Chapter Seven.

Chapter Seven.What is only to be had at Home.Hugh got on far better with his lessons as he grew more intimate with Dale. It was not so much that Dale helped him with his grammar and construing (for Dale thought every boy should make shift to do his own business) as that he liked to talk about his work, even with a younger boy; and so, as he said, clear his head. A great deal that he said was above Hugh’s comprehension; and much of his repetitions mere words: but there were other matters which fixed Hugh’s attention, and proved to him that study might be interesting out of school. When Dale had a theme to write, the two boys often walked up and down the playground for half an hour together, talking the subject over, and telling of anything they had heard or read upon it. Hugh presently learned the names and the meanings of the different parts of a theme; and he could sometimes help with an illustration or example, though he left it to his friend to lay down the Proposition, and search out the Confirmation. Dale’s nonsense-verses were perfect nonsense to Hugh: but his construing was not: and when he went over it aloud, for the purpose of fixing his lesson in his ear, as well as his mind, Hugh was sorry when they arrived at the end, and eager to know what came next,—particularly if they had to stop in the middle of a story of Ovid’s. Every week, almost every day now, made a great difference in Hugh’s school-life. He still found his lessons very hard work, and was often in great fear and pain about them,—but he continually perceived new light breaking in upon his mind: his memory served him better; the little he had learned came when he wanted it, instead of just a minute too late. He rose in the morning with less anxiety about the day: and when playing, could forget school.There was no usher yet in Mr Carnaby’s place; and all the boys said their lessons to Mr Tooke himself: which Hugh liked very much, when he had got over the first fear. A writing-master came from a distance twice a week, when the whole school was at writing and arithmetic all the afternoon: but every other lesson was said to the master; and this was likely to go on till Christmas, as the new usher, of whom, it was said, Mr Tooke thought so highly as to choose to wait for him, could not come before that time. Of course, with so much upon his hands, Mr Tooke had not a moment to spare; and slow or idle boys were sent back to their desks at the first trip or hesitation in their lessons. Hugh was afraid, at the outset, that he should be like poor Lamb, who never got a whole lesson said during these weeks: and he was turned down sometimes; but not often enough to depress him. He learned to trust more to his ear and his memory: his mind became excited, as in playing a game: and he found he got through, he scarcely knew how. His feeling of fatigue afterwards proved to him that this was harder work than he had ever done at home; but he did not feel it so at the time. When he could learn a lesson in ten minutes, and say it in one; when he began to use Latin phrases in his private thoughts, and saw the meaning of a rule of syntax, so as to be able to find a fresh example out of his own head, he felt himself really a Crofton boy, and his heart grew light within him.The class to which Hugh belonged was one day standing waiting to be heard, when the master was giving a subject and directions for an English theme to Dale’s class. The subject was the Pleasures of Friendship. In a moment Hugh thought of Damon and Pythias, and of David and Jonathan,—of the last of whom there was a picture in Mrs Watson’s great Bible. He thought how happy he had been since he had known Dale, and his heart was in such a glow, he was sure he could write a theme. He ran after Mr Tooke when school was over, and asked whether he might write a theme with Dale’s class. When Mr Tooke found he knew what was meant by writing a theme, he said he might try, if he neglected nothing for it, and wrote every word of it himself, without consultation with any one.Hugh scampered away to tell Dale that they must not talk over this theme together, as they were both to do it; and then, instead of playing, he went to his desk, and wrote upon his slate till it was quite full. He had to borrow two slates before he had written all he had to say. Phil ruled his paper for him; but before he had copied one page, his neighbours wanted their slates back again,—said they must have them, and rubbed out all he had written. Much of the little time he had was lost in this way, and he grew wearied. He thought at first that his theme would be very beautiful: but he now began to doubt whether it would be worth anything at all; and he was vexed to have tired himself with doing what would only make him laughed at. The first page was well written out,—the Confirmation being properly separated from the Proposition: but he had to write all the latter part directly from his head upon the paper, as the slates were taken away; and he forgot to separate the Conclusion from the Inference.He borrowed a penknife, and tried to scratch out half a line; but he only made a hole in the paper, and was obliged to let the line stand. Then he found he had strangely forgotten to put in the chief thing of all,—about friends telling one another of their faults,—though, on consideration, he was not sure that this was one of the Pleasures of Friendship: so, perhaps, it did not much matter. But there were two blots; and he had left out Jonathan’s name, which had to be interlined. Altogether, it had the appearance of a very bad theme. Firth came and looked over his shoulder, as he was gazing at it; and Firth offered to write it out for him; and even thought it would be fair, as he had had nothing to do with the composition: but Hugh could not think it would be fair, and said, sighing, that his must take its chance. He did not think he could have done a theme so very badly.Mr Tooke beckoned him up with Dale’s class, when they carried up their themes; and, seeing how red his face was, the master bade him not be afraid. But how could he help being afraid? The themes were not read directly. It was Mr Tooke’s practice to read them out of school-hours. On this occasion, judgment was given the last thing before school broke up the next morning.Hugh had never been more astonished in his life. Mr Tooke praised his theme very much, and said it had surprised him. He did not mind the blots and mistakes, which would, he said, have been great faults in a copy-book, but were of less consequence than other things in a theme. Time and pains would correct slovenliness of that kind; and the thoughts and language were good. Hugh was almost out of his wits with delight; so nearly so that he spoiled his own pleasure completely. He could not keep his happiness to himself, or his vanity: for Hugh had a good deal of vanity,—more than he was aware of before this day. He told several boys what Mr Tooke had said: but he soon found that would not do. Some were indifferent, but most laughed at him. Then he ran to Mrs Watson’s parlour, and knocked. Nobody answered; for the room was empty: so Hugh sought her in various places, and at last found her in the kitchen, boiling some preserves.“What do you come here for? This is no place for you,” said she, when the maids tried in vain to put Hugh out.“I only want to tell you one thing,” cried Hugh; and he repeated exactly what Mr Tooke had said of his theme. Mrs Watson laughed, and the maids laughed, and Hugh left them, angry with them, but more angry with himself. They did not care for him,—nobody cared for him, he said to himself; he longed for his mother’s look or approbation when he had done well, and Agnes’ pleasure, and even Susan’s fondness and praise. He sought Dale. Dale was in the midst of a game, and had not a word or look to spare till it was over. The boys would have admitted Hugh; for he could now play as well as anybody; but he was in no mood for play now. He climbed his tree, and sat there, stinging his mind with the thought of his having carried his boastings into the kitchen, and with his recollection of Mrs Watson’s laugh.It often happened that Firth and Hugh met at this tree; and it happened now. There was room for both; and Firth mounted, and read for some time. At last he seemed to be struck by Hugh’s restlessness and heavy sighs; and he asked whether he had not got something to amuse himself with.“No. I don’t want to amuse myself,” said Hugh, stretching so as almost to throw himself out of the tree.“Why, what’s the matter? Did you not come off well with your theme? I heard somebody say you were quite enough set up about it.”“Where is the use of doing a thing well, if nobody cares about it?” said Hugh. “I don’t believe anybody at Crofton cares a bit about me—cares whether I get on well or ill—except Dale. If I take pains and succeed, they only laugh at me.”“Ah! You don’t understand school and schoolboys yet,” replied Firth. “To do a difficult lesson well is a grand affair at home, and the whole house knows of it. But it is the commonest thing in the world here. If you learn to feel with these boys, instead of expecting them to feel with you (which they cannot possibly do), you will soon find that they care for you accordingly.”Hugh shook his head.“You will find it in every school in England,” continued Firth, “that it is not the way of boys to talk about feelings—about anybody’s feelings. That is the reason why they do not mention their sisters or their mothers—except when two confidential friends are together, in a tree, or by themselves in the meadows. But, as sure as ever a boy is full of action—if he tops the rest at play—holds his tongue, or helps others generously—or shows a manly spirit without being proud of it, the whole school is his friend. You have done well, so far, by growing more and more sociable; but you will lose ground if you boast about your lessons out of school. To prosper at Crofton, you must put off home, and make yourself a Crofton boy.”“I don’t care about that,” said Hugh. “I give it all up. There is nothing but injustice here.”“Nothing but injustice! Pray, am I unjust?”“No—not you—not so far. But—”“Is Mr Tooke unjust?”“Yes—very.”“Pray how, and when?”“He has been so unjust to me, that if it had not been for something, I could not have borne it. I am not going to tell you what that something is: only you need not be afraid but that I can bear everything. If the whole world was against me—”“Well, never mind what that something is; but tell me how Mr Tooke is unjust to you.”“He punished me when I did not deserve it; and he praised me when I did not deserve it. I was cheated and injured that Saturday; and, instead of seeing me righted, Mr Tooke ordered me to be punished. And to-day, when my theme was so badly done that I made sure of being blamed, he praised me.”“This might be injustice at home,” replied Firth, “because parents know, or ought to know, all that is in their children’s minds, and exactly what their children can do. A schoolmaster can judge only by what he sees. Mr Tooke does not know yet that you could have done your theme better than you did—as your mother would have known. When he finds you can do better, he will not praise such a theme again. Meantime, how you can boast of his praise, if you think it unjust, is the wonder to me.”“So it is to me now. I wish I had never asked to do that theme at all,” cried Hugh, again stretching himself to get rid of his shame. “But why did Mr Tooke order me to be caned? Why did he not make Lamb and Holt pay me what they owe? I was injured before: and he injured me more.”“You were to be caned because you left the heath and entered a house without leave—not because you had been cheated of your money.”“But I did not know where I was going. I never meant to enter a house.”“But you did both; and what you suffered will prevent your letting yourself be led into such a scrape again. As for the money part of the matter—a school is to boys what the world is when they become men. They must manage their own affairs among themselves. The difference is, that here is the master to be applied to, if we choose. He will advise you about your money, if you choose to ask him: but, for my part, I would rather put up with the loss, if I were you.”“Nobody will ever understand what I mean about justice,” muttered Hugh.“Suppose,” said Firth, “while you are complaining of injustice in this way, somebody else should be complaining in the same way of your injustice.”“Nobody can—fairly,” replied Hugh.“Do you see that poor fellow, skulking there under the orchard-wall?”“What, Holt?”“Yes, Holt. I fancy the thought in his mind at this moment is that you are the most unjust person at Crofton.”“I! Unjust!”“Yes; so he thinks. When you first came, you and he were companions. You found comfort in each other while all the rest were strangers to you. You were glad to hear, by the hour together, what he had to tell you about India, and his voyages and travels. Now he feels himself lonely and forsaken, while he sees you happy with a friend. He thinks it hard that you should desert him because he owes you a shilling, when he was cheated quite as much as you.”“Because he owes me a shilling!” cried Hugh, starting to his feet, “as if—”Once more he had nearly fallen from his perch. Firth caught him; and then asked him how Holt should think otherwise than as he did, since Hugh had been his constant companion up to that Saturday afternoon, and had hardly spoken to him since.Hugh protested that the shilling had nothing to do with the matter; and he never meant to take more than sixpence from Holt, because he thought Lamb was the one who ought to pay the shilling. The thing was, he did not, and could not, like Holt half so well as Dale. He could not make a friend of Holt, because he wanted spirit—he had no courage. What could he do? He could not pretend to be intimate with Holt when he did not like him; and if he explained that the shilling had nothing to do with the matter, he could not explain how it really was, when the fault was in the boy’s character, and not in his having given any particular offence. What could he do?Firth thought he could only learn not to expect, anywhere out of the bounds of home, what he thought justice. He must, of course, try himself to be just to everybody; but he must make up his mind in school, as men have to do in the world, to be misunderstood—to be wrongly valued; to be blamed when he felt himself the injured one; and praised when he knew he did not deserve it.“But it is so hard,” said Hugh.“And what do people leave home for but to learn hard lessons?”“But still, if it were not for—”“For what? Do you see any comfort under it?” asked Firth, fixing his eyes on Hugh.Hugh nodded, without speaking.“That One understands us who cannot be unjust!” whispered Firth. “I am glad you feel that.”“Even home would be bad enough without that,” said Hugh. “And what would school be?”“Or the world?” added Frith. “But do not get cross, and complain again. Leave that to those who have no comfort.”Hugh nodded again. Then he got down, and ran to tell Holt that he did not want a shilling from him, because he thought sixpence would be fairer.Holt was glad to hear this at first; but he presently said that it did not much matter, for that he had no more chance of being able to pay sixpence than a shilling. His parents were in India, and his uncle never offered him any money. He knew indeed that his uncle had none to spare; for he had said in the boy’s hearing, that it was hard on him to have to pay the school-bills (unless he might pay them in the produce of his farm), so long as it must be before he could be repaid from India. So Holt did not dare to ask for pocket-money; and for the hundredth time he sighed over his debt. He had almost left off hoping that Hugh, would excuse him altogether, though everybody knew that Hugh had five shillings in Mrs Watson’s hands. This fact and Hugh’s frequent applications to Lamb for payment, had caused an impression that Hugh was fond of money. It was not so; and yet the charge was not unfair. Hugh was ready to give if properly asked; but he did not relish, and could not bear with temper, the injustice of such a forced borrowing as had stripped him of his half-crown. He wanted his five shillings for presents for his family; and for these reasons, and not because he was miserly, he did not offer to excuse Holt’s debt; which it would have been more generous to have done. Nobody could wish that he should excuse Lamb’s.“When are you going to your uncle’s?” asked Holt. “I suppose youaregoing some day before Christmas.”“On Saturday, to stay till Sunday night,” said Hugh.“And Proctor goes too, I suppose?”“Yes; of course, Phil goes too.”“Anybody else?”“We are each to take one friend, just for Saturday, to come home at night.”“Oh? Then, you will take me. You said you would.”“Did I? That must have been a long time ago.”“But you did say so,—that, whenever you went, you would ask leave to take me.”“I don’t remember any such thing. And I am going to take Dale this time. I have promised him.”Holt cried with vexation. Dale was always in his way. Hugh cared for nobody but Dale; but Dale should not go to Mr Shaw’s till he had had his turn. He had been promised first, and he would go first. He would speak to Mrs Watson, and get leave to go and tell Mrs Shaw, and then he was sure Mr Shaw would let him go.Hugh was very uncomfortable. He really could not remember having made this promise: but he could not be sure that he had not. He asked Holt if he thought he should like to be in people’s way, to spoil the holiday by going where he was not wished for; but this sort of remonstrance did not comfort Holt at all. Hugh offered that he should have the very next turn, if he would give up now.“I dare say! And when will that be? You know on Sunday it will want only nineteen days to the holidays; and you will not be going to your uncle’s again this half-year. A pretty way of putting me off!”Then, as if a sudden thought had struck him, he cried,—“But Proctor has to take somebody.”“Yes; Phil takes Tooke. They settled that a week ago.”“Oh! Can’t you ask him to take me?”“No; I shall not meddle with Phil. Besides, I am glad he has chosen Tooke. Tooke behaved well to me about the sponge that day. Tooke has some spirit.”This put Holt in mind of the worst of his adventures since he came to Crofton, and of all the miseries of being shunned as a tell-tale. He cried so bitterly as to touch Hugh’s heart. As if thinking aloud, Hugh told him that he seemed very forlorn, and that he wished he would find a friend to be intimate with. This would make him so much happier as he had no idea of; as he himself had found since he had had Dale for a friend.This naturally brought out a torrent of reproaches, which was followed by a hot argument; Holt insisting that Hugh ought to have been his intimate friend; and Hugh asking how he could make a friend of a boy who wanted spirit. They broke away from one another at last, Hugh declaring Holt to be unreasonable and selfish, and Holt thinking Hugh cruel and insulting.Of course Mrs Watson would not hear of Holt’s going to Mr Shaw, to ask for an invitation for Saturday. He was told he must wait till another time. It was no great consolation to Holt that on Sunday it would want only nineteen days to the holidays: for he was to remain at Crofton. He hoped to like the holidays better than school-days, and to be petted by Mrs Watson, and to sit by the fire, instead of being forced into the playground in all weathers; but still he could not look forward to Christmas with the glee which other boys felt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hugh shook his head.

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

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

“Nothing but injustice! Pray, am I unjust?”

“No—not you—not so far. But—”

“Is Mr Tooke unjust?”

“Yes—very.”

“Pray how, and when?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nobody can—fairly,” replied Hugh.

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

“What, Holt?”

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

“I! Unjust!”

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

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

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

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

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

“But it is so hard,” said Hugh.

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

“But still, if it were not for—”

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

Hugh nodded, without speaking.

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

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

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

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

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

“When are you going to your uncle’s?” asked Holt. “I suppose youaregoing some day before Christmas.”

“On Saturday, to stay till Sunday night,” said Hugh.

“And Proctor goes too, I suppose?”

“Yes; of course, Phil goes too.”

“Anybody else?”

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

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

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

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

“I don’t remember any such thing. And I am going to take Dale this time. I have promised him.”

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

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

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

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

“But Proctor has to take somebody.”

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

“Oh! Can’t you ask him to take me?”

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

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

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

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

Chapter Eight.A Long Day.Hugh, meantime, was counting the hours till Saturday. Perhaps, if the truth were known, so was Phil, though he was too old to acknowledge such a longing. But the climbing about the mill,—the play encouraged there by his uncle and the men,—his uncle’s stories within doors, his aunt’s good dinners,—the fire-side, the picture-books, the talk of home, altogether made up the greatest treat of the half-year. Phil had plenty of ways of passing the time. Hugh began a long letter home,—the very last letter, except the short formal one which should declare when the Christmas vacation should commence. Hugh meant to write half the letter before Saturday, and then fill it up with an account of his visit to his uncle’s.The days were passed, however, when Hugh had the command of his leisure time, as on his arrival, when his hours were apt to hang heavy. He had long since become too valuable in the playground to be left to follow his own devices. As the youngest boy, he was looked upon as a sort of servant to the rest, when once it was found that he was quick and clever. Either as scout, messenger, or in some such capacity, he was continually wanted; and often at times inconvenient to himself. He then usually remembered what Mr Tooke had told him of his boy, when Tooke was the youngest,—how he bore things—not only being put on the high wall, but being well worked in the service of the older boys. Usually Hugh was obliging, but he could and did feel cross at times. He was cross on this Friday,—the day when he was so anxious to write his letter before going to his uncle’s. On Saturday there would be no time. The early mornings were dark now; and after school he should have to wash and dress, and be off to his uncle’s. On Friday then, his paper was ruled, and he had only to run across the playground to borrow Firth’s penknife, and then nothing should delay his letter.In that ran across the playground he was stopped. He was wanted to collect clean snow for the boys who were bent on finishing their snow-man while it would bind. He should be let off when he had brought snow enough. But he knew that by that time his fingers would be too stiff to hold his pen; and he said he did not choose to stop now. Upon this Lamb launched a snowball in his face. Hugh grew angry,—or, as his schoolfellows said, insolent. Some stood between him and the house, to prevent his getting home, while others promised to roll him in the snow till he yielded full submission. Instead of yielding, Hugh made for the orchard-wall, scrambled up it, and stood for the moment out of the reach of his enemies. He kicked down such a quantity of snow upon any one who came near, that he held all at bay for some little time. At last, however, he had disposed of all the snow within his reach, and they were pelting him thickly with snow-balls. It was not at any time very easy to stand upright, for long together, upon this wall, as the stones which capped it were rounded. Now, when the coping-stones were slippery after the frost, and Hugh nearly blinded with the shower of snow-balls, he could not keep his footing, and was obliged to sit astride upon the wall. This brought one foot within reach from below; and though Hugh kicked, and drew up his foot as far and as often as he could, so as not to lose his balance, it was snatched at by many hands. At last, one hand kept its hold, and plenty more then fastened upon his leg. They pulled: he clung. In another moment, down he came, and the large, heavy coping-stone, loosened by the frost, came after him, and fell upon his left foot as he lay.It was a dreadful shriek that he gave. Mrs Watson heard it in her store-room, and Mr Tooke in his study. Some labourers felling a tree in a wood, a quarter of a mile off, heard it, and came running to see what could be the matter. The whole school was in a cluster round the poor boy in a few seconds. During this time, while several were engaged in lifting away the stone, Tooke stooped over him, and said, with his lips as white as paper,—“Who was it that pulled you,—that got the first hold of you? Was it I? O! Say it was not I.”“It was you,” said Hugh. “But never mind! You did not mean it.”—He saw that Tooke’s pain was worse than his own, and he added, in a faint whisper,—“Don’t you tell, and then nobody will know. Mind you don’t!”One boy after another turned away from the sight of his foot, when the stone was removed. Tooke fainted, but, then, so did another boy who had nothing to do with the matter. Everybody who came up asked who did it; and nobody could answer. Tooke did not hear; and so many felt themselves concerned, that no one wished that any answer should be given.“Who did it, my dear boy?” asked Firth, bending over him.“Never mind!” was all Hugh could say. He groaned in terrible pain.He must not lie there; but who could touch him? Firth did; and he was the right person, as he was one of the strongest. He made two boys pass their handkerchiefs under the leg, and sling it, without touching it; and he lifted Hugh, and carried him across his arms towards the house. They met Mr Tooke, and every person belonging to the household, before they reached the door.“To my bed!” said the master, when he saw: and in an instant the gardener had his orders to saddle Mr Tooke’s horse, and ride to London for an eminent surgeon: stopping by the way to beg Mr and Mrs Shaw to come, and bring with them the surgeon who was their neighbour, Mr Annanby.“Who did it?”“Who pulled him down?” passed from mouth to mouth of the household.“He won’t tell,—noble fellow,” cried Firth. “Don’t ask him. Never ask him who pulled him down.”“You will never repent it, my dear boy,” whispered Firth. Hugh tried to smile, but he could not help groaning again. There was a suppressed groan from some one else. It was from Mr Tooke. Hugh was sadly afraid he had, by some means, found out who did the mischief. But it was not so. Mr Tooke was quite wretched enough without that.Everybody was very kind, and did the best that could be done. Hugh was held up on the side of Mr Tooke’s bed, while Mrs Watson took off his clothes, cutting the left side of his trousers to pieces, without any hesitation. The master held the leg firmly while the undressing went on; and then poor Hugh was laid back, and covered up warm, while the foot was placed on a pillow, with only a light handkerchief thrown over it.It was terrible to witness his pain; but Mr Tooke never left him all day. He chafed his hands, he gave him drink; he told him he had no doubt his mother would arrive soon; he encouraged him to say or do anything that he thought would give him ease.“Cry, my dear,” he said, “if you want to cry. Do not hide tears from me.”“I can’t help crying,” sobbed Hugh: “but it is not the pain,—not only the pain; it is because you are so kind!”“WhereisPhil?” he said at last.“He is so very unhappy, that we think he had better not see you till this pain is over. When you are asleep, perhaps.”“Oh! When will that be?” and poor Hugh rolled his head on the pillow.“George rides fast; he is far on his way by this time,” said Mr Tooke. “And one or other of the surgeons will soon be here; and they will tell us what to do, and what to expect.”“Do tell Phil so,—will you?”Mr Tooke rang the bell; and the message was sent to Phil, with Hugh’s love.“Will the surgeon hurt me much, do you think?” Hugh asked. “I will bear it. I only want to know.”“I should think you hardly could be in more pain than you are now,” replied Mr Tooke. “I trust they will relieve you of this pain. I should not wonder if you are asleep to-night as quietly as any of us; and then you will not mind what they may have done to you.”Hugh thought he should mind nothing, if he could ever be asleep again.He was soon asked if he would like to see his uncle and aunt, who were come. He wished to see his uncle; and Mr Shaw came up, with the surgeon. Mr Annanby did scarcely anything to the foot at present. He soon covered it up again, and said he would return in time to meet the surgeon who was expected from London. Then Hugh and his uncle were alone.Mr Shaw told him how sorry the boys all were, and how they had come in from the playground at once, and put themselves under Firth, to be kept quiet; and that very little dinner had been eaten; and that, when the writing-master arrived, he was quite astonished to find everything so still, and the boys so spiritless: but that nobody told him till he observed how two or three were crying, so that he was sure something was the matter.“Which? Who? Who is crying?” asked Hugh.“Poor Phil, and I do not know who else,—not being acquainted with the rest.”“How glad I am that Dale had nothing to do with it!” said Hugh. “He was quite on the other side of the playground.”“They tell me below that I must not ask you how it happened.”“Oh, yes! You may. Everything except just who it was that pulled me down. So many got hold of me that nobody knows exactly who gavethepull, except myself and one other. He did not mean it; and I was cross about playing with them; and the stone on the wall was loose or it would not have happened. O dear! O dear! Uncle, do you think it a bad accident?”“Yes, my boy, a very bad accident.”“Do you think I shall die? I never thought of that,” said Hugh. And he raised himself a little, but was obliged to lie back again.“No; I do not think you will die.”“Will they think so at home? Was that the reason they were sent to?”“No: I have no doubt your mother will come to nurse you, and to comfort you: but—”“To comfort me? Why, Mr Tooke said the pain would soon be over, he thought, and I should be asleep to-night.”“Yes; but though the pain may be over, it may leave you lame. That will be a misfortune; and you will be glad of your mother to comfort you.”“Lame!” said the boy. Then, as he looked wistfully in his uncle’s face, he saw the truth.“Oh! Uncle, they are going to cut off my leg.”“Not your leg, I hope, Hugh. You will not be quite so lame as that: but I am afraid you must lose your foot.”“Was that what Mr Tooke meant by the surgeon’s relieving me of my pain?”“Yes, it was.”“Then it will be before night. Is it quite certain, uncle?”“Mr Annanby thinks so. Your foot is too much hurt ever to be cured. Do you think you can bear it, Hugh?”“Why, yes, I suppose so. So many people have. It is less than some of the savages bear. What horrid things they do to their captives,—and even to some of their own boys! And they bear it.”“Yes; but you are not a savage.”“But one may be as brave, without being a savage. Think of the martyrs that were burnt, and some that were worse than burnt! And they bore it.”Mr Shaw perceived that Hugh was either in much less pain now, or that he forgot everything in a subject which always interested him extremely. He told his uncle what he had read of the tortures inflicted by savages, till his uncle, already a good deal agitated, was quite sick: but he let him go on, hoping that the boy might think lightly in comparison of what he himself had to undergo. This could not last long, however. The wringing pain soon came back; and as Hugh cried, he said he bore it so very badly, he did not know what his mother would say if she saw him. She had trusted him not to fail; but really he could not bear this much longer.His uncle told him that nobody had thought of his having such pain as this to bear: that he had often shown himself a brave little fellow; and he did not doubt that, when this terrible day was over, he would keep up his spirits through all the rest.Hugh would have his uncle go down to tea. Then he saw a gown and shawl through the curtain, and started up; but it was not his mother yet. It was only Mrs Watson come to sit with him while his uncle had his tea.Tea was over, and the younger boys had all gone up to bed, and the older ones were just going when there was a ring at the gate. It was Mrs Proctor; and with her the surgeon from London.“Mother! Never mind, mother!” Hugh was beginning to say; but he stopped when he saw her face,—it was so very pale and grave. At least, he thought so; but he saw her only by fire-light; for the candle had been shaded from his eyes, because he could not bear it. She kissed him with a long, long kiss; but she did not speak.“I wish the surgeon had come first,” he whispered, “and then they would have had my foot off before you came. Whenwillhe come?”“He is here,—they are both here.”“Oh, then, do make them make haste. Mr Tooke says I shall go to sleep afterwards. You think so? Then we will both go to sleep, and have our talk in the morning. Do not stay now,—this pain issobad,—I can’t bear it well at all. Do go, now, and bid them make haste, will you?”His mother whispered that she heard he had been a brave boy, and she knew he would be so still. Then the surgeons came up, and Mr Shaw. There was some bustle in the room, and Mr Shaw took his sister down-stairs, and came up again, with Mr Tooke.“Don’t let mother come,” said Hugh.“No, my boy, I will stay with you,” said his uncle.The surgeons took off his foot. As he sat in a chair, and his uncle stood behind him, and held his hands, and pressed his head against him, Hugh felt how his uncle’s breast was heaving,—and was sure he was crying. In the very middle of it all, Hugh looked up in his uncle’s face, and said,—“Never mind, uncle! I can bear it.”He did bear it finely. It was far more terrible than he had fancied; and he felt that he could not have gone on a minute longer. When it was over, he muttered something, and Mr Tooke bent down to hear what it was. It was—“I can’t think how the Red Indians bear things so.”His uncle lifted him gently into bed, and told him that he would soon feel easy now.“Have you told mother?” asked Hugh.“Yes; we sent to her directly.”“How long did it take?” asked Hugh.“You have been out of bed only a few minutes—seven or eight, perhaps.”“Oh, uncle, you don’t mean really?”“Really: but we know they seemed like hours to you. Now, your mother will bring you some tea. When you have had that, you will go to sleep: so I shall wish you good-night now.”“When will you come again?”“Very often, till you come to me. Not a word more now. Good-night.”Hugh was half asleep when his tea came up, and quite so directly after he had drunk it. Though he slept a great deal in the course of the night, he woke often,—such odd feelings disturbed him! Every time he opened his eyes, he saw his mother sitting by the fire-side; and every time he moved in the least, she came softly to look. She would not let him talk at all till near morning, when she found that he could not sleep any more, and that he seemed a little confused about where he was,—what room it was, and how she came to be there by fire-light. Then she lighted a candle, and allowed him to talk about his friend Dale, and several school affairs; and this brought back gradually the recollection of all that had happened.“I don’t know what I have been about, I declare,” said he, half laughing. But he was soon as serious as ever he was in his life, as he said, “But oh! Mother, tell me,—do tell me if I have let out who pulled me off the wall.”“You have not,—you have not indeed,” replied she. “I shall never ask. I do not wish to know. I am glad you have not told; for it would do no good. It was altogether an accident.”“So it was,” said Hugh; “and it would make the boy so unhappy to be pointed at! Do promise me, if I should let it out in my sleep, that you will never, never tell anybody.”“I promise you. And I shall be the only person beside you while you are asleep, till you get well. So you need not be afraid.—Now, lie still again.”She put out the light, and he did lie still for some time; but then he was struck with a sudden thought which made him cry out.“O, mother, if I am so lame, I can never be a soldier or a sailor.—I can never go round the world!”And Hugh burst into tears, now more really afflicted than he had been yet. His mother sat on the bed beside him, and wiped away his tears as they flowed, while he told her, as well as his sobs would let him, how long and how much he had reckoned on going round the world, and how little he cared for anything else in the future; and now this was just the very thing he should never be able to do! He had practised climbing ever since he could remember;—and now that was of no use;—he had practised marching, and now he should never march again. When he had finished his complaint, there was a pause, and his mother said—“Hugh, do you remember Richard Grant?”“What,—the cabinet-maker? The man who carved so beautifully?”“Yes. Do you remember— No, you could hardly have known: but I will tell you. He had planned a most beautiful set of carvings in wood for a chapel belonging to a nobleman’s mansion. He was to be well paid,—his work was so superior; and he would be able to make his parents comfortable, as well as his wife and children. But the thing he most cared for was the honour of producing a noble work which would outlive him. Well, at the very beginning of his task, his chisel flew up against his wrist: and the narrow cut that it made,—not more than half an inch wide,—made his right-hand entirely useless for life. He could never again hold a tool;—his work was gone,—his business in life seemed over,—the support of the whole family was taken away—and the only strong wish Richard Grant had in the world was disappointed.”Hugh hid his face with his handkerchief, and his mother went on:“You have heard of Huber.”“The man who found out so much about bees. Miss Harold read that account to us.”“Bees and ants. When Huber had discovered more than had ever been known before about bees and ants, and when he was sure he could learn more still, and was more and more anxious to peep and pry into their tiny homes, and their curious ways, Huber became blind.”Hugh sighed, and his mother went on:“Did you ever hear of Beethoven? He was one of the greatest musical composers that ever lived. His great, his sole delight was in music. It was the passion of his life. When all his time and all his mind were given to music, he became deaf—perfectly deaf; so that he never more heard one single note from the loudest orchestra. While crowds were moved and delighted with his compositions, it was all silence to him.”Hugh said nothing.“Now, do you think,” asked his mother,—and Hugh saw by the grey light that began to shine in, that she smiled—“do you think that these people were without a heavenly Parent?”“O no! But were they all patient?”“Yes, in their different ways and degrees. Would you say that they were hardly treated? Or would you rather suppose that their Father gave them something more and better to do than they had planned for themselves?”“He must know best, of course: but it does seem hard that that very thing should happen to them. Huber would not have so much minded being deaf, perhaps; or that musical man being blind; or Richard Grant losing his foot, instead of his hand: for he did not want to go round the world.”“No doubt their hearts often swelled within them at their disappointments: but I fully believe that they found very soon that God’s will was wiser than their wishes. They found, if they bore their trial well, that there was work for their hearts to do, far nobler than any work that the head can do through the eye, and the ear, and the hand. And they soon felt a new and delicious pleasure, which none but the bitterly disappointed can feel.”“What is that?”“The pleasure of rousing their souls to bear pain, and of agreeing with God silently, when nobody knows what is in their hearts. There is a great pleasure in the exercise of the body,—in making the heart beat, and the limbs glow, in a run by the sea-side, or a game in the playground; but this is nothing to the pleasure there is in exercising one’s soul in bearing pain,—in finding one’s heart glow with the hope that one is pleasing God.”“Shall I feel that pleasure?”“Often and often, I have no doubt,—every time that you can willingly give up your wish to be a soldier or a sailor,—or anything else that you have set your mind upon, if you can smile to yourself, and say that you will be content at home.—Well, I don’t expect it of you yet. I dare say it was long a bitter thing to Beethoven to see hundreds of people in raptures with his music, when he could not hear a note of it. And Huber—”“But did Beethoven get to smile?”“If he did, he was happier than all the fine music in the world could have made him.”“I wonder—O! I wonder if I ever shall feel so.”“We will pray to God that you may. Shall we ask Him now?”Hugh clasped his hands. His mother kneeled beside the bed, and, in a very few words, prayed that Hugh might be able to bear his misfortune well, and that his friends might give him such help and comfort as God should approve.“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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t you tell, and then nobody will know. Mind you don’t!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Who did it?”

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

“He won’t tell,—noble fellow,” cried Firth. “Don’t ask him. Never ask him who pulled him down.”

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

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

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

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

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

“WhereisPhil?” he said at last.

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

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

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

“Do tell Phil so,—will you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Which? Who? Who is crying?” asked Hugh.

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

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

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

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

“Yes, my boy, a very bad accident.”

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

“No; I do not think you will die.”

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

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

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

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

“Lame!” said the boy. Then, as he looked wistfully in his uncle’s face, he saw the truth.

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

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

“Was that what Mr Tooke meant by the surgeon’s relieving me of my pain?”

“Yes, it was.”

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

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

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

“Yes; but you are not a savage.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wish the surgeon had come first,” he whispered, “and then they would have had my foot off before you came. Whenwillhe come?”

“He is here,—they are both here.”

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

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

“Don’t let mother come,” said Hugh.

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

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

“Never mind, uncle! I can bear it.”

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

“I can’t think how the Red Indians bear things so.”

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

“Have you told mother?” asked Hugh.

“Yes; we sent to her directly.”

“How long did it take?” asked Hugh.

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

“Oh, uncle, you don’t mean really?”

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

“When will you come again?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hugh, do you remember Richard Grant?”

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

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

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

“You have heard of Huber.”

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

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

Hugh sighed, and his mother went on:

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

Hugh said nothing.

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

“O no! But were they all patient?”

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

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

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

“What is that?”

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

“Shall I feel that pleasure?”

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

“But did Beethoven get to smile?”

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

“I wonder—O! I wonder if I ever shall feel so.”

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

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

“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.”“Youwereashamed 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.

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.”

“Youwereashamed 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.

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