"But you promised. You must keep your promise. What would all the boys say, if I told them you had broken your promise?"

"If they knew what it was about, they would despise me for ever meaning to tell—not for stopping short in time. That was only accident, however. But my secret is my own still."

Dale's curiosity was so strong that Hugh saw how dangerous it was to have tantalised it. He had to remind his friend of Mr Tooke's having put all the boys upon honour not to inquire on this subject. This brought Dale to himself; and he promised never again to urge Hugh, or encourage his speaking of the matter at all. They then went to story-telling; but it would not do to-day. Hugh could not attend; and Dale could not invent, while there was no sympathy in his hearer. He was presently released, for it struck Hugh that he should like to write to his mother this very afternoon. His heart was heavy, and he wanted to tell her what was in it. Mr Crabbe gave him leave to go home; and Dale was in time for plenty more play.

Hugh had the great school-room all to himself; and as the window before his desk was open, he had the pleasure of the fresh air, and the smell of the blossoms from the orchard, and the sound of the waving of the tall trees in the wind, and the cawing of the rooks as the trees waved. These things all made him enjoy scribbling away to his mother, as well as finding his mind grow easier as he went on. Besides, he had not to care for the writing; for he had met Mr Tooke by the church, and had got his leave to send his letter without anybody's looking at it, as he had something very particular to say. He wrote,—

"Dear Mother,—

"It is Saturday afternoon, and I have come home from the meadows before the rest, to tell you something that has made me very uneasy. If I had told anybody in the world who pulled me off the wall, it should and would have been you,—that night after it happened: and I am afraid I should have told you, if you had not prevented it: for I find I am not to be trusted when I am talking with anybody I love very much. I have not told yet: but I should have told Dale if Holt had not run up at the very moment. It makes me very unhappy,—almost as much as if I had let it out: for how do I know but that I may tell a hundred times over in my life, if I could forget so soon? I shall be afraid of loving anybody very much, and talking with them alone, as long as I live. I never felt the least afraid of telling till to-day; and you cannot think how unhappy it makes me. And then, the thing that provoked me to tell was that boy's being surly to me, and glad that I was in disgrace this morning, for doing my lessons badly all this week,—the very thing that should have made me particularly careful how I behaved to him: for his pulling me off the wall was only accident, after all. Everything has gone wrong to-day; and I am very unhappy, and I feel as if I should never be sure of anything again; and so I write to you. You told me you expected me not to fail; and you see I have; and the next thing is that I must tell you of it.

"Your affectionate son,

"Hugh Proctor.

"PS. Phil has been very kind about my lessons, till this week [interlined], when he has been very busy.

"PS. If you should answer this, please put 'private' outside, or at the top; and then Mr Tooke will not read it, nor anybody. But I know you are very busy always; so I do not quite expect an answer."

When the letter was finished and closed, Hugh felt a good deal relieved: but still not happy. He had opened his heart to the best friend he had in this world: but he still felt grievously humbled for the present, and alarmed for the future. Then he remembered that he might seek comfort from a better Friend still; and that He who had sent him his trial could and would help him to bear it with honour as well as with patience. As he thought of this, he saw that the boys were trooping home, along the road, and he slipped out, and into the orchard, where he knew he might be alone with his best Friend. He stayed there till the supper-bell rang; and when he came in, it was with a cheerful face. He was as merry as anybody at supper: and afterwards he found his lessons more easy to him than usual. The truth was that his mind was roused by the conflicts of the day. He said his lessons to Phil (who found time to-night to hear him), without missing a word. When he went to bed, he had several pleasant thoughts. His secret was still his own (though by no merit of his); to-morrow was Sunday,—likely to be a bright, sweet May Sunday,— his lessons were quite ready for Monday; and possibly there might be a letter from his mother in the course of the week.

Mrs Proctor was in the midst of her Monday morning's business (and Monday morning was the busiest of the week), when she received Hugh's letter. Yet she found time to answer it by the very next post. When her letter was handed to Hugh, with the seal unbroken, because 'private' was written large on the outside, we thought she was the kindest mother that ever was, to have written so soon, and to have minded all his wishes. Her letter was,—

"Dear Hugh,

"There was nothing in your letter to surprise me at all; for I believe, if all our hearts were known, it would be found that we have every one been saved from doing wrong by what we call accident. The very best people say this of themselves, in their thanksgivings to God, and their confessions to one another. Though you were very unhappy on Saturday, I am not sorry that these things have happened, as I think you will be the safer and the wiser for them. You say you never till then felt the least afraid of telling. Now you know the danger; and that is a good thing. I think you will never again see that boy (whoever he may be), without being put upon your guard. Still, we are all sadly forgetful about our duty; and, if I were you, I would use every precaution against such a danger as you have escaped,—it makes me tremble to think how narrowly. If I were you, I would engage any friend I should become intimate with, the whole time of being at school, and perhaps afterwards, never to say a word about the accident,—or, at least, about how it happened. Another way is to tell me your mind, as you have now; for you may be sure that it is my wish that you should keep your secret, and that I shall always be glad to help you to do it.

"But, my dear boy, I can do but little, in comparison with the best Friend you have. He can help you without waiting for your confidence,—even at the very instant when you are tempted. It is He who sends these very accidents (as we call them) by which you have now been saved. Have you thanked Him for saving you this time? And will you not trust in His help henceforward; instead of supposing yourself safe, as you now find you are not? If you use His strength, I feel that you will not fail. If you trust your own intentions alone, I shall never feel sure of you for a single hour, nor be certain that the companion you love best may not be your worst enemy, in breaking down your self-command. But, as you say you were very unhappy on Saturday, I have no doubt you did go for comfort to the right Friend, and that you were happier on Sunday.

"Your sisters do not know that I am writing, as I consider your letter a secret from everybody but your father, who sends his love. You need not show this to Phil; but you can give him our love. Your sisters are counting the days to the holidays; and so are some older members of the family. As for Harry, he shouts for you from the yard every day, and seems to think that every shout will bring nearer the happy time when Phil and you will come home.

"Your affectionate mother,

"Jane Proctor."

Hugh was, of course, very glad of this letter. And he was glad of something else;—that he had done the very things his mother had advised. He had engaged Dale not to tempt him on this subject any more. He had opened his heart to his mother, and obtained her help; and he had sought a better assistance, and a a higher comfort still. It was so delightful to have such a letter as this,—to be so understood and aided, that he determined to tell his mother all his concerns, as long as he lived. When, in the course of the holidays, he told her so, she smiled, and said she supposed he meant as long as she lived; for she was likely to die long before he did. Hugh could not deny this; but he never liked to think about it:—he always drove away the thought; though he knew, as his mother said, that this was rather cowardly, and that the wisest and most loving people in the world remember the most constantly and cheerfully that friends must be parted for a while, before they can live together for ever.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

HOLT AND HIS HELP.

Nothing more was heard by Hugh, or any one else, of Lamb's debt. The creditor himself chose to say nothing about it, so much was he annoyed at being considered fond of money; but he was sure that Lamb's pockets were filled, from time to time, as he was seen eating good things in by-corners when everybody knew that his credit with his companions, and with all the neighbouring tradespeople, was exhausted. It was surprising that anybody could care so much for a shilling's worth of tarts or fruit as to be at the trouble of any concealment, or of constantly getting out of Hugh's way, rather than pay, and have done with it. When Lamb was seen munching or skulking, Firth sometimes asked Hugh whether he had got justice yet in that quarter: and then Hugh laughed; and Firth saw that he had gained something quite as good,—a power of doing without it good-humouredly, from those who were so unhappy as not to understand or care for justice.

In one respect, however, Hugh was still within Lamb's power. When Lamb was not skulking, he was much given to boasting; and his boasts were chiefly about what a great man he was to be in India. He was really destined for India; and his own opinion was that he should have a fine life of it there, riding on an elephant, with a score of servants always about him, spending all his mornings in shooting, and all his evenings at dinners and balls. Hugh did not care about the servants, sport, or dissipation; and he did not see why any one should cross the globe to enjoy things like these, which might be had at home. But it did make him sigh to think that a lazy and ignorant boy should be destined to live among those mountains, and that tropical verdure of which he had read,—to see the cave-temples, the tanks, the prodigious rivers, and the natives and their ways, of which his imagination was full, while he must stay at home, and see nothing beyond London, as long as he lived. He did not grudge Holt his prospect of going to India; for Holt was an improved and improving boy, and had, moreover, a father there whom he loved very much: but Hugh could never hear Lamb's talk about India without being ready to cry.

"Do you think," he said to Holt, "that all this is true?"

"It is true that he is to go to India. His father has interest to get him out. But I do not believe he will like it so well as he thinks. At least, I know that my father has to work pretty hard,—harder than Lamb ever worked, or ever will work."

"O dear! I wish I could go and do the work; and I would send all the money home to him (except just enough to live upon), and then he might go to dinners and balls in London, as much as he liked, and I could see the Hindoos and the cave-temples."

"That is another mistake of Lamb's,—about the quantity of money," said Holt. "I do not believe anybody in India is so rich as he pretends, if they work ever so hard. I know my father works as hard as anybody, and he is not rich; and I know the same of several of his friends. So it is hardly likely that such a lazy dunce as Lamb should be rich, unless he has a fortune here at home; and if he had that, I do not believe he would take the trouble of going so far, to suffer by the heat."

"I should not mind the heat," sighed Hugh, "if I could go. You must write to me, Holt, all about India. Write me the longest letters in the world; and tell me everything you can think of about the natives, and Juggernaut's Car."

"That I will, if you like. But I am afraid that would only make you long the more to go,—like reading Voyages and Travels. How I do wish, though, that you were going with me by-and-by, as you let me go home with you these holidays!"

It was really true that Holt was going to London these holidays. He was not slow to acknowledge that Hugh's example had put into him some of the spirit that he had wanted when he came to Crofton, languid, indolent, and somewhat spoiled, as little boys from India are apt to be; and Hugh, for his part, saw now that he had been impatient and unkind towards Holt, and had left him forlorn, after having given him hopes that they were to be friends and companions. They were gradually becoming real friends now; and the faster, because Holt was so humble as not to be jealous of Hugh's still liking Dale best. Holt was satisfied to be liked best when Dale could not be had; and as this was the case in the Midsummer holidays, he was grateful to be allowed to spend them with the Proctors.

Hugh was so thankful for his father's kindness in giving him a companion of his own age, and so pleased to show Holt little Harry, and the leads, and the river, and his shelf of books, and Covent Garden Market, and other wonders of London, that any unpleasant feelings that the boys had ever entertained towards each other were quite forgotten, and they grew more intimate every day. It touched Hugh's heart to see how sorry Holt was for every little trial that befel him, on coming home, altered as he was. Agnes herself did not turn red oftener, or watch more closely to help him than Holt did. Hugh himself had to tell him not to mind when he saw the shop-boy watching his way of walking, or little Harry trying to limp like him, or Susan pretending to find fault with him, as she used to do, as an excuse for brushing away her tears. Holt was one of the first to find out that Hugh liked to be sent errands about the house, or in the neighbourhood; and it was he who convinced the family of it, though at first they could not understand or believe it at all. When they saw, however, that Hugh, who used to like that his sisters should wait upon him, and to be very slow in moving from his book, even at his mother's desire, now went up-stairs and down-stairs for everybody, and tried to be more independent in his habits than any one else, they began to think that Holt knew Hugh's mind better than even they, and to respect and love him accordingly.

There was another proof of friendship given by Holt, more difficult by far; and in giving it, he showed that he really had learned courage and spirit from Hugh, or in some other way. He saw that his friend was now and then apt to do what most people who have an infirmity are prone to,—to make use of his privation to obtain indulgences for himself, or as an excuse for wrong feelings; and when Holt could not help seeing this, he resolutely told his friend of it. No one else but Mrs Proctor would see or speak the truth on such occasions; and when his mother was not by, Hugh would often have done selfish things unchecked, if it had not been for Holt. His father pitied him so deeply, that he joked even about Hugh's faults, rather than give him present pain. Phil thought he had enough to bear at Crofton, end that everybody should let him alone in the holidays. His sisters humoured him in everything: so that if it had not been for Holt, Hugh might have had more trouble with his faults than ever, on going back to Crofton.

"Do you really and truly wish not to fail, as you say, Hugh?" asked Holt.

"To be sure."

"Well, then, do try not to be cross."

"I am not cross."

"I know you think it is low spirits. I am not quite sure of that: but if it is, would not it be braver not to be low in spirits?"

Hugh muttered that that was fine talking for people that did not know.

"That is true, I dare say; and I do not believe I should be half as brave as you, but I should like to see you quite brave."

"It is a pretty thing for you to lecture me, when I got down those books on purpose for you,—those Voyages and Travels. And how can I look at those same books, now and not—"

Hugh could not go on, and he turned away his head.

"Was it for me?" exclaimed Holt, in great concern. "Then I am very sorry. I will carry them to Mrs Proctor, and ask her to put them quite away till we are gone back to Crofton."

"No, no. Don't do that. I want them," said Hugh, finding now that he had not fetched them down entirely on Holt's account. But Holt took him at his word, and carried the books away, and succeeded in persuading Hugh that it was better not to look at volumes which he really almost knew by heart, and every crease, stain, and dog's-ear of which brought up fresh in his mind his old visions of foreign travel and adventure. Then, Holt never encouraged any conversation about the accident with Susan, or with Mr Blake, when they were in the shop; and he never pretended to see that Hugh's lameness was any reason why he should have the best of their places in the Haymarket Theatre (where they went once), or be the chief person when they capped verses or played other games round the table, in the evenings at home. The next time Hugh was in his right mood, he was sure to feel obliged to Holt; and he sometimes said so.

"I consider you a real friend to Hugh," said Mrs Proctor, one day, when they three were together. "I have dreaded seeing my boy capable only of a short effort of courage;—bearing pain of body and mind well while everybody was sorry for him, and ready to praise him; and then failing in the long trial afterwards. When other people are leaving off being sorry for him, you continue your concern for him, and still remind him not to fail."

"Would not it be a pity, ma'am," said Holt, earnestly, "would it not be a pity for him to fail when he bore everything so well at first, and when he helped me so that I don't know what I should have done without him? He made me write to Mr Tooke, and so got me out of debt; and a hundred times, I am sure, the thought of him and his secret has put spirit into me. It would be a pity if he should fail without knowing it, for want of somebody to put him in mind. He might so easily think he was bearing it all well, as long as he could talk about his foot, and make a joke of being lame, when, all the while, he might be losing his temper in other ways."

"Why, how true that is!" exclaimed Hugh. "I was going to ask if I was ever cross about being lame: but I know I am about other things, because I am worried about that, sometimes."

"It is so easy to put you in mind," continued Holt; "and we shall all be so glad if you are brave to the very end—"

"I will," said Hugh. "Only do you go on to put me in mind—"

"And you will grow more and more brave, too," observed Mrs Proctor to Holt.

Holt sighed; for he thought it would take a great deal of practice yet to make him a brave boy. Other people thought he was getting on very fast.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

CONCLUSION.

The longer these two boys were together, the more they wished they could spend their lives side by side; or, at least, not be separated by half the globe. Just before the Christmas holidays, some news arrived which startled them so much that they could hardly speak to one another about it for some hours. There was a deep feeling in their hearts which disposed them to speak alone to the Ruler of their lives, before they could even rejoice with one another. When they meditated upon it, they saw that the event had come about naturally enough; but it so exactly met the strongest desire they had in the world, that if a miracle had happened before their eyes, they could not have been more struck.

Holt's father wrote a letter to Mr Proctor, which reached its destination through Mr Tooke's hands; and Mr Tooke was consulted in the whole matter, and requested by Mr Proctor to tell the two boys and Phil all about it. These three were therefore called into Mr Tooke's study one day, to hear some news.

The letters which Mr Tooke read were about Hugh. Mr Holt explained that his son's best years were to be spent, like his own, in India; that his own experience had made him extremely anxious that his son should be associated with companions whom he could respect and love; and that he had long resolved to use such interest as he had in bringing out only such a youth, or youths, as he could wish his son to associate with. He mentioned that he was aware that one lad now at Crofton was destined for India—

"That is Lamb," whispered the boys to each other.

But that he did not hear of any friendship formed, or likely to be formed with advantage between his son and this young gentleman.

"No, indeed!" muttered Holt.

There was one boy, however, Mr Holt went on to say, to whom his son seemed to be attached, and concerning whom he had related circumstances which inspired a strong interest, and which seemed to afford an expectation of an upright manhood following a gallant youth.

Here all the boys reddened, and Hugh looked hard at the carpet.

This boy had evidently a strong inclination for travel and adventure; and though his lameness put military or naval service out of the question, it might not unfit him for civil service in India. If Mr Tooke could give such a report of his health, industry, and capability as should warrant his being offered an appointment, and if his parents were willing so to dispose of him, Mr Holt was anxious to make arrangements for the education of the boys proceeding together, in order to their being companions in their voyage and subsequent employments. And then followed some account of what these arrangements were to be.

"Now, Proctor," said Mr Tooke to the breathless Hugh, "you must consider what you have to say to this. Your parents are willing to agree if you are. But if," he continued, with a kind smile, "it would make you very unhappy to go to India, no one will force your inclinations."

"Oh, sir," said Hugh, "I will work very hard,—I will work as hard as ever I can, if I may go."

"Well: you may go, you see, if you will work hard. You can consider it quietly, or talk it over with your brother and Holt; and to-morrow you are to dine at your uncle's, where you will meet your father; and he and you will settle what to write to Mr Holt, by the next ship."

"And you, sir," said Phil, anxiously—"Mr Holt asks your opinion."

"My opinion is that your brother can be what he pleases. He wants some inducement to pursue his learning more strenuously than he has done yet—"

"I will, sir. I will," indeed, cried Hugh.

"I believe you will. Such a prospect as this will be an inducement, if anything can. You are, on the whole, a brave boy; and brave boys are not apt to be ungrateful to God or man; and I am sure you think it would be ungrateful, both to God and man, to refuse to do your best in the situation which gratifies the first wish of your heart."

Hugh could not say another word. He made his lowest bow, and went straight to his desk. As the first fruits of his gratitude, he learned his lessons thoroughly well that night; much as he would have liked to spend the time in dreaming.

His father and he had no difficulty in settling what to write to Mr Holt; and very merry were they together when the business was done. In a day or two, when Hugh had had time to think, he began to be glad on Tooke's account; and he found an opportunity of saying to him one day,—

"I never should have gone to India if I had not lost my foot; and I think it is well worth while losing my foot to go to India."

"Do you really? Or do you say it because—"

"I think so really." And then he went off into such a description as convinced Tooke that he was in earnest, though it was to be feared that he would be disappointed by experience. But then again, Mr Tooke was heard to say that one chief requisite for success and enjoyment in foreign service of any kind was a strong inclination for it. So Tooke was consoled, and easier in mind than for a whole year past.

Hugh was able to keep his promise of working hard. Both at Crofton and at the India College, where his education was finished, he studied well and successfully; and when he set sail with his companion, it was with a heart free from all cares but one. Parting from his family was certainly a great grief; and he could not forget the last tone he had heard from Agnes. But this was his only sorrow. He was, at last, on the wide sea, and going to Asia. Holt was his dear friend. He had left none but well-wishers behind. His secret was his own; (though, indeed, he scarcely remembered that he had any secret;) and he could not but be conscious that he went out well prepared for honourable duty.

THE END.