my books about. Meredith says I promised to pay him before the holidays; but I am sure I never did. He twitted me about it, so that I declare I would have fought him, if I could have paid him first."

"That's right," exclaimed Hugh. "Why, Holt, what a different fellow you are! You never used to talk of fighting."

"But this fellow Meredith plagued me so! If it had not been for that shilling, I would have knocked him down. Well, here is half-a-crown altogether; and how am I ever to get half-a-crown?"

"Cannot you ask your uncle?"

"No; you know I can't. You know he complains about having to pay the bills for me before my father can send the money from India."

"I suppose it would take too long to ask your father. Yes; of course it would. There would be another holidays before you could have an answer; and almost another still. I wonder what uncle Shaw would say. He is very kind always, but it might set him asking—"

"And what should I do, staying here, if he should be angry and refuse? What should I do every day at dinner?"

"I know what I would do?" said Hugh, decidedly. "I would tell Mr Tooke all about it, and ask him for half-a-crown."

"Mr Tooke? Oh! I dare not."

"I dare,—in holiday-time. He is your master,—next to being your father, while your father is so far away. You had better ask Mr Tooke, to be sure."

"What go to Crofton, and speak to him? I really want not to be a coward,—but I never could go and tell him."

"Write him a letter, then. Yes: that is the way. Write a letter, and I will get one of my uncle's men to carry it, and wait for an answer: and then you will not be long in suspense, at any rate."

"I wish I dare!"

Holt was not long in passing from wishing to daring. He wrote a letter, which Hugh thought would do, though he rather wished Holt had not mentioned him as instigating the act. This was the letter:

"The Mill, January 6th.

"Dear Sir,

"I am very unhappy; and Proctor thinks I had better tell you what is upon my mind. I owe some money, and I do not see how I can ever pay it, unless you will help me. You know I have owed Proctor sixpence for ginger-beer, this long time; and as Lamb has never paid him his share, Proctor cannot excuse me this debt. Then I owe a boy a shilling, lent me for school-fines; and he never lets me alone about it. Then I was led into betting a shilling on a balloon, and I lost; and so I owe half-a-crown. If you would lend me that sum, sir, I shall be obliged to you for ever, and I shall never forget it.

"Yours respectfully,

"Thomas Holt."

Mr Shaw's man George carried the letter; but he brought back neither letter nor money: only a message that Mr Tooke would call; which put Holt into a great fright, and made Hugh rather uneasy.

There was no occasion for this, however. Mr Tooke came alone into the room where the boys were sitting; and neither Mr nor Mrs Shaw appeared during the whole time of his visit: a thing which was rather odd, but which the boys were very glad of. When Mr Tooke had told them a little of some new boys expected after the holidays, he said:

"Well, now, Holt, let us see what can be done about your affairs."

Holt looked uneasy; for it seemed as if Mr Tooke was not going to lend him the money,—or to give it, which was what he had hoped, while using the word "lend."

"I am glad you asked me," continued Mr Tooke; "for people, whether they be men or boys, can usually retrieve their affairs when they have resolution to face their difficulties. There is no occasion to say anything about how you got into debt. We must consider how you are to get out of it."

"That is very kind indeed!" exclaimed Holt.

"As to my lending you half-a-crown," continued Mr Tooke, "that would not be helping you out of debt; for if you had had any prospect of being able to pay half-a-crown, you would not have needed to apply to me at all."

Holt sighed. Mr Tooke went on.

"I cannot give you the money. I have less to give away than I should like to have, for the sake of the poor people round us. I cannot pay for a bet and school-fines while the children of our neighbours want clothes and fire."

"No, sir, certainly," said both the boys.

"What do people do, all the world over, when they want money?" asked Mr Tooke. Holt looked puzzled. Hugh smiled. Holt was hesitating whether to guess that they put into the lottery, or dig for treasure, or borrow from their friends, or what. Having always till lately lived in India, where Europeans are rather lazy, and life altogether is very languid, he did not see, as Hugh did, what Mr Tooke could mean.

"When men come begging to our doors," said Mr Tooke, "what is the first question we ask them?"

Holt still looked puzzled, and Hugh laughed, saying,—

"Why, Holt, you must know very well. We ask them whether they cannot get work."

"Work!" cried Holt.

"Yes," said Mr Tooke. "The fathers and uncles of both of you work for what money they have; and so do I; and so does every man among our neighbours who is satisfied with his condition. As far as I see, you must get the money you want in the same way."

"Work!" exclaimed Holt again.

"How is he to get work?" asked Hugh.

"That is where I hope to assist him," replied Mr Tooke. "Are you willing to earn your half-crown, Holt?"

"I don't know how, sir."

"Widow Murray thinks she should have a better chance for a new lodger if her little parlour was fresh papered; but she is too rheumatic to do it herself, and cannot afford to engage a workman. If you like to try, under her directions, I will pay you as your work deserves."

"But, sir, I never papered a room in my life."

"No more had the best paper-hanger in London when he first tried. But if you do not like that work, what do you think of doing some writing for me? Our tables of rules are dirty. If you will make good copies of our rules for all the rooms in which they hang, in the course of the holidays, I will pay you half-a-crown. But the copies must be quite correct, and the writing good. I can offer you one other choice. Our school library wants looking to. If you will put fresh paper covers to all the books that want covering, write the titles on the backs, compare the whole with the catalogue, and arrange them properly on the shelves, I will pay you half-a-crown."

Holt's pleasure in the prospect of being out of debt was swallowed up in the anxiety of undertaking anything so new to him as work out of school. Hugh hurried him on to a decision.

"Do choose the papering," urged Hugh. "I can help you in that, I do believe. I can walk that little way, to widow Murray's; and I can paste the paper. Widow Murray will show you how to do it; and it is very easy, if you once learn to join the pattern. I found that, when I helped to paper the nursery closet at home."

"It is an easy pattern to join," said Mr Tooke.

"There now! And that is the chief thing. If you do the library books, I cannot help you, you know. And remember, you will have two miles to walk each way; four miles a-day in addition to the work."

"He can sleep at Crofton, if he likes," said Mr Tooke.

"That would be a queer way of staying at uncle Shaw's," observed Hugh.

"Then there is copying the rules," said Holt. "I might do that here; and you might help me, if you liked."

"Dull work!" exclaimed Hugh. "Think of copying the same rules three or four times over! And then, if you make mistakes, if you do not write clearly, where is your half-crown? I don't mean that I would not help you, but it would be the dullest work of all."

Mr Tooke sat patiently waiting till Holt had made up his mind. He perceived something that never entered Hugh's mind: that Holt's pride was hurt at the notion of doing workman's work. He wrote on a slip of paper these few words, and pushed them across the table to Holt, with a smile:—

"No debtor's hands are clean, however white they be: Who digs and pays his way—the true gentleman is he."

Holt coloured as he read, and immediately said that he chose the papering job. Mr Tooke rose, tossed the slip of paper into the fire, buttoned up his coat, and said that he should let widow Murray know that a workman would wait upon her the next morning, and that she must have her paste and brushes and scissors ready.

"And a pair of steps," said Hugh, with a sigh.

"Steps, of course," replied Mr Tooke. "You will think it a pretty paper, I am sure."

"But, sir, she must quite understand that she is not at all obliged to us,—that is, to me," said Holt.

"Certainly. You will tell her so yourself, of course."

Here again Holt's pride was hurt; but the thought of being out of Meredith's power sustained him.

When Mr Tooke was gone, Hugh said to his companion,—

"I do not want you to tell me what Mr Tooke wrote on that paper that he burned. I only want to know whether he asked you to choose so as to indulge me."

"You! O no! There was not a word about you."

"O! Very well!" replied Hugh, not sure whether he was pleased or not.

The next morning was so fine that there was no difficulty about Hugh's walking the short distance to the widow Murray's; and there, for three mornings, did the boys work diligently, till the room was papered, and two cupboards into the bargain. Holt liked it very well, except for two things:—that Hugh was sure he could have done some difficult corners better than Holt had done them, if he could but have stood upon the steps; and that widow Murray did so persist in thanking him, that he had to tell her several times over that she was not obliged to him at all, because he was to be paid for the job.

Mr Tooke came to see the work when it was done, and returned to Mr Shaw's with the boys, in order to pay Holt his half-crown immediately, and yet so that the widow should not see. Hugh's eye followed Mr Tooke's hand as it went a second time into his pocket; and he was conscious of some sort of hope that he might be paid something too. When no more silver came forth, he felt aware that he ought not to have dreamed of any reward for the help he had freely offered to his companion: and he asked himself whether his schoolfellows were altogether wrong in thinking him too fond of money; and whether he was altogether right in having said that it was justice that he cared for, and not money, when he had pressed his debtor hard. However this might be, he was very glad to receive his sixpence from Holt. As he put it in his inner pocket, he observed that this would be all the money he should have in the world when he should have spent his five shillings in fairings for home.

Holt made no answer. He had nothing to spend in the fair; still less, anything left over. But he remembered that he was out of debt,—that Meredith, would twit him no more,—and he began to whistle, so light-hearted, that no amount of money could have made him happier. He only left off whistling to thank Hugh earnestly for having persuaded him to open his heart to Mr Tooke.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

TRIPPING.

When the day came for returning to Crofton, Hugh would have left his crutches behind at his uncle's, so much did he prefer walking with the little light stick-leg he had been practising with for a fortnight. But his aunt shook her head at this, and ordered the crutches into the gig. He still walked slowly and cautiously, and soon grew tired: and she thought he might find it a relief at times to hop about on his crutches. They were hidden under the bed, however, immediately on his arrival; so anxious was Hugh to make the least of his lameness, and look as like other boys as possible, both for Tooke's sake and his own. When the boys had been all assembled for one day, and everybody had seen how little Proctor could walk, the subject seemed to be dropped, and nothing was talked of but the new usher. So Hugh said to himself; and he really thought that he had fully taken his place again as a Crofton boy, and that he should be let off all notice of his infirmity henceforth, and all trials from it, except such as no one but himself need know of. He was even not quite sure whether he should not be a gainer by it on the whole. He remembered Tooke's assurances of protection and friendship; he found Phil very kind and watchful; and Mrs Watson told him privately that he was to be free of the orchard. She showed him the little door through which he might enter at any time, alone, or with one companion. Here he might read, or talk, and get out of sight of play that he could not share. The privilege was to be continued as long as no mischief was done to anything within the orchard. The prospect of the hours, the quiet hours, the bright hours that he should spend here alone with Dale, delighted Hugh: and when he told Dale, Dale liked the prospect too; and they went together, at the earliest opportunity, to survey their new domain, and plan where they would sit in spring, and how they would lie on the grass in summer, and be closer and closer friends for ever.

Holt was encouraged to hope that he should have his turn sometimes; but he saw that, though Hugh cared more for him than before the holidays, he yet loved Dale the best.

While Hugh was still in spirits at the thought that his worst trials were over, and the pleasure of his indulgences to come, he felt very complacent; and he thought he would gratify himself with one more reading of the theme which he had written in the holidays,—the theme which he really believed Mr Tooke might fairly praise,—so great had been the pains he had taken with the composition, and so neatly was it written out. He searched for it in vain among his books and in his portfolio. Then he got leave to go up to his room, and turn over all his clothes. He did so in vain; and at last he remembered that it was far indeed out of his reach,—in the drawer of his aunt's work-table, where it had lain ever since she had asked him for it, to read to a lady who had visited her.

The themes would certainly be called for the first thing on Mr Tooke's appearance in school, at nine the next morning. The duties of the early morning would leave no one any time to run to Mr Shaw's then. If anybody went, it must be now. The first day was one of little regularity; it was only just beginning so grow dusk; any willing boy might be back before supper; and there was no doubt that leave would be given on such an occasion. So Hugh made his way to the playground as fast as possible, and told his trouble to his best friends there,—to Phil, and Holt, and Dale, and as many as happened to be within hearing.

"Never mind your theme!" said Phil. "Nobody expected you to do one; and you have only to say that you left it behind you."

"It is not that," said Hugh. "I must show up my theme."

"You can't, you know, if you have it not to show," said two or three, who thought this settled the matter.

"But it is there: it is at my uncle's, if any one would go for it," said Hugh, beginning to be agitated.

"Go for it!" exclaimed Phil. "What, in the dark,—this freezing afternoon?"

"It is not near dark; it will not be dark this hour. Anybody might run there and back before supper."

He looked at Dale; but Dale looked another way. For a moment he thought of Tooke's permission to appeal to him when he wanted a friend: but Tooke was not within hearing; and he dismissed the thought of pointing out Tooke to anybody's notice. He turned away as Phil repeated that it was quite certain that there would be no bad consequences from his being unprovided with a theme, which was not one of his regular lessons.

Phil was not quite easy, however: nor were the others who heard; and in a minute they looked round for Hugh. He was leaning his face upon his arms, against the orchard-wall; and when, with gentle force, they pulled him away, they saw that his face was bathed in tears. He sobbed out,—

"I took such pains with that theme,—all the holidays! And I can't go for it myself."

There were loud exclamations from many against Phil, against one another, and against themselves; and now everybody was eager to go. Phil stopped all who had started off, saying that it was his business; and the next moment, Phil was at Mr Tooke's study-door, asking leave of absence till supper.

"Little Holt has been beforehand with you," said Mr Tooke. "I refused him, however, as he is not so fit as you to be out after dark. Off with you!"

Before Phil returned, it struck Hugh that he had been very selfish; and that it was not a good way of bearing his trial to impose on any one a walk of four miles, to repair a piece of carelessness of his own. Nobody blamed him; but he did not like to look in the faces round him, to see what people thought. When Phil returned, fresh and hungry from the frosty air, and threw down the paper, saying,—

"There is your theme, and my aunt is very sorry," Hugh said,—

"Oh! Phil, and I am so sorry too! I hope you are not very tired."

"Never mind!" replied Phil. "There is your theme."

And with this Hugh was obliged to be satisfied; but it left him exceedingly uncomfortable—sorry for Phil—disappointed in Dale—and much more disappointed in himself. The thought of what Holt had wished to do was the only pleasant part of it; and Hugh worked beside Holt, and talked with him all the evening.

Hugh felt, the next morning, as if he was never to have any pleasure from his themes, though they were the lesson he did best. This one was praised, quite as much as the former one: and he did not this time tell anybody what Mr Tooke had said about it: but the pleasure was spoiled by the recollection that his brother had run four miles on account of it, and that he himself must have appeared to others more selfish than he thought them. He burned his theme, that he might the more easily forget all about it; and the moment after he had done so, Phil said he should have kept it, as other boys did theirs, for his parents to see.

Mr Crabbe was just such a master as it was good for the little boys to be under. He did not punish capriciously, nor terrify them by anything worse than his strictness. Very strict he was; and he thus caused them some fear every day: for Holt was backward, and not very clever: and Hugh was still much less able to learn than most other boys. But all felt that Mr Crabbe was not unreasonable, and they always knew exactly how much to be afraid of. Whether he had inquired, or been told, the story of Hugh's lameness, they did not know. He said nothing about it, except just asking Hugh whether it tired him to stand up in class, saying that he might sit at the top or bottom of the class, instead of taking places, if he chose. Hugh did find it rather fatiguing at first: but he did not like to take advantage of Mr Crabbe's offer, because it so happened that he was almost always at the bottom of his classes: and to have withdrawn from the contest would have looked like a trick to hide the shame, and might have caused him to be set down as a dunce who never could rise. He thanked Mr Crabbe, and said that if he should rise in his classes, and keep a good place for some time, he thought he should be glad to sit, instead of standing; but meantime he had rather be tired. Then the feeling of fatigue went off before he rose, or saw any chance of rising.

This inability to do his lessons so well as other boys was a deep and lasting grief to Hugh. Though he had in reality improved much since he came to Crofton, and was now and then cheered by some proof of this, his general inferiority in this respect was such as to mortify him every day of his life, and sometimes to throw him almost into despair. He saw that everybody pitied him for the loss of his foot, but not for this other trouble, while he felt this to be rather the worst of the two; and all the more because he was not sure himself whether or not he could help it, as every one else seemed certain that he might. When he said his prayer in his bed, he earnestly entreated that he might be able to bear the one trouble, and be delivered from the other; and when, as the spring came on, he was found by one friend or another lying on the grass with his face hidden, he was often praying with tears for help in doing this duty, when he was thought to be grieving that he could not play at leaping or foot-ball, like other boys. And yet, the very next evening, when the whole school were busy over their books, and there was nothing to interfere with his work, he would pore over his lesson without taking in half the sense, while his fancy was straying everywhere but where it ought;—perhaps to little Harry, or the Temple Gardens at home, or to Cape Horn, or Japan—some way farther off still. It did not often happen now, as formerly, that he forgot before morning a lesson well learned over-night. He was aware that now everything depended on whether he was once sure of his lesson; but the difficulty was in once being sure of it.

Finding Phil's kindness continue through the first weeks and months of the half-year, Hugh took courage at last to open his mind pretty freely to his brother, offering to do anything in the world for Phil, if he would only hear him his lessons every evening till he could say them perfect. Phil was going to plead that he had no time, when Hugh popped out—

"The thing is that it does not help me to say them to just anybody. Saying them to somebody that I am afraid of is what I want."

"Why, you are not afraid of me?" said Phil. "Yes I am—rather."

"What for?"

"Oh, because you are older;—and you are so much more of a Crofton boy than I am—and you are very strict—and altogether—"

"Yes, you will find me pretty strict, I can tell you," said Phil, unable to restrain a complacent smile on finding that somebody was afraid of him. "Well, we must see what we can do. I will hear you to-night, at any rate."

Between his feeling of kindness and the gratification of his vanity, Phil found himself able to hear his brother's lessons every evening. He was certainly very strict, and was not sparing of such pushes, joggings, and ridicule as were necessary to keep Hugh up to his work. These were very provoking sometimes; but Hugh tried to bear them for the sake of the gain. Whenever Phil would condescend to explain, in fresh words, the sense of what Hugh had to learn, he saved trouble to both, and the lesson went off quickly and easily: but sometimes he would not explain anything, and soon went away in impatience, leaving Hugh in the midst of his perplexities. There was a chance, on such occasions, that Firth might be at leisure, or Dale able to help: so that, one way and another, Hugh found his affairs improving as the spring advanced; and he began to lose his anxiety, and to gain credit with the usher. He also now and then won a place in his classes.

Towards the end of May, when the trees were full of leaf, and the evenings sunny, and the open air delicious, quite up to bedtime, Phil became persuaded, very suddenly, that Hugh could get on by himself now; that it was not fair that he should be helped; and that it was even hurtful to him to rely on any one but himself. If Phil had acted gradually upon this conviction, withdrawing his help by degrees, it might have been all very well: but he refused at once and decidedly to have anything more to do with Hugh's lessons, as he was quite old and forward enough now to do them by himself. This announcement threw his brother into a state of consternation not at all favourable to learning; and the next morning Hugh made several blunders. He did the same every day that week; was every afternoon detained from play to learn his lessons again; and on the Saturday morning (repetition day) he lost all the places he had gained, and left off at the bottom of every class.

What could Mr Crabbe suppose but that a sudden fit of idleness was the cause of this falling back? It appeared so to him, and to the whole school; and poor Hugh felt as if there was scorn in every eye that looked upon his disgrace. He thought there could not be a boy in the school who did not see or hear that he was at the bottom of every class.

Mr Crabbe always desired to be just: and he now gave Hugh the opportunity of explaining, if he had anything to say. He remained in the school-room after the boys had left it, and asked Hugh a question or two. But Hugh sobbed and cried so bitterly that he could not speak so as to be understood; and he did not wish to explain, feeling that he was much obliged to Phil for his former help, and that he ought not to complain to any master of its being now withdrawn. So Mr Crabbe could only hope that next week would show a great difference, and advise him to go out with the rest this afternoon, to refresh himself for a new effort.

Hugh did not know whether he had not rather have been desired to stay at home than go out among so many who considered him disgraced. It really was hard (though Holt stood by him, and Dale was his companion as usual) to bear the glances he saw, and the words that came to his ear. Some boys looked to see how red his eyes were: some were surprised to see him abroad, and hinted a favouritism because he was not shut up in the school-room. Some asked whether he could say his alphabet yet; and others whether he could spell "dunce." The most cruel thing of all was to see Tooke in particularly high spirits. He kept away from Hugh; but Hugh's eye followed him from afar, and saw that he capered and laughed, and was gayer than at any time this half-year. Hugh saw into his heart (or thought he did) as plain as he saw to the bottom of the clear stream in the meadows, to which they were bound for their afternoon's sport.

"I know what Tooke is feeling," thought he. "He is pleased to see me lowered, as long as it is not his doing. He is sorry to see me suffer by my lameness; because that hurts his conscience: but he is pleased to see me wrong and disgraced, because that relieves him of the feeling of being obliged to me. If I were now to put him in mind of his promise, to stand by me, and protect me—I declare I will—it will stop his wicked joy—it will make him remember his duty."

Dale wondered to see Hugh start off, as fast as he could go, to overtake the foremost boys, who were just entering the meadow, and spreading themselves over it. Tooke could, alas! Like everybody else, go faster than Hugh; and there was no catching him, though he did not seem to see that anybody wanted him. Neither could he be made to hear, though Hugh called him as loud as he could shout. Holt was so sorry to see Hugh hot and agitated, that he made no objection to going after Tooke, though he was pretty sure Tooke would be angry with him. Holt could run as fast as anybody, and he soon caught the boy he was pursuing, and told him that little Proctor wanted him very much indeed, that very moment. Tooke sent him about his business, saying that he could not come; and then immediately proposed brook-leaping for their sport, leading the way himself over a place so wide that no lesser boy, however nimble, could follow. Holt came running back, shaking his head, and showing that his errand was in vain. Tooke was so full of play that he could think of nothing else; which was a shame.

"Ah! And you little know," thought Hugh, "how deep a shame it is."

With a swelling heart he turned away, and went towards the bank of the broader stream which ran through the meadows. Dale was with him in a moment,—very sorry for him, because everybody else was at brook-leaping,—the sport that Hugh had loved so well last autumn. Dale passed his arm round Hugh's neck, and asked where they should sit and tell stories,—where they could best hide themselves, so that nobody should come and tease them. Hugh wished to thank his friend for this; but he could not speak directly. They found a pleasant place among the flowering reeds on the bank, where they thought nobody would see them; and having given Holt to understand that they did not want him, they settled themselves for their favourite amusement of story-telling.

But Hugh's heart was too full and too sick for even his favourite amusement; and Dale was perhaps too sorry for him to be the most judicious companion he could have at such a time. Dale agreed that the boys were hard and careless; and he added that it was particularly shameful to bring up a boy's other faults when he was in disgrace for one. In the warmth of his zeal, he told how one boy had been laughing at Hugh's conceit about his themes, when he had shown to-day that he could not go half through his syntax; and how he had heard another say that all that did not signify half so much as his being mean about money. Between Hugh's eagerness to hear, and Dale's sympathy, five minutes were not over before Hugh had heard every charge that could be brought against his character, and knew that they were all circulating this very afternoon. In his agony of mind he declared that everybody at Crofton hated him,—that he could never hold up his head there,—that he would ask to be sent home by the coach, and never come near Crofton again.

Dale now began to be frightened, and wished he had not said so much. He tried to make light of it; but Hugh seemed disposed to do something decided;—to go to his uncle Shaw's at least, if he could not get home. Dale earnestly protested, against any such idea, and put him in mind how he was respected by everybody for his bravery about the loss of his foot.

"Respected?"

"Not a bit of it!" cried Hugh. "They none of them remember: they don't care a bit about it."

Dale was sure they did.

"I tell you they don't. I know they don't. I know it for certain; and I will tell you how I know. There is the very boy that did it,—the very boy that pulled me from the wall—O! If you knew who it was, you would say it was a shame!"

Dale involuntarily sat up, and looked back, over the top of the reeds, at the boys who were brook-leaping.

"Would you like to know who it was that did it, Dale?"

"Yes, if you like to tell; but—And if he treats you ill, after the way you used him, he cannot expect you should consider him so—Besides, I am your best friend; and I always tell you everything!"

"Yes, that you do. And he has treated me so shamefully to-day! And I have nobody to speak to that knows. You will promise never—never to tell anybody as long as you live."

"To be sure," said Dale.

"And you won't tell anybody that I have told you."

"To be sure not."

"Well, then—"

Here there was a rustling among the reeds which startled them both, with a sort of guilty feeling. It was Holt, quite out of breath.

"I don't want to interrupt you," said he, "and I know you wish I would not come; but the others made me come. The biggest boys lay that the second-size can't jump the brook at the willow-stump; and the second-size boys want Dale to try. They made me come. I could not help it."

Hugh looked at Dale, with eyes which said, as plainly as eyes could speak, "You will not go—you will not leave me at such a moment?"

But Dale was not looking at his face, but at the clusters of boys beside the brook. He said—

"You will not mind my going, just for one leap. It will hardly take a minute. I shall not stay for a game. But I must have just one leap."

And he was off. Holt looked after him, and then towards Hugh, hesitating whether to go or stay. Hugh took no notice of him: so he went slowly away, and Hugh was left alone.

He was in an extreme perturbation. At the first moment, he was beyond measure hurt with Dale. He did not think his best friend would have so reminded him of his infirmity, and of his being a restraint on his companions. He did not think any friend could have left him at such a moment. Then it occurred to him,—

"What, then, am I? If Dale was selfish, what was I? I was just going to tell what would have pointed out Tooke to him for life. I know as well as can be that it was all accident his pulling me off the wall; and yet I was going to bring it up against him; and for the very reason why I should not,—because he has not behaved well to me. I was just going to spoil the only good thing I ever did for anybody in my life. But it is spoiled—completely spoiled. I shall never be able to trust myself again. It is all by mere accident that it is not all over now. If Holt had not come that very instant, my secret would have been out, and I could never have got it back again! I could never have looked Tooke in the face any more. I don't know that I can now; for I am as wicked as if I had told."

Dale came back presently, fanning himself with his cap. As he plunged into the reeds, and threw himself down beside Hugh, he cried,—

"I did it! I took the leap, and came off with my shoe-soles as dry as a crust. Ah! They are wet now; but that is with another leap I took for sport. I told you I should not be long gone. Now for it! Who did it?"

"I am not going to tell you, Dale,—not now, nor ever."

"Why, that is too bad! I am sure I stay beside you often enough, when the others are playing: you need not grudge me this one leap,—when the boys sent for me, too."

"It is not that, Dale. You are very kind always in staying beside me; and I do not wish that you should give up play for my sake half so much as you do. But I was very, very wrong in meaning to tell you that secret. I should have been miserable by this time if I had."