Louis' School Days: A Story for Boys

by E. J. May

The invitation.

Louis looked at Dr. Wilkinson; and Reginald answered for himself—

“I am much obliged, ma'am; and, if you please, thank Mrs. Paget for me, but as it is not a half-holiday, I shall not be able to come this afternoon. I shall be very glad to come when school is over, if Dr. Wilkinson will allow me.”

Dr. Wilkinson smiled. “Mrs. Norman will, I am sure, excuse a school-boy's anxiety to retain a hard-earned place in his class,” he said. “I have given my permission, you may do as you please.”

“Mrs. Paget will be so much disappointed,” said Mrs. Norman; “are you anxious about your class, too, Master Louis?”

Louis blushed, hesitated, and then looked from Reginald to the doctor, but Dr. Wilkinson gave no assistance. Louis demurred a little; for he had a place to lose that he had gained only the day before, and that, probably, he might not be able to gain from Clifton for the rest of the half-year. But at length, on another persuasive remark from Mrs. Norman, he accepted the invitation in rather a confused manner; and, it being decided that Reginald was to join them at dinner, he went away to make some alteration in his dress. When he returned, Mrs. Norman carried him off in her carriage, which was waiting at the door, having first introduced him to her companion, as her son, Henry Norman.

During the ride to Clifton, Louis became very communicative. He liked Mrs. Norman very much, she was so very sweet, and now and then made little remarks that reminded Louis of home; and then he was sure she liked him; even if he had not guessed that the few words he first heard from her lips referred to him, her very kind full eyes and affectionate manner spoke of unusual interest, and Louis felt very anxious to rise in her estimation. Things that are not sinful in themselves, become sins from the accompanying motives; the desire of favor in the eyes of so excellent a person was not wrong, had it been mixed with a wish to adorn the doctrine of Christ, and thankfulness for the love and favor given; but now Louis talked of things which, though he really believed them, and of feelings which, though he had once really experienced them, were not now the breathings of a heart that overflowed with all its fulness of gratitude. He had quickness enough to see what was most precious in his new friend's sight, and tried to ingratiate himself with her, by dwelling on these subjects, and showing how much he had felt on them. Had felt, for he had “left his first love.”

Let it not be supposed that Louis meant to deceive—he deceived himself as much as any one; but he was in that sad state when a Christian has backslidden so far as to live on the remembrance of old joys, instead of the actual possession of new.

The carriage stopped, at length, at a house in York Crescent, where the trio alighted. Mrs. Norman led Louis up stairs into the drawing-room, while her son, who had scarcely spoken a word during the drive, stayed a minute or two at the house-door, and then ran down the nearest flight of steps leading to the carriage-road, jumped into the carriage, which was just driving off, and paid a visit to the stables.

The room into which Louis entered was very large, and littered so with all descriptions of chairs, stools, and non-descript elegancies, that it required some little ingenuity to reach the further end without upsetting the one, or being overthrown by the others. Near one of the three windows, reclining on a sofa, was Mrs. Paget, who welcomed Louis with her usual warmth.

“You see,” said she, “I am a prisoner. I sprained my ankle the very day I saw you; and I am positively forbidden to walk. But where is Master Reginald?”

Louis informed Mrs. Paget of his brother's intentions, and, after expressing her regrets at his non-appearance, the lady continued:

“Now, sit near me, and let us have a little talk; I want to hear how you are going on, and how many prizes you are likely to get. But, perhaps, my dear, you would like to go on the downs, or into the town, or to——Where's Henry, I wonder: where is Mr. Norman?” she asked of a servant who came to remove a little tray that stood beside her.

“Just gone round to the stables, ma'am.”

“Dear, how unfortunate! You can't think what a beautiful little horse he has; I tell him it is quite a lady's horse. He will show it to you. I can't think how he could go away this afternoon. You'll be very dull, my dear—but my sister will take you out.”

Louis assured her he should enjoy sitting with her.

“That is very kind of you; very few of your age would care about staying with a lame, fidgety, old woman.”

Louis protested against the two last epithets, and as Mrs. Norman had left the room he began talking of the pleasant ride he had had with her, and how much he loved her.

Mrs. Paget warmly admitted every thing, only adding that in some things she was a little too particular.

“But, dear me! you must be very hungry,” she exclaimed, interrupting herself. “How could I forget? Just ring the bell, dear boy—there's lunch down stairs. Oh, never mind, here is Charlotte.”

As she spoke, Mrs. Norman re-entered, and took Louis down to lunch.

When he returned to the drawing-room, Mrs. Paget had her sofa moved so as to face the window, and a little table was placed in front of her. A low armchair was near her for Louis, and another quite in the window Mrs. Norman took possession of, when she had provided herself with some work.

“Oh, what a beautiful view!” exclaimed Louis, as he looked for the first time out of the window. “How very, very beautiful! I think this is the pleasantest situation in Clifton.”

“It is very beautiful,” said Mrs. Norman. “But you have a magnificent prospect at Dr. Wilkinson's.”

“Dr. Wilkinson's is a very nice place, I believe, is it not?” said Mrs. Paget. “It is a pity such a pretty place should be a school.”

“Nay,” said Mrs. Norman, smiling; “why should you grudge the poor boys their pleasure?”

“I don't think they appreciate it,” said Mrs. Paget; “and, poor fellows, they are always so miserable that they might as well be miserable somewhere else.”

“We are not at all miserable after the first week,” said Louis.

“I thought you were not to go to school again, my dear,” said Mrs. Paget.

“So I thought, myself, but papa wished me to go, and he is the best judge.”

“Well, dear it's a very nice thing that you are wise enough to see it,—and you are happy?”

“I should be very ungrateful not to be so ma'am; Dr. Wilkinson and all the boys are so kind to me this half. It is so different from the first quarter spent at school.”

“They are kind, are they? Well, I dare say; they couldn't help it, I'm sure,” replied Mrs. Paget. “I suppose you will have the medal again this half year. I am sure you ought to have it to make up.”

“Oh, but I shouldn't have it to make up for last half, ma'am,” said Louis, smiling.

“But you will get it, I dare say,” said the lady.

“I don't know,” said Louis; “perhaps—I think I have a very good chance yet, but we never can tell exactly what Dr. Wilkinson thinks about us. There are only one or two I am afraid of.”

“I should think you needn't be afraid of any,” said Mrs. Paget. “I told you, Charlotte, about that story we heard at Heronhurst last summer—dear boy—you know he bore—”

“Yes,” interrupted Mrs. Norman. “You have a large number of school-fellows, Master Louis,” she added.

“Yes, ma'am, there are seventy-six of us this half, so many that we hardly know the names of the lower school.”

“Is that M. Ferrar or Ferrers there still?” asked Mrs. Paget.

“Yes, ma'am, and he is so much improved, you cannot think.”

Louis looked very earnestly at her as she spoke, and she put her hand on his forehead, stroking his hair off, while she replied,

“He is very happy in having so kind a friend, I am sure; he ought to have been expelled.”

“Oh no, ma'am—I think kindness was much the best way,” said Louis; and remembering how incautiously he had spoken of him before, he said all that he could in his praise.

The conversation then turned upon the school in general, and it was astonishing to watch how much Louis said indirectly in his own praise, and how nearly every thing seemed to turn in the direction of dear self, in the history of his lessons, progress, and rivals—and even when it branched off to his friends, among whom in the first rank stood Hamilton.

“You would so like Hamilton, he is so kind to me. I told you about him before,” said Louis, eagerly.

“Is that the young gentleman who had charge of you the other day?” asked Mrs. Paget.

Louis answered in the affirmative.

“I did not much like him, only one doesn't judge people fairly at first, often.”

“Oh, Hamilton's such a good creature!” exclaimed Louis, in his energy letting fall one end of a skein of silk he was holding. He gathered it up, apologized, and resumed his defence of his friend.

“He is, perhaps, a little blunt, but he is so sincere, and so steady and kind, Dr. Wilkinson is very, very fond of him, I know; he makes me sit by him every night, and I learn my lessons with him. I am sure if it were not for him I should be terribly behind Clifton.”

“I saw them coming out of Redland Chapel yesterday morning,” said Mrs. Paget. “At least I saw Mr. Hamilton, but I did not see you.”

Louis informed her of the division of the school on Sunday, and she continued,

“I noticed a very aristocratic young gentleman with Mr. Hamilton—quite a contrast, so very handsome and elegant; who was he?”

“Was he tall?” asked Louis; “and dressed in black, with a light waistcoat?”

“I don't know what waistcoat he had,” said Mrs. Paget, laughing. “His dress was in perfect gentlemanly taste. He was, I should think, tall for his age, and had dark hair and eyes.”

“I have no doubt it was Trevannion; he is the handsomest fellow in the school, except Salisbury.”

“That he is not,” said Mrs. Paget, significantly.

Louis blushed, and felt rather foolish, certainly not wholly insensible to the injudicious hint.

“Only Fred Salisbury is so different: he is not elegant, and yet he is not awkward; he is rough and ready, and says all kinds of vulgar things. He is very much liked among us, but I don't think Trevannion is, though he gets his own way a great deal: he thinks nobody is equal to himself, I know, but I am sure he is not a favorite.”

“Why not?” said Mrs. Paget.

“He is so very selfish, and so contemptuous, and so dreadfully offended if Hamilton does not treat him with the deference he wants. I think we know more of each other than any one else does, and no one would think, in company, when Trevannion is smiling and talking so cleverly, that he is so unamiable.”

“He does not look like an ill-tempered person,” said the lady.

“I don't think he is what is generally called an ill-tempered person; for he never puts himself into passions, nor does he seem to mind many things that make others very angry. But he is sometimes dreadfully disdainful and haughty when any one offends him, and especially when Hamilton seems to like anybody as well as himself. Only last Saturday he was so much affronted because Hamilton had asked leave for me to go into Bristol with him. When he found I was coming, he wouldn't go with us. I think he is very jealous of me, though I begged Hamilton to let me stay at home, and I was just going after him to call him back, only Hamilton wouldn't let me. I did not like to see such old friends quarrel. I am sure I would very gladly have stayed at home to keep peace.”

“I am quite sure of that,” said Mrs. Paget. “But how came your perfect Mr. Hamilton to choose such a friend?”

“I have often wondered,” said Louis; “and last Saturday, when that happened that I told you of just now, and Hamilton (he is so kind) said he wouldn't give me up for anybody, he said he thought he made Trevannion his friend because he was too lazy to find another for himself.”

“Too lazy to find another?” repeated Mrs. Paget.

“Hamilton does not like taking trouble, generally,” said Louis; “it is his greatest fault, I think. He takes things as they come. I have often wished he would concern himself a little more about the wrong things that go on among us. You know it would be of no use my speaking about them, though I try sometimes; it is so much easier to do right when the great boys support you.”

“So it is, dear,” said Mrs. Paget, kindly.

Mrs. Norman had scarcely spoken during the whole conversation, though she had once or twice laid down her work and looked very gravely at Louis; but he had not noticed it; for he was so elated with himself, and the relations of his own importance at school, and the idea of his superiority above his school-fellows, that there was no room for any thing else in his head, and he went on with the firm conviction that both the ladies were, like every one else, extremely delighted and interested in him and his sentiments. There had been another auditor in the room almost ever since the beginning of the long chat, and that was Henry Norman, who, when he had seen his horse and lunched, entered the room unperceived by Louis or Mrs. Paget, and passed noiselessly along to the furthest window, where he sat, with a book, hid by the curtains from a careless glance. A few words caught his ear as he was finding out his place; and, whether the matter of the first page required deep consideration and digestion or not, we cannot pretend to determine, not knowing the nature of the chosen volume, but it is certain that that leaf was not turned over that afternoon, and the eyes that professed to convey its meaning to the mind of the reader not unfrequently wandered on the hills in the distant prospect, or, on being recalled, on the nearer objects of Mrs. Paget's sofa—the skein of silk and the pair of hands, which were the only portions visible to him of the loquacious little visitor. That he was listening with interest of an equivocal nature might be gathered from the frequent, impatient knitting of the brow, biting of the lips, and sudden laying down of the book altogether; but there he sat till Louis, having flown off from Hamilton to the general school failings, had finished relating the history of Frank Digby's memorable Saturday night's exploit, and concluded by an emphatic delivery of his upright sentiments on the heinousness of practical jokes. He paused a minute to take breath, after a Philippic that elicited a small dose of flattery from Mrs. Paget, and, with a face flushed with satisfaction and excitement, stooped to pick up a fallen pair of scissors, when Mrs. Norman, laying down her work looked again at him and uttered a sound indicative of an intention of speaking. This time Louis was fully aware of an expression in her countenance far from satisfactory, but she had not time to express her sentiments, for at this moment Reginald was announced, and a general move took place. Henry Norman came forward and welcomed him, and then took him and Louis out on the Crescent till dinner-time. Here they were joined by some of Norman's acquaintances, whom he introduced to his visitors. Louis thought uncomfortably, for a few minutes, of Mrs. Norman's look of disapprobation; but he persuaded himself that there was nothing meant by it, and soon became very lively. There was something he did not like about Norman, who, though perfectly well-bred and attentive, showed a degree of indifference and disregard to any thing he said or did, that did not altogether suit Louis' present state of mind. If Louis addressed him, he listened very politely, but with a slight, sarcastic smile, and either returned a very short and cool reply, or, if the remark did not require one, an inclination of the head, and turned immediately to one of his other companions. Reginald did not much fancy him; but, upon the whole, they managed to pass the time very pleasantly till they were summoned to dinner.

Several persons came in in the evening, and Louis was called upon by Mrs. Paget to sing, “Where the bee sucks.” This led to other songs, and Louis attracted the notice of a musical gentleman, who was much pleased with him, and who gave him a general invitation to his house. Louis was in the midst of his thanks when Reginald summoned him to go home, and, in spite of Mrs. Paget's remonstrances and offers of her carriage, carried his point.

“Well, Louis, how did you get on?” said Reginald, as they were walking home; “I think you must have been dreadfully bored with holding skeins and talking fine for Mrs. Paget's edification for two hours at least, to say nothing of all the stuffing you have had this evening.”

“Oh! I have been very happy,” said Louis. “Do you know Mr. Fraser has invited me to his musical parties?”

“I wish you joy, I am sure. What a nice woman Mrs. Norman seems!”

“Yes,” said Louis, doubtfully.

“Yes—that sounds very much like no,” said Reginald.

“I did not mean it.” Louis recalled her manner lately towards him, and mentally went over the conversation of the day.

“Well, what's the matter?” asked Reginald.

“I am afraid I have been very foolish; I talk so foolishly sometimes, Reginald—I said so many foolish things this afternoon. I don't think Mrs. Norman likes me.”

“Rubbish! stuff and nonsense! Just like you, Louis, always imagining somebody's displeased with you—I won't hear a word more; I have no patience with you.”

“Then you don't think she seemed vexed with me?”

“Not I; and if she were, what's the odds? What difference need she make in your happiness? What a wretched creature you'll make of yourself, Louis, if you think so much of the opinion of every one—a person, too, you may never see again.”

Louis was relieved, and talked on other matters with his brother till they reached home. He was a little annoyed to hear that Hamilton had expressed considerable vexation at his going with Mrs. Norman before afternoon school, and this, combined with the excitement and vanity under which he labored, disturbed considerably the tranquillity of his slumbers, and prevented his earnestly seeking that aid he so much needed.

---

Chapter XVIII.

“A talebearer revealeth secrets; but he that is of a faithful spirit concealeth the matter.”—Prov. xi. 13.

“He that covereth a transgression seeketh love, but he that repeateth a matter separateth very friends.”—Prov. xvii. 9.

“When pride cometh, then cometh shame.”—Prov. xi. 2.

“A haughty spirit goeth before a fall.”—Prov. xvi. 18.

Perhaps those who have read the first part of the story of Louis Mortimer will remember that I there endeavored to explain the nature of the Christian's warfare, and that I stated that there were sad periods when the Christian, too confident in his own strength, perhaps too much inclined to exult in his victories as evincing some latent power in himself, becomes less watchful, and gradually falls back in his glorious course. It is certain, that if we do not advance we go back, and oh, how sad it is that redeemed sinners, called by so holy a name as that of Christian, should, in any degree, forget to whom they owe all their might to do well, as well as their final salvation, that they should relax, in the least, their prayers, their efforts in the strength of the Holy Spirit to press forward towards the mark of the prize of their high calling. It is not that all those who thus sadly backslide are allowed to fall into open sin. Many, by the great mercy of their Lord, are preserved from thus dishonoring His holy name and cause; but alas! too often is there a falling off in devotion, in singleness of heart, in perseverance, in watchfulness against besetting sins, when the prayers are fewer and colder, the praises fainter, and the Christian, after languishing for a time in this divided state, hardly making an effort to return, becomes conscious, to his alarm, how far he has wandered, and feels with our sweet poet, in the bitterness of his spirit,

“Where is the blessedness I knew,

When first I saw the Lord?

Where is the soul-refreshing view

Of Jesus and His word?

“The peaceful hours I once enjoyed

How sweet their memory still!

But they have left an aching void

The world can never fill.”

For the next fortnight the singing class was indefatigable, and owing to the cultivated taste of Louis and Reginald, and the superior musical education of one or two others, among whom Mr. Witworth and Frank were not the least in importance, the members at length considered themselves competent to exhibit before an audience.

Accordingly, after Dr. Wilkinson had been favored with a specimen of their skill, his permission was obtained to invite such of their friends as they chose.

Tickets of admission, which had been prepared before-hand, were then sent out in various directions, accompanied by notes of invitation. As soon as Mrs. Paget's arrived at its destination, a most kind answer was dispatched to Louis as president, adding a request to be allowed to provide refreshment for the performers; and, as her proposal was hailed with three cheers, and gracefully accepted by Louis, on the morning of the eventful day came grapes, peaches, biscuits, and wine, which were very elegantly set out in the class-room by the committee.

The concert passed off as propitiously as could be wished. Hamilton, who, from utter want of ear, was totally incapacitated for singing, acted the part of steward with Trevannion, Meredith, and one or two others, with great decorum, and actually stood near Mrs. Paget during part of the performance, listening quietly to Louis' praises with such evident interest, that a few words of commendation he uttered quite won the lady's heart, though she had certainly been prejudiced against him before. It was remarked by some, that the doctor did not seem much pleased with Louis' manners on this occasion; for, when Mrs. Paget, between the parts, began to praise Louis' extraordinary musical talents (as she was pleased to call them), and to relate how much he pleased the company at her house, Dr. Wilkinson coolly replied, that he considered he had been well taught, but doubted his having more than an average good taste and general ability; and as his eye turned upon Louis, who was moving rather affectedly and conceitedly from rank to rank on his way to the refreshment-room, his forehead wrinkled ominously, and his lips became more tightly compressed. He was observed to watch Louis for a minute, and then turn suddenly away as if disgusted.

The madrigal concert took place about the end of the quarter, and on the following Saturday afternoon, the monotony of Ashfield House was varied by the arrival of a new scholar, in the person of Mr. Henry Norman, who was placed as a parlor boarder with the doctor.

When Hamilton and Louis returned from the playground together, they discovered this young gentleman sitting on the table, carefully balancing the doctor's chair with one of his feet, deeply immersed in the contents of a new book with only partially cut leaves, left by accident on the table. His back was turned towards them, and he was so engrossed in the twofold occupation of reading and keeping the heavy chair from falling, that he did not notice their entrance, and Louis, not recognizing his figure at first, nor knowing that he was expected, left the business of welcoming the stranger to his senior.

“Our new school-fellow, Louis, I suppose,” said Hamilton, in a low tone, as he scrutinized the lengthy figure before him. “I know that fellow, Louis—he is a friend of yours.”

Before Louis had time to answer, the low murmur had disturbed Norman; and, looking up without altering his position in the least, he acknowledged his acquaintance with Louis by a nod, and a careless “How do you do?”

Louis advanced directly with a warm welcome and out-stretched hand that was met by two fingers of Norman's left hand, tendered in a manner so offensive to Hamilton that he debated whether he should turn the intruder out of window, or walk himself out of the door; and concluded by drawing back in disdainful anger.

Louis was not so ready to take offence, though he was sensitive enough to feel a little hurt; and, turning round to his friend, introduced Norman to him.

Norman took a steady quick glance at Hamilton, and, though his lips were full of propriety, there was something like a sarcastic smile in his eyes.

“You are not altogether a stranger to me, Mr. Hamilton, though, I imagine, I am to you,” he said, as he allowed the chair to regain its legs, and got off the table, throwing the book on another, several yards distant.

“I must confess you have the advantage of me,” said Hamilton, coldly. “I was not aware that I had the honor of being known to you.”

“I assure you, then, that you had that honor.—Dear me!” he added, as he threw himself into the doctor's chair, stretching out his legs to their utmost length: “absurd of me to sit on that table, when I might have initiated myself so admirably into the art of reading made easy. Comfortable chair this of Fudge's—I beg his pardon, Dr. Wilkinson's. I am so accustomed to that elegant nom du guerre that I occasionally forget myself. The old gentleman knows how to make himself comfortable; I suppose that book belongs to him. I took the liberty of cutting a few leaves.”

“Which will be a peculiar satisfaction to him, doubtless,” said Hamilton; “and perhaps you may have the pleasure of hearing so from his own lips.”

“Verbum sat,” replied Norman. “It is a peculiar gratification, Mr. Hamilton, to discover that your natural good sense is overcoming your usual disinclination to notice those things which are not comme il faut in your school-fellows, thereby depriving them of the aid of your countenance and example in their little endeavors; and I feel peculiar satisfaction in thus early becoming the recipient of the good services bestowed by the blunt sincerity and kindliness of your nature.”

Hamilton crimsoned and stared; but there was nothing insolent in the tone; it was inexplicable. That something was meant he could not doubt; and presently, perceiving that Louis was uncomfortable and embarrassed, he said haughtily,

“I really am at a loss to understand you, sir; but your manner towards your friend and mine is particularly unpleasant. What you may have been used to I cannot pretend to know; but, whatever it be, you will be kind enough to remember that here we are accustomed to the society of gentlemen, and to treat each other as such.”

“My dear Mr. Hamilton,” said Norman, blandly, slightly moving as if to arrest Hamilton's progress towards the door, “you entirely misunderstand me. Master Mortimer and I now understand each other better. Indeed, I am laid under a weighty obligation to Master Louis for my acquaintance with your royal self and various members of your court; and could not possibly have any intention of quarrelling with so kind a benefactor. As for you, I have made up my mind to know and like you. Shake hands, will you?”

Hamilton hesitatingly touched the proffered hand, and looking at his watch at the same moment, wondered to Louis why tea was not ready.

“There's the bell!” exclaimed Louis; and seizing Hamilton's arm, he hurried off, leaving Norman to follow at his leisure, as neither Hamilton nor himself felt at all inclined to be ceremonious.

Louis felt a little afraid of Norman, though he did not exactly know why.

Norman did not follow them immediately; and Hamilton had nearly emptied his first cup of tea when he came in, in company with Trevannion and Frank Digby, the latter of whom had a marvellous facility for making acquaintances on the shortest notice. They sat down at the end of one of the three long tables, and continued laughing and talking the whole of the tea-time, after which Norman went to his own tea with the doctor.

“So, Louis, Norman's come!” exclaimed Reginald, pouncing upon his brother just as he reached the school-room door.

“Is he a friend of yours?” asked Trevannion.

“He is, and he is not. Make that riddle out at your leisure,” replied Reginald, gayly.

“Oh, that settles the matter!” said Trevannion.

“What matter?” asked Louis.

A look of the most withering description was the only answer Louis received; it was enough, however, to deter him from repeating his question.

Happily, Reginald did not see it.

“How do you like our new-comer, Trevannion?” asked Hamilton, linking his arm in his friend's, preparatory to a short, after-tea turn in the playground. “There is something very peculiar about him—insolent, I think.”

“He's a nice fellow, in my opinion,” said Trevannion.

“A very knowing chap,” said Salisbury. “Has he been here before?”

“No,” said Frank Digby; “but somebody's been kind enough to give the full particulars, history, and lives, peccadilloes, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, of the gentlemen, generally, and individually, at Ashfield Academy. Why, Hamilton, he called Trevannion and Salisbury by their names, without any introduction, and is as much up to every thing here as yourself, I believe.”

“I don't much fancy him,” said Hamilton; “and strongly suspect he won't add much to our comfort.”

“He doesn't like your pet, I suppose, then,” said Trevannion, marking the slight color that rose in Hamilton's face. “He told me of your strange rencontre in the class-room; he has taken a fancy, I am sure, to you.”

Hamilton did not look particularly delighted, and changed the subject to one on which he and Trevannion conversed most amicably till past their usual time for re-entering the study.

Norman did not come among them that evening till prayer-time; and, to his great satisfaction, Louis saw very little of him for the next day or two.

One day, during the first week of Norman's initiation, at the close of the morning school, a party similar in size and kind to that which had the honor of greeting Louis on his arrival the preceding half-year, was assembled on the raised end of the school-room. Frank and Salisbury were both of them seated on the top of a desk; the former, generally silent, relieved himself by sundry twists and contortions, smacking of the lips, sighs, and turnings of the eyes, varied by a few occasional thumps administered to Salisbury, who sat by him, apparently unconscious of the bellicose attitude of his neighbor, listening attentively, with a mixed expression of concern and anger on his honest countenance, to Norman, who, on this occasion, was the principal speaker. Louis was in the room, at his desk, hunting for a top; but too intent upon his search, and too far off to hear more of the topics that engrossed so much attention, than a few words that conveyed no impression to him, being simply, “Ferrers—my aunt—clever—hypocritical.”

Just as he had given up all hope of finding his top, Hamilton came up to him. “Louis,” said he, “if Trevannion goes out with me, I shall have time to hear your Herodotus before afternoon school, directly after dinner, mind.”

“I shan't forget;—oh, Hamilton, you haven't such a thing as another top, have you? Reginald's broken two of mine, and I can't find my other.”

“I do happen to have taken care of yours for you, you careless boy. Here is my desk-key, you will find it there; you can give me the key after dinner.”

With many thanks, Louis proceeded to Hamilton's desk, and Hamilton went up to Trevannion, who was one of the party at the upper end of the room. Louis was now so near the speakers, as to be unavoidably within hearing of all that passed; and, astonished by the first few words, he proceeded no further in his errand than putting the key into the lock.

“Are you inclined for a walk, Trevannion?” asked Hamilton, as he reached him.

Trevannion was leaning against the doctor's desk, in a more perturbed state than his calm self usually exhibited. As Hamilton spoke, he turned round, stared, and drew himself proudly up, replying, in a tone of great bitterness, “Thank you, Mr. Hamilton, but perhaps if you will take the trouble, you may find some one better suited to you than myself.”

“What is the matter?” said Hamilton.

“Some of your friends appear to have better memories than yourself,” replied Trevannion, folding his arms, and assuming an indifferent air; “you will, perhaps, not find mine quite so capricious; I am much obliged for all favors bestowed, Mr. Hamilton. Perhaps you considered me too lazy to look out for another friend; I am active enough, I assure you, to provide myself with one, and to release you from the irksome ties your indolence has imposed upon you.”

Hamilton looked, as he was, seriously annoyed. He did not remember the expression that had given so much offence, and was quite at a loss to understand the mystery:—he looked from one to the other for explanation; at one time inclined to walk away as proudly as Trevannion could have done; at another, his more moderate feelings triumphing, urged him into an inquiry.

“I really cannot understand you,” he said, at length; “do explain yourself. If I have done any thing to offend you, let me know what it is, and, if reasonable, I am willing to apologize.”

Trevannion sneered. “Apologies can do little good—eh, Norman?”

“If you know what this is, Norman,” said Hamilton, “I must beg you to enlighten me.”

“I have no business to interfere,” said Norman, carelessly.

“What a tragedy scene! What's the matter?” cried Reginald Mortimer, who came up at the moment. “You lazy-bones of a Louis! where are you?”

“The matter is simply this,” said Frank Digby: “Norman has heard from a veracious source that Mr. Hamilton once said, in confidence (between you and me, you know), that the reason he retained Mr. Philip Trevannion in the rank of first bosom-friend, was because he was too lazy to look out for one better suited to his tastes: consequently, as Mr. Trevannion can aver that Mr. Hamilton never confided this matter to him, it is certain that some one has betrayed confidence reposed in him—oh, yes! oh, yes!”

“What a fuss about a nonsensical report!” exclaimed Reginald. “Do you believe it?”

“Does he deny it?” said Trevannion, tuning to Hamilton.

Hamilton's color rose; and, after a little pause, in which he carefully considered what he had said, he replied, “No, I do not deny having said something like this one day when Trevannion and I had fallen out; but how much it was more than a momentary fit of anger our long friendship ought to decide. Trevannion, we have been friends too long for such a silly thing as this to separate us. I am very sorry it should ever have escaped my lips; but if every thing we say in a moment of impatience and vexation were repeated and minded, there would be very little friendship in the world. Come, Trevannion, shake hands, and forget it for auld lang syne, as I will do when any one brings such a tale to me.”

As Hamilton spoke, his eye rested on Norman, fired with indignation, and lighted a second on the principal offender, but no longer, for he did not wish to draw Louis into notice.

“It may seem a little nonsensical matter to you, Hamilton,” said Trevannion, putting his hand behind him; “but these little things exhibit more than the greatest professions. I am not too lazy to cure myself of old habits, if you are.”

“I never make professions,” said Hamilton, proudly; “and I have done.”

He was turning away, when a sudden motion from Jones arrested him. Jones had been standing silently by Trevannion, and now, leaping over a desk, seized Louis, and dragged him in the centre of the group, to the great astonishment of both himself and his brother, exclaiming:

“Here's the offender, the tell-tale, the hypocrite, the meek good boy, so anxious of Ferrers' reputation!”

“What do you want with me?” exclaimed Louis angrily, struggling to free himself from his captor.

“Hands off! Leave him alone, Jones,” shouted Reginald. “What's all this about?”

“Do let him go,” said Hamilton. “Can't you let him alone?”

“He's the traitor, Hamilton.”

Hamilton could not deny it, for it could have been no one else.

“Well, it is past, and the punishment he has in his own feelings will be enough,” he said. “Let him alone.”

“Louis, you haven't been telling tales and making mischief?” cried Reginald.

“I don't know,” said Louis. “I said something to Mrs. Paget, I believe—I didn't know there was any harm. Hamilton didn't say he didn't want any thing said about it.”

“Didn't say!” echoed Jones, scornfully.

Hamilton's look was more in reproach than anger. Louis felt struck to the heart with shame and anger; but so much had he lately been nursed in conceit and self-sufficiency, that he drove away the better impulse; and, instead of at once acknowledging himself in the wrong and begging pardon, he stood still, endeavoring to look unconcerned, repeating, “I didn't mean any harm.”

“Oh, Louis!” exclaimed Reginald, reproachfully, “I didn't think you could.”

“Let the boy go, Jones,” said Hamilton, trying to remove the grasp from Louis' shoulders.

“Not so fast, an't please your majesty,” said Jones: “I like to see hypocrites unmasked. Here, gentlemen, forsooth, here in this soonified youth, the anxious warden of Ferrers' reputation, you see the young gentleman who not only tells the story, but gives the name of the party concerned to a dear, good, gossiping soul—”

“Gently, gently there, Jones,” remarked Norman.

“A gossiping old soul,” repeated Jones, “who'd have the greatest delight in retailing the news, with decorations and additions, all over the kingdom with the greatest possible speed.”

“I don't believe a word of that, Jones,” said Reginald. “It is impossible!”

“What! is it impossible?” asked Jones, giving Louis a shake.

“What business have you to question me?”

“Did you?” repeated Jones, with another shake.

“Fair questioning, Jones,” cried Reginald. “No coercion, if you please.”

“Hold him back, Mason, if you please. Norman, will you hold him back? Now, Louis, if you don't answer I'll give you a thrashing.”

“You and I are friends, Mortimer,” said Salisbury, jumping off the desk and coming close up to Reginald; “but I mean to have fair play in this matter. He shan't be hurt—but, if you interfere till they've done questioning him, I shall help them to hold you back.”

“Don't meddle with it, Salisbury,” said Hamilton; “it's nobody's affair.”

“Nobody's affair, indeed!” exclaimed Frank. “Here we've been making a cher ami, a rara avis, or something or other of this boy, because he professed to be something superior to us all—and now, when we find he has been telling tales of all of us, we are told it's nobody's affair. He's been obtaining credit upon false pretences. We're the strongest party, and we'll do what we please.”

Reginald restrained himself with a violent effort, and Jones proceeded.

“Now, sir, answer directly—is this impossible?”

Louis felt very much inclined to cry, but he replied without tears very reluctantly, “Mrs. Paget would make me tell her some things—she had heard almost all from others. I don't know how the name slipped out; I didn't mean to tell, I am sure.”

“What?” said Hamilton; “you tell that story, Louis!”

Louis felt that Hamilton despised him; and perhaps, had they known all the circumstances relative to the Heronhurst disclosure, the clamor would not have been so great; so much evil is done by repeating a small matter, exaggerated, as these repetitions usually are, according to the feelings of the speaker. But in every case now bearing so unexpectedly down upon him, had Louis, thoughtless of himself, been less anxious for admiration, he would not have committed himself; had he not attracted Norman's attention by his folly and conceit, the circumstance of his having disclosed the name of the offender, at Heronhurst, would, most probably, not only have been unknown to his school-fellows, but to Norman also.

“Oh, Hamilton, I didn't tell all the story!” he exclaimed.

“No, only just enough to appear magnanimous,” said Frank.

“Seeing that such is the case,” continued Jones, “it cannot be a matter of great astonishment, that the same meek crocodile should also deliver to the same tender mercy various particulars of minor import respecting sundry others of his school-fellows; among which, we discover the private conversation of an intimate and too indulgent friend. Upon my word, young gentleman, I've a great mind to make you kiss Ferrers' shoes. Where's Ferrers?”

Jones turned round with his victim towards the door, perceiving that Ferrers was not in the room, but neither Hamilton nor Reginald would permit matters to proceed further.

“Let him go,” said Norman; “it is not worth while taking so much trouble about it. You know whom you have to deal with, and will be careful.”

“Thanks to you,” said Hamilton in a tone of the most cutting irony.

He released Louis, and stood still till he saw him safely in the playground, whither he was followed by the hisses and exclamations of his inquisitors, and then turned in the opposite direction to the class-room.

“Mr. Hamilton!” exclaimed Norman, “may I ask what your words meant just now?”

“You may,” said Hamilton, turning round and eyeing the speaker from head to foot, with the most contemptuous indifference. “You are at liberty to put whatever construction you please upon them; and perhaps it will save trouble if I inform you at once that I never fight.”

“Then, sir,” said Norman, whose anger was rising beyond control, “you should weigh your words a little more cautiously, if you are so cowardly.”

Hamilton deigned no reply, and proceeded to the class-room, where he shut himself up, leaving the field clear for Reginald, who, before long, was engaged in a pitched battle with Norman.

Louis retreated to his play-fellows who were yet unconscious of his disgrace with the higher powers; and, after playing for a little while, wandered about by himself, too uneasy and sick at heart to amuse himself. He found now, alas! that he was alone; that he had lost all pleasure in holy things; and, conscious of his falling away, he was now afraid to pray,—foolish boy. And thus it is—Satan tempts us to do wrong, and then tempts us to doubt God's willingness to forgive us, in order that, being without grace and strength, we may fall yet deeper.

As Louis wandered along, he heard sounds familiar enough to him, which portended a deadly fray, and when he came upon the combatants, he discovered that one of them was his own brother. He knew it was useless to attempt to stop the fight, and he wandered away again, and cried a little, for he thought that something would happen, and he and Reginald would be placed together in some unpleasant situation; and he dreaded Dr. Wilkinson's hearing of either affair.

I must be excused for stopping my story to remark here, that in this world, it is certain that we have great influence on one another, and that for this influence we are responsible. Had Louis' school-fellows acted more kindly, endeavoring to set before him the fault of tattling, the effect would have been to raise a feeling of gratitude in his mind, which would have been far more effectual in preventing the recurrence of the fault, than the plan of repudiation they had adopted. Had they, even after a day or two's penance, given him an opening into their good graces, he would not have felt, as he did, that he had lost his character, and it was “no use caring about it,” and so gone from bad to worse, till his name was associated with those of the worst boys in the school. It may be said, How can school-boys be expected to have so much consideration? but this a school-boy may do. He may mentally put himself in the position of the delinquent, and considering how he would wish to be treated, act accordingly.

Every thing seemed to go wrong with Louis that day. The Herodotus that Hamilton was to have heard, was scarcely looked at; and Louis lost two or three places in his class. Hamilton never noticed him, and even Reginald was offended with him. Louis tried to brave it out, and sung in a low tone, whistled, and finally, when he was roughly desired to be quiet, walked into the school-room, and finished his evening with Casson and Churchill.

---

Chapter XIX

“Be not deceived; evil communications corrupt good manners.”—1 Cor. xv. 32.

For the next few days Louis was regularly sent to Coventry, and though Hamilton took no part in any thing that was said against him, his manner had so entirely changed, and his tone was so cold when he addressed or answered him, that Louis needed no further demonstration to feel assured of the great difference in the feeling with which he was regarded. Clifton alone remained unchanged, but he was so much absorbed in his dear classics that he had hardly time to notice that any thing was the matter: and as Reginald, thoroughly disappointed, was also highly displeased with his brother, Louis was either thrown entirely upon his own resources, or driven to seek the society of the lower school; and, as he was in a very unhappy state, and could not bear to be left alone, he naturally chose the latter. For the first two days he struggled to assume an independent air, and, changing his place of his own accord from Hamilton to Clifton, talked incessantly, though nearly unheeded by the latter, to show how perfectly well able he was to do his own business without assistance. Hamilton missed him, and glanced down the table with a gaze of mingled disappointment and displeasure. A few words from him might have recalled Louis, but they were not spoken, and the only impression conveyed to the poor truant was, that the friend he most cared about, in common with the rest, considered him beneath his notice.

The third evening some affair was to be taken into consideration, of which the proceedings were intended to be kept very secret. Louis was sitting by Clifton, when Trevannion, who was to open the business, entered with a folded paper and a pencil in one hand, and took his place at the head of the long table. He looked down the table, and his eyes meeting Louis', he laid down his pencil, and taking up a book, began, or pretended to begin, to read.

“Hey! What's that, Trevannion?” asked Salisbury. “Are we to be prepared with a choice quotation from Thucydides, or is it a hint that we are to remember duty first and pleasure afterwards?”

“Rather,” said Frank, “that some people have long ears and tongues.”

“Perhaps,” said Trevannion, looking over the top of his book, “Louis Mortimer will have the civility to hasten his studies this evening, as we have pressing business to perform.”

“And why need I prevent it?” said Louis, crimsoning.

“Simply for this reason,” said Trevannion, “that we do not choose to have every thing that passes our lips this night carried over the country; therefore, Master Louis, we can dispense with your company.”

“Without so much circumlocution, either,” said Jones. “We like your room better than your company just now, Louis Mortimer; so please to decamp.”

“Evaporate!” said Meredith.

“I have my lessons to learn,” said Louis.

“Is there any moral or physical impossibility in your lessons being learned in the school-room?” asked Smith.

“I don't choose.”

“Don't choose!” repeated Jones. “We'll see about that. Do you choose to go quietly, or to be turned out, eh?”

“You have no right to do it,” exclaimed Louis. “I have as much right to be here as you.”

“Ho, ho!” exclaimed Jones. “You'll find might is right here, my pretty young gentleman. Salisbury, will you have the kindness to put the door between us and his impertinence?”

“The procacity of the juvenile is progressing,” remarked Frank.

Hamilton was not in the room, and there was no one to assist Reginald in his resistance to the numbers by whom he was soon overpowered, and in a few minutes, in spite of his exertions, he found himself turned out with Louis, whom he had vainly endeavored to defend.

Boiling with fury, Reginald at first attempted to kick open the door, and then, being called to his senses by the interference of the usher in the room, walked into the playground, and getting in at one of the class-room windows, opened the door to Louis before his antagonists had recovered from their surprise.

There was another scuffle, which was at length settled by the usher's taking Louis' side, and desiring him to go in; but Louis found the study so thoroughly uncomfortable, that in a few minutes he returned to the school-room, and seated himself, in a restless, idle mood, by Casson.

The idle conversation of an idle, uprincipled boy is sure to be of a hurtful description, and after Casson had heard Louis' grievances, and condoled with him in the fashion of encouraging him in all that was bad, the discourse fell upon Casson's last school, and many things Louis heard and learned of which he had remained, till then, in blissful ignorance. One or two ushers usually sat with the boys in the evening. One of these was an elderly man, uncouth and ungainly in person, and possessed of a very unfortunate temper, that was irritated in every possible manner by those whose duty it was to have soothed the infirmities and considered the trials of one whose life was spent in their service. Louis had felt a great pity for the poor solitary man who never seemed to have a friend, and now and then had spared a few minutes of his play-time to talk to him, and would ask to be allowed to cut the pencil that was employed so constantly in ruling the ciphering books; and when his flowers were in bloom, a half-open rosebud was usually presented to Mr. Garthorpe to put in his button-hole on Sunday morning. The poor usher loved Louis as warmly as any one else in that house, nor would he have believed that “that good lad,” as he called him, could have spent a great part of an evening in laughing at practical jokes played off on him, though Louis could not yet be prevailed upon to take part in them.

The next few days were spent as might be expected. Louis had now put himself under the guidance of some of the worst boys in the school, and the consequence was (for the downward path is easy) the neglect of all that was good, and the connivance at, if not actual participation in all that was wrong. His place was lost, his lessons so ill prepared, that, as formerly, he was kept in day after day, and Casson, his chief adviser, persuaded him that Mr. Danby was unjust and tyrannical, and instigated him to impertinence as a retaliation. Louis was miserable, for miserable must he be who sins against light.

It was not long before Dr. Wilkinson became aware of a change in Louis' conduct, and he took an early opportunity of speaking very seriously to him on the subject. Louis was very humble, and longed to throw open all his troubles to his master, the only person who had spoken kindly and sensibly to him since his disgrace, yet foolishly afraid to declare the whole truth to him, especially as, by the doctor's recommendation to him to follow the example of his friends Hamilton and Clifton, he found that his master was not aware that Hamilton was so much displeased with him. Unhappily, Dr. Wilkinson did not know of Louis' intimacy with Casson, nor had Casson been long enough with him to enable him to know more of him than as an idle, troublesome dunce. The doctor's admonitions were so far beneficial to Louis, that besides producing decidedly better behavior for a few days, they were instrumental in restraining him afterwards from the commission of many things which might have been both hurtful to his well-doing and future peace of mind; but unassisted by prayerful efforts on Louis' part, they could go no further than this; and as he had not strength of mind to shake off his evil companions, he soon fell back into much of his idle, giddy habits, and was classed with some of the worst boys by those of the upper school who had formerly so unwisely flattered and spoiled him. Oh, had they known how often his sad, restless, though at times reckless mind, yearned for a little kindness from them, that he might feel that every chance of retrieving their esteem had not gone! Once, after standing some time by Hamilton, he ventured to ask if he were still offended with him. Hamilton coldly disclaimed any idea of offence, and declining all discussion on the matter, hinted that Louis' conduct was too disreputable to be noticed. Louis turned from him with a proud resolve never to speak to Hamilton again. Hamilton's conscience smote him when he saw him a short time after in company with Casson and Harris, whispering and laughing in a corner, at no good, assuredly; but though he inwardly felt that he had forced Louis, in some measure, to take refuge with these boys, he was too proud to stoop from his throne of dignity to save him.

That day, when the boys returned from their walk, they entered at the back of the playground from a lane, on the opposite side of which lay some fields belonging to Dr. Wilkinson, and close on the edge of the field nearest to the ditch bounding the lane, were some out-houses, consisting of a cow-house, stables, and barn. As the lane was public property, the boys were forbidden to wander beyond the boundary of their playground, which on this side was a high wall, a wooden door shutting out all communication with any thing beyond. Notwithstanding the prohibition regarding this lane, there were now and then excursions over the wall in the direction of the cottage of an old woman, who kept a small day-school, and sold bull's-eyes and gingerbread, with other dainties of a doubtful description, and who was, more than all, willing, for “a consideration,” to perform any hazardous errand for the young gentlemen. Other sallies of a still more doubtful character occasionally took place, and Dr. Wilkinson felt sure that his orchard had been robbed more than once, though by what hands he did not always discover. On this day the boys had just entered from the lane, and, as the ushers had not been careful in seeing the door closed, it stood open for some time, while several of the boys availed themselves of the crowd of their school-fellows near it to slip out on their various errands to old Mary Simmons. Louis had been collecting mineralogical specimens during his walk, all of which he had consigned to the depths of a large green baize bag which he carried with him. He stopped a few minutes near the gate to talk about his treasures to Clifton, who had been walking with him, but the concourse becoming rather greater than Clifton found convenient, he presently moved away, and Louis was following him, his bag in one hand and two unpromising-looking stones in the other, when Casson arrested him with,

“I say, Louis, what a famous bag—lend it us a minute. I'm going to old mother Simmons's; it would hold half her shop.”

“There are stones in it,” said Louis, drawing back.

Casson verbally execrated the stones, and, declaring it was of no consequence, snatched the bag out of Louis' hand and ran away.

Rather startled by this abrupt manner of proceeding, Louis followed Casson to the verge of the lane, and waited there till he came back.

“I haven't eaten your bag, you see, but I can't spare it till we get in.”

“But are the stones there?” said Louis.

“To be sure; what do you suppose I've done with them? What a famous receptacle! I say, Louis, did you ever see the inside of the stable over the way?”

“No—I am not very fond of stables.”

“But I suspect there's something worth seeing there,” said Casson; and he proceeded to tell Louis, under a promise of the strictest secrecy, in a manner so exceedingly vulgar and improper that I do not choose to write it, that he believed that the doctor kept his winter apples in the loft of that stable, and concluded by hinting that some of them meant to find them out and help themselves. “We used to do it regularly at old Stennett's, where I went before, Louis,” he continued. “It's such fun: you must lend us your green bag, and come with us.”

“Oh! Casson, how can you think such a thing of me!” exclaimed Louis, shrinking back.

The exclamation was so loud that Casson laid his hand upon his mouth with a muttered angry ejaculation.

“One would think I had spoken of breaking open a house,” said Casson.

“It's stealing,” said Louis, in a tone of anger.

“Nonsense.”

“I tell you, Casson, it is—don't talk to me any more about it—I wish I had never known you!”

Casson burst out laughing. “What a ninny you are!” he exclaimed. “You are as easily frightened as a bird with a pop-gun. And now, I suppose, you will go with this nice little story to some good friend and make something interesting and romantic out of nothing.”

“Is it really nonsense?” said Louis, after a pause. “Tell me, Casson, truly, did you mean nothing just now?”

“Nothing, upon honor,” said the unprincipled boy. “I wanted to see you horrified.”

Louis looked doubtfully at him. “Well, please give me my bag.”

“What a hurry you are in!—you must wait till I've unloaded.”

Louis followed him to the school-room, but, Casson's crowded desk not holding all the contents of the bag, he was obliged, notwithstanding his anxiety, to wait for his property for a day or two, at the expiration of which time it was returned to him, and borrowed the next day for another expedition to Mary Simmons.

---

Chapter XX.

“Open rebuke is better than secret love.”

It now wanted little more than three weeks to the holidays. Sticks for notching were in great request, and “days” cut in paper were fastened to the testers of the several beds, to mark more securely the weary time that must elapse before the joyful breaking-up. Reginald and Louis had jointly decorated theirs with an elegant drawing of Dashwood Priory, with a coach and four in the distance, which drawing would remain uninjured till even the last of the twenty-eight strips of paper had been detached, when the owners tore the remainder for excess of joy. The subjects for examination had already been given out, and those who had any interest at stake had already commissioned Maister Dunn for candles, and begun to rise early and sit late, or as late us was allowed, at their various studies. It was with some little dismay that Louis looked down the long list of subjects for the examination of his class, for he felt that, though (thanks to Hamilton at first, and latterly some degree of perseverance on his own part) he had made some progress during the half-year: his friend Clifton's indefatigable industry had placed him so far first, that it would be almost impossible to hope for any advantage.

Hamilton was now busily engaged in the composition of a prize poem in Latin, besides the many other things with which (to use his own expression) he found it necessary “to cram himself”; for, however easy, comparatively, he had found his post the preceding half-year, he had now competitors sufficiently emulous and talented in Norman and Frank Digby—the latter of whom had shown a moderate degree of diligence during the half-year, and now, exerting to the utmost the great powers with which he was gifted, bid fair, if not to distance all his rivals, at least to claim the lion's share of the honors held out.

As Hamilton scarcely allowed himself time to run once round the playground in the day, it cannot be supposed that even had he condescended to notice Louis he would have found much time to attend to him. More than once, however, he looked rather anxiously down the long table where Louis now sat (Reginald having insisted on his leaving the school-room and his companions to their fate), and, apparently satisfied that he was doing something, resumed his own work. Louis' mind was more than ever occupied now—every moment was taken up with lessons of one kind or another. The first waking thoughts, which were formerly, at least, a consciousness of the presence of his Maker, were now so mixed up with Latin verses, English translations, French plays, ancient and modern history, that a very short time sufficed for his cold prayer—and then poured in the whole flood of daily business, only checked by as cold a semblance of a petition at night. The former half-year the case, though similar in many respects, differed in the greatest essential. Louis was not less diligent than now, but he was more prayerful; he had not more time, but he used it better; he did not leave his religion for a few minutes at night and morning, and forget it for the rest of the day; he did not shut up his Bible, and scarcely look at it from Sunday to Sunday. He who waits closely upon his God is sure to be enabled to serve him in the beauty of holiness: and those who thought at all about Louis could not but be struck with the wide difference between the gentle, humble, happy-looking boy, who bore so meekly what was unkindly done and spoken, and the equally industrious, but fevered, restless, anxious, and now rather irritable being, who toiled on day after day almost beyond his strength.

The first day of the examination, Charles Clifton and Louis were walking together, between school-hours, settling the order in which their labors were to be undertaken. As they turned the corner of the playground, near the kitchen, they encountered Harris, Casson, and Churchill, who, with Sally Simmons and her basket of apples, blocked up a narrow passage between the side of the house and the kitchen-garden wall.

“Aint they beauties, Louis?” said Churchill, at the sight. The mention of apples sufficiently disturbed Louis in the present company, and he made a violent effort to get past Harris, who was, however, so much engaged in choosing an apple from the basket, that he did not move an inch. Finding it useless at present to attempt the pass, Louis was turning back, when Sally offered the basket to him, with “Mathter Louis, you mutht hide it; I donnoh what mathter would thay.”

“There are plenty more where they came from, Sally,” said Casson.

“Here'th a nithe one, thir,” said Sally, looking in Louis' alarmed face, and pointing to one of the apples.

“They are not yours to give, Sally,” said Louis, stepping back against the wall. “Harris, Casson, Churchill, don't take them—it's dishonest.”

Sally protested in great dismay, that it was only one or two, and Dr. Wilkinson wouldn't mind.

“You know he would, Sally, or why did you say I was to hide it?” said Louis.

“Do you mean to tell him you have given away any?” asked Clifton.

“Not she; she knows better—don't you, Sally?” said Casson.

“You are not to be trusted,” said Clifton.

“Mathter Louis, you won't be going and making mithchief?” said the girl.

“If he does,” ejaculated Harris, “I'll—”

What he would do Louis never heard, for he had by this time freed himself from the basket and run away, followed more leisurely by Clifton.

“I am sure,” he said, when Clifton rejoined him, “that Sally Simmons ought not to be employed here; she is always doing forbidden things for the boys.”

“If you know of any thing wrong in her, why don't you tell Dr. Wilkinson?” said Charles.

“The next thing I know of, I shall. But I should get the boys into such a scrape,” said Louis.

“If they are bad boys they deserve it,” replied Clifton; “my father says, if we conceal evil, when we may remove it by mentioning it, we make ourselves partners in it.”

“The boys would call me a sneak if I did,” said Louis.

Charles looked at Louis in simple wonderment. “That wouldn't hinder you from doing what is right, would it? What does it matter what such fellows as those think or say?”

“Yes, but I shouldn't like to get them into a scrape,” repeated Louis, uneasily.

“Why don't you tell your friend Hamilton of it, and ask his advice?”

“Oh, Clifton! surely you know that Hamilton won't speak to me.”

“No, I didn't,” said Clifton, in a tone of surprise. “Why not? he used to be so fond of you.”

“He's offended now,” replied Louis, looking down.

“He doesn't like me, I know,” said Charles; “but he used to be so very fond of you.”

“Used—that's long ago,” said Louis, with a suppressed sigh.

“Well, but,” remarked Clifton, without showing the least curiosity to discover the cause of Louis' quarrel with Hamilton, “if you can't consult him, ask your brother.”

“I know very well what Reginald would do; he wouldn't think it right to tell of them, or of her either.”

“Then, Louis, make up your own mind.”

“It's not so easily done,” replied Louis; “oh, Charlie, I wish I were like you!”

“Oh, why?” said Charles, gravely; “you have a great many more friends, and are much better liked than I am. I have no friend but you—not that I care at all about it, but I should think you would.”

“Yes; but I wish I could make up my mind. I am not half so happy as you are, for I cannot make up my mind to do a thing because it is right. You only think about that and do it at once; and because I have so many friends, and even care about pleasing those I do not like, I am always getting into scrapes, and always doing wrong. I think there never was anybody so bad as I am. I wish papa hadn't sent me to school.”

“I like you very much,” said Clifton; “and I am sure you have done me good—on Sunday, at least.”

“Ah, it is much easier to know and talk of what is right than to do it,” replied Louis, sighing very deeply. “Oh, domum, dulce domum! But there is Reginald, and I must go and ask him a question.”

---

For several days after this occurrence, Louis was too busy, and too much with his brother, to see much of his evil advisers; and very pleased in having, as he imagined, thus got rid of them. The examination was going on in earnest; Louis had now nearly regained his old place, and was, on the whole, favorably reported of: but Clifton was not to be overcome. Thoroughly prepared, and thoroughly understanding all he had learned, he kept the first place undaunted by any difficulty, and apparently unexcited by the crisis; at least, Louis remarked to Reginald, that Clifton was so cool, he didn't seem to care whether he won or not. He had a little more color than usual, and the only beauty his face possessed—his intelligent eyes—wore perhaps a keener and more anxious expression, but this was not noticed by a casual observer; nor was the violent palpitation of the heart, when the chances ran so closely between him and the next, at the close of a two days' struggle for the mathematical prize. There were few that congratulated him on his almost unparalleled success; but few that did not respect his ability and steadiness. Never once, from the first day he came to school, had he on any occasion incurred the displeasure of his masters; and yet no one cared for him, for he had lived only for himself.

But to return to Louis. The mathematical contest was finished, and there was a little lull before the second class would be again called on, and Louis determined to spend this little interval of leisure in giving a finishing scrutiny of the history likely to be in demand. Full of his purposes, he burst into the class-room, where only Hamilton and Reginald were, the former writing very fast, and the latter looking carefully over an English essay he had just finished. Louis flew to the shelves and ransacked them in vain: almost every book he wanted was gone. At length, in despair, he asked Reginald if he knew who had Rollin's History. Reginald absently replied in the negative, as he noted down something in the page he was reading.

“The books are always gone,” said Louis, pettishly. “I suppose Charlie has it. He had it yesterday—he might as well let me have it to-day.”

“Trevannion has it, I think,” said Reginald.

“You may have mine,” said Hamilton.

Louis stood still; he wanted the book very much, but was too proud to accept the offer.

“It is in my room,” continued Hamilton, without looking up.

“Thank you, I don't want yours,” replied Louis, proudly, walking out of the room.

As he entered the school-room he confronted Dr. Wilkinson, who, having given orders for a brisk walk, was inquiring for Hamilton. Louis had scarcely taken his hand from the lock when Hamilton abruptly opened it and came quickly out of the room.

“You are the person I want,” said the doctor, laying his hand on his arm. “Hamilton, I want you to come out with me this bright day.”

“To-day, sir?” said Hamilton, whose countenance expressed any thing but delight at the proposition.

“And why put off till to-morrow what may be done to-day so well?” said the doctor, smiling. “I suppose you have hopes of the weather making a walk impracticable to-morrow: but I must have you all out, or some of you will be laid up before you go home.”

His eye fell upon Clifton, who was sitting with his elbows on a desk close by, his fingers pushed through his hair, wholly absorbed in “Gibbon's Decline and Fall.” Dr. Wilkinson addressed him twice, but, producing no impression, he removed one of the props of his head, and turned his face towards himself.

“What are you doing there?”

“History, sir,” said the boy, getting up mechanically, and looking very much as if he were not pleased at the interruption.

“I hear your name is very high in the list to-day.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Charles, gravely; and, as the doctor released him, he settled down precisely in the same attitude, without showing the least satisfaction at the notice he had received.

Hamilton turned away with an impatient gesture.

“Are you going immediately, sir?” he said. “Can you spare me a few minutes?”

“I shall be at the garden-gate in a quarter of an hour from this time,” replied the doctor.

“I will not fail, sir,” said Hamilton; and, crossing the room in immense strides, he flew up stairs, and returned almost immediately with a large volume under his arm. He made some inquiries of Trevannion's whereabouts, and, learning that he was in the playground, went in search of him. He very soon found him, walking briskly up and down with Norman, making extracts from an old book in his hand, and questioning his friend alternately. Hamilton and he had scarcely exchanged a word since their quarrel, and it was with some surprise that he saw Hamilton present himself, and still more, when a request was made that he would exchange books.

“I particularly want this just now,” he replied.

“This is Rollin,” said Hamilton. “I should feel obliged if you would exchange copies.”

Trevannion opened his eyes wider, but after a second's pause, he took Hamilton's and gave him his book in exchange, without any comment.

“What a strange whim!” remarked Norman, when Hamilton had left them, after shortly expressing his thanks.

“What can he mean, Norman?” said Trevannion. “This is his own, too.”

“Perhaps some new way of trying to make up an old quarrel,” said Norman, sneeringly.

“I don't think so,” replied Trevannion; “he would not have tried so odd a plan—no, there's something deeper than that.”

“Are the histories alike?” asked Norman.

“I believe so,” answered Trevannion; “if there's any advantage, I am sure to have it, at any rate.”

“You have a very high opinion of him.”

“Very,” said Trevannion. “If Hamilton did mean this to make up our quarrel, I am sure I shall be willing.”

“Upon my word,” said Norman, “this is dignity.”

Trevannion made no answer, for something had attracted his attention on the opposite side of the playground.

“Holloa! Norman, look there!” he exclaimed.

“Where? what! oh, horror!” cried Norman.

“There they are—they're hid; now, there they are again!—now look, who is it? Stand behind this tree a minute—now let us look out.”

Obedient to his instructions, Norman looked, and saw three boys drop down one after another from the branch of a tree, that had evidently assisted their descent from the playground wall, and then run across the playground.

“Who are they?” said Trevannion, putting up his eye-glass (which, gentle reader, be it known he carried for use). “One is Churchill, I'm sure! Who's that long fellow? Why, it's Harris, isn't it? It can't be, surely!”

“It is,” said Norman; “and the other's Casson.”

“I'm sure they are at no good,” said Trevannion; “I shall make a note of this remarkable occurrence.”

So saying, he made a memorandum of the circumstance in his pocket-book, and had just finished when the boys poured out cloaked and great-coated, and informed him of the doctor's desires.

The reader will be at no loss to discover Hamilton's reason for exchanging the books. As Louis was out, he took Dr. Wilkinson's with him into the class-room, and sat down to finish the six last words of his poem; and then, folding it neatly up, enveloped it in half a sheet of writing-paper. He was just pressing the seal upon the wax, when his watch, which he had laid open before him, warned him that the last minutes of the quarter of an hour had arrived. He just pushed his things together, and left them on the table; and snatching up his hat as he ran through the hall, scarcely arrived at the garden-gate in time to save his character for punctuality.

It so happened that Casson was Louis' companion during the walk, and entertained him with a flowing account of all the vulgar tricks he had been in the habit of playing at his former school. Louis could not help laughing at them; nor would his vanity allow him to refrain from boasting of—what he had before been properly ashamed—his own share in some of Casson's late exploits. So afraid was he of seeming inferior, even to a person he despised, and in those things which his better feelings taught him equally to despise. Casson inwardly laughed at Louis' boasted feats, as he had always done to others when Louis was out of hearing; but he now quizzed him, stimulating him, by applauding his spirit and ingenuity; and by the time they had reached the house, Louis was in a thoroughly giddy humor, ready to try, at the risk of disgrace, the new schemes to which he had just been listening.

The boys stayed in the playground till the dinner-bell rang, which was a few minutes after they had entered the playground; but these few minutes sufficed for Louis, in his present humor, to get himself in a scrape, the consequences of which, at the time, he certainly did not contemplate. He had been complaining to Casson, in the beginning of their walk, that he could not get “Rollin's History,” and, as Casson persisted that it was in the study, Louis took him there to show him his error, when they returned home.

“Ha, ha! Mr. Louis Mortimer, who's right?” cried Casson, holding up the book.

“That can't be; I wonder how it got there,” said Louis, approaching the table in a mystified manner. “These must be Trevannion's things, I suppose; only Hamilton was writing here; and here is his dictionary,—I wonder what he wanted with it—he never said he had it—he let me suppose Trevannion had it—kind of him—I suppose he wanted to prevent my getting it; but I'll have it now—he's got one of his own.”

“I'd be even with him,” said Casson; “what a heap of things! See, here's an exercise of his; or a letter, I suppose—it's too neat for an exercise. A good thick letter—sealed, too. I'll tell you what, Louis—”

Accordingly, what Casson did tell Louis was, what a “capital dodge” it would be to abstract Hamilton's sealed packet, and to leave another folded like it in its place.

“We often used to trick the boys at old Stennett's with their exercises,” continued he; “they never wrote in books there—we used to tear the leaves out of the exercise-books, and write on them. It was such jolly fun to see them open the paper and find nothing in it, or only some rubbish.”

“How did you do it?” asked Louis.

“Oh, we doubled up a bit of an old exercise-book, and exchanged, that's all!” replied Casson; “see, why here's half a sheet of paper, that'll do for the cover; and now then, Louis, more paper—he'll never miss it—that's it—fold it up just the size; how beautifully you have done it!”

“But there's no seal,” said Louis.

“He'll forget he sealed it,” replied Casson; “oh, how jolly!—here's a piece of sealing-wax—it is sealed with the top of a pencil-case.”

“I have one just like that,” said Louis; “oh, no; here's E. H. on this—that won't do, Casson.”

Casson presently relieved this difficulty by discovering Hamilton's pencil-case; and the paper was quickly sealed, when Louis began to doubt:

“But we don't know what it is, Casson.”

“If it turns out to be any thing, send it by post, directed to him, at his father's,” said Casson; “he'll get it safely enough.”

The dinner-bell rang loudly at this moment, and with a little laugh at the idea of the oddity of sending it to Hamilton's home, and a strong feeling of doubt as to the wisdom of his proceeding, Louis hastily exchanged the packets, and ran out of the room. On his way to the dining-room he paused—

“If it should be of any consequence, Casson,” he said.

“Well, if it is, so much the better fun; he won't treat you so shabbily another time.”

“Ah, but—I don't want to revenge myself, and I don't like playing tricks on Hamilton exactly, either: I think I must give it back.”

“I thought you were such a dab at these kinds of things,” said Casson, sneeringly.

“What have I done with it now?” Louis exclaimed suddenly, as they reached the dining-room door, after stopping a few seconds in the hall to hang up his coat. “What can I have done with it? I must have slipped it into my desk just now, when I put my Livy in.”

He was not able to turn back then; and, in the mean time, Hamilton had paid a hasty visit to the class-room, to collect his things, and had locked up carefully the false packet; and Louis had not courage to make any inquiries, though he hoped that he might have found the right one, which, with all his care, he could not discover himself. Louis had, in his hurry, left Rollin on the study-table, and after school he ran into the room, and finding it in nearly the same place where Hamilton had been guarding it for him, he carried it off, and Hamilton, seeing the action, made no remark on the matter.

The next evening, the Latin poems were sent in to the doctor's study for comparison, and Hamilton's blank counterfeit was titled on the cover, and dispatched with a degree of nervous anxiety that certainly would not have been called forth by a subject so empty. Louis was in an agony of remorse, when the truth burst on him. His only hope was, that Hamilton might have found the right packet. He heard the speculations around him as to the probability of success, and saw the last paper put into Norman's hand to be carried away, but he dared not say any thing. He had never dreamt of the importance of the paper he had so carelessly dropped or mislaid, and would have given all he possessed to have remembered what he had done with it.

Nothing more was done that evening. Study had helped to drive away the smaller qualms of conscience the day before; but he was now so sick at heart, that he remained with his head on his hand doing nothing, puzzling himself in vain to remember what he had done with the poem.

---

Chapter XXI.

It was Saturday night when the manuscripts were delivered to the doctor, and it was not till Monday that the absence of Hamilton's poem was discovered. As much of Sunday as he was able, Louis spent with Casson, trying to discover what could have become of the poem, and in devising all manner of schemes for its recovery and restoration. Little comfort he received from his tempter—Casson alternately laughed at his fears, and blamed his cowardice—and, in order to escape this, Louis affected to be indifferent to the consequences, concealing his heaviness of heart under assumed mirth and unconcern. He had lately spent many cold, careless Sabbaths, but one so utterly wretched as this he could not remember.

The boys had just left the dining-room on Monday, after dinner, when a summons to the doctor's study came for Hamilton. As this was not an uncommon occurrence, Hamilton betrayed neither curiosity nor uneasiness, but quietly gave a few directions to his little brother, and then leisurely left the room. He was soon in the presence of Dr. Wilkinson, Mr. James Wilkinson, and an old gentleman who had a day or two before been examining his class, and who usually assisted in the half-yearly examinations. The countenances of these gentlemen were not very promising, and he instantly saw that something unpleasant might be expected. Before the doctor lay a number of folded papers, which Hamilton recognized as the poems under consideration, and in his hand was a blank sheet of paper, the envelope of which had fallen on the floor.

“Mr. Hamilton,” said the doctor, “I have sent for you to explain this strange affair. Pray can you tell me what was in this envelope?” He stooped, and, picking up the paper as he spoke, handed it to Hamilton.

“My poem, sir,” replied Hamilton, quietly.

“You are sure that is your writing?”

“Quite,” said Hamilton, confidently.

“I have been able to discover nothing more than this,” said the doctor, with something like annoyance in his tone. “I do not know whether you have been writing with invisible ink. This is a mistake, Hamilton,” he added, turning the blank sheet in all directions. “Where is your poem?”

“That in my envelope, sir!” exclaimed Hamilton, reddening to the roots of his hair. “In my envelope!” he reiterated, taking up the envelope and re-examining it in a state of tremulous excitement. “I cannot have made such a mistake—it is utterly impossible.”

“I should say so—impossible, unconsciously, to make so great a mistake,” said the old gentleman.

“And equally so, sir, to make it consciously,” replied Hamilton.

“But where is the poem?” asked Dr. Wilkinson.

“I expected it was here,” said Hamilton—“and, as it is not, I cannot answer that question, sir.” He again turned over the paper, but could find no clue to the mystery.

“Is the paper the same as you used?” asked Mr. James.

“It is,” replied Hamilton; “and the seal is my own, as well as the writing.”

“What is the seal?” asked Dr. Berry, the old gentleman.

“E.H. It belongs to this pencil-case,” answered Hamilton, producing his pencil-case. “I always carry it about with me.”

“That's awkward again,” said Dr. Berry, exchanging a look with Mr. James.

“Have you never left your pencil-case about lately, nor lent it to any one?” asked Dr. Wilkinson.

Hamilton considered.

“I believe I left it with all my things on the class-room table last Friday, when I went out with you, sir.”

“Ah!” said Dr. Berry, “what did you leave there?”

“Some writing-paper, pens, a few books, and my poem, which I had just finished.”

“That was careless of you, Hamilton,” said Dr. Wilkinson.

“I had only just sealed it in time to run after you, sir,” replied Hamilton; “and, as every one was out, I thought there could be no harm in leaving them there till I returned.”

“How much paper did you leave there?” asked Mr. James.

“About half a quire.”

“About half a quire; then, I suppose, you do not know whether any of that paper was taken while you were away?”

“No, I do not,” replied Hamilton. “If any one changed it, it must have been then; as, after I came home, it was locked up in my own writing-desk till Saturday evening.”

“It might have been changed on the way,” suggested Mr. James.

Hamilton was silent for a few seconds, when he answered:

“I do not think so; for I am sure this is my writing: I must unwittingly have directed an empty packet.”

“Unless,” said Dr. Wilkinson, quietly, “some one has imitated your writing?”

“I only know one who could,” replied Hamilton, coloring; “and, I am confident, he was not the party: besides, sir, I do not think there was time, between Norman's departure and his return, to have done it, and that was the only time any one would have had after I had directed it. I did not direct it till Saturday evening.”

“But you said the boys were all out at the same time with yourself; and, in fact, I know they were: I saw them going in as we turned into the playground,” said Dr. Wilkinson. “Did no one stay at home? Stay—Friday—Digby was at home; I remember he pleaded his cold.”

Dr. Wilkinson looked down on the paper he held: there was a strong expression of suspicion in his countenance. The other gentlemen exchanged looks, and Mr. James remarked, that he considered Frank the probable culprit.

“I am glad he does not hear you say so, sir,” exclaimed Hamilton. “I am sure Digby would sooner put his own on the fire! I'd trust Frank's honor as much as my own; and, I am sure, sir,” he added, turning to Dr. Wilkinson, “you know Frank too well.”

To Hamilton's annoyance, Dr. Wilkinson did not reply immediately.

“Frank is too fond of practical jokes,” he said, at last; “I wish I could give him a lesson he would remember. He will never be cured till it touches him severely.”

“But Frank would not joke on this, sir,” expostulated Hamilton. “If he were not so high it might be so, but I'm sure it is not now.”

“Well, there is no time now to consider of this any more,” said Dr. Wilkinson, getting up. “I could bring forward many instances of Digby's disregard of feelings and appearances when his fancy for joking interferes. Dr. Berry, will you be kind enough to attend to these for me, this afternoon? I shall be glad to call upon you on Wednesday for my second class, if you can spare me the day.”

Dr. Berry signified his ready acquiescence; and Dr. Wilkinson turned to Hamilton:

“It is just school-time,” he said; “but I wish you, after school, to make a search in every desk for your poem. I do not imagine it is destroyed. Mr. James will assist you. In the mean time, in the event of your poem not being discovered, you had better rewrite it as well as you can; I will give you till nine o'clock on the last morning.”

Hamilton bowed, thanked his master, and retired, exceedingly uncomfortable. His own loss was slight compared with the vexation he felt at any suspicion of Frank's honor being raised. A very different surmise would now and then try to rise in his own mind, but was vigorously opposed as ungenerous in the extreme. An idea of the real culprit never once occurred to him, nor to any other person. The first class being disengaged that afternoon, Hamilton employed himself with the new edition of his poem, but his thoughts wandered; and, had it not been for a good memory and the force of habitual concentration, he would have found it almost impossible to resume a task he had considered as finished, in circumstances so very disagreeable to him.

As soon as the business of the day was concluded Dr. Wilkinson commanded every one to remain in his place, and then desired Hamilton to begin the search, carefully refraining from mentioning the object in quest. There was considerable excitement in the school when the doctor's command was made known, and it was strictly enforced, that no one should touch the desks till after the search had been made.

“Frank Digby, come here!” shouted the doctor from his post. “Did I not desire that none of those desks should be touched at present?”

“I was only putting my slate away, sir,” said Frank, in much amazement.

“I will not have your desk touched; stay here.”

“What's in the wind?” muttered Jones, sulkily. “The magister's in a splendid humor. What do you want in my desk, Hamilton?”

“A trick has been played on me,” said Hamilton, hastily; “my poem has been exchanged; but—” he added, hesitating, “I cannot bear this.”

“Nonsense, Hamilton!” said Mr. James, who was turning over the contents of Jones's desk. “There is nothing there.”

“Stand back, and let Hamilton look, pray!” exclaimed Reginald Mortimer. “What a shame it is!—you don't suspect us, Hamilton?”

“To be sure not!” said Hamilton, warmly; “but I am desired to do this.”

“So much the better,” said Salisbury; “you'll find mine locked, but here are my keys: we'll go up to the doctor. I say, Hamilton, don't upset my bottle of lemon kali, or my blue ink; you mightn't see them, perhaps, among the other things.”

Hamilton took the keys with some embarrassment, and the first class moved in a body to the upper end of the room, where they remained till every desk had been subjected to a fruitless ransacking.

Louis' state of mind may be easily imagined. He had guessed the reason of the doctor's command the instant it was given; and had also heard the few words that passed between Hamilton and his friends. Oh! what would he have given that he had considered before he committed such folly! He could not bear to face Hamilton, and yet he must be near him when his own desk was examined, for he dared not move from his place. He had looked carefully there himself, but still he was afraid it might, by chance, be there. He hardly dared look round, for fear he should betray his secret; and yet his distress sadly longed for vent. “I did not mean to do any harm,” was his reiterated thought; “I am sure, I thought it was a letter—I did not mean it.” And then he wished to confess his fault; but, with his usual vacillation of purpose, he deferred it, till he should see how things went. It did seem strange that, with all the lessons he had had, he should have put off his confession; yet he dared not, and tried to quiet his conscience with, “I shall tell Hamilton alone;”and, “It's no use telling, when I can't find the poem.” But his trouble was tenfold increased when Hamilton and Mr. James came near him, and finding his desk locked, inquired who's it was, and where the keys were.

Hamilton remarked in a low tone, not aware that Louis was so near, “I suppose for form's sake we must look, but I am sure, poor fellow, he has nothing to do with it.”

Louis just then handed his key; and, as Hamilton's hand came in contact with his, he was struck by its cold clamminess, and just looking at him, noticed the troubled expression, and the almost tearful eyes that were fixed on him. He attributed Louis' anxiety to his natural timidity, as well as to his having probably overheard the remark on himself; and his heart smote him, for he still loved him, and had felt once or twice lately, that he had not done his duty towards him.

The poem was not found. Louis ran out into the playground, despite the cold and twilight, to cry; and hurried in again in a few minutes, for fear of discovery. The members of the first class gathered round Hamilton to learn the story and to condole with him, and even Trevannion made some remark on the shamefulness of such a trick.

“I am sure, whoever gets the prize will not feel comfortable unless your poem is found and compared,” said Frank; “write away, Hamilton; no one shall disturb you. I don't wonder Fudge was in such a passion.”

Louis was very glad when bed-time came, and he could hide his tears and misery under the bed-clothes. Reginald had been too busy to notice that any thing was the matter with him; but Hamilton, occupied as he was, had seen it, though Louis had kept out of his way as much as possible. He dared not tell Reginald his trouble; and he felt afraid to pray—he did not remember that, though our Heavenly Father knows all our thoughts and wants, He requires that all our care and sin should be poured out before Him. The Christian does not love sin; and when, through unwatchfulness or neglect of prayer, he has been betrayed into the commission of it, let him remember, that He alone can remove it and restore peace to his wounded conscience, who has said, “Return, ye backsliding children, and I will heal your backslidings.”

---

Louis got on very ill the next Wednesday, and Reginald, extremely vexed, spoke very angrily to him. Louis answered as unkindly, and walked proudly away from him to the other end of the school-room, where, in spite of his abhorrence of such company, he was soon surrounded by his worst companions. Hamilton was standing near Reginald at the time; he watched Louis in his proud descent, and saw that, though he turned away with an erect head and high words, his step soon grew more listless, and an expression of indefinable weariness usurped the place of the independence he had assumed.

“Louis is unwell, I am sure, Reginald,” he said.

“He is well enough,” said Reginald, abruptly; “but he is sadly altered: I never saw a boy so changed. He is quite ill-tempered now, and so horridly idle. Why, Hamilton, you'd never believe that in to-day's examination in Prometheus Vinctus, he got down below Harris!—he's positively at the bottom. He hardly answered any thing, and seemed quite stupefied.”

“The more reason to think he's not well,” said Hamilton; “for, to my certain knowledge, he would have stood an examination on Prometheus better than that, a week after we came back. Why, Harris and Peters, and half the rest, are not to be compared with him.”

“I know it,” said Reginald; “and that makes it the more vexatious. It's bad enough to think that Clifton should get ahead of him, but one may comfort one's self in the idea of his genius; but when it comes to those donkeyfied ignorami, it is past endurance. He has not tried a bit: I have seen him lately with his book before him, dreaming about some wonderful story of some enchanted ass, or some giantess Mamouka, I suppose; or imagining some new ode to some incomprehensible, un-come-at-able Dulcinea. He is always shutting himself up in his air-castles, and expecting that dry Latin and Greek, and other such miserable facts, will penetrate his atmosphere.”

“Don't be angry with him; something is the matter. You only drive him to herd with those boys,” said Hamilton. “Look there!—there they are!—oh, Reginald! it is not right to leave him with them.”

“Speak to him yourself, Hamilton,” said Reginald, a little sobered. “He will mind you. You have had a great deal to bear with him, but I know you make allowances.”

Hamilton did not reply, but he had determined on making the effort to detach Louis from his evil counsellors, when the latter suddenly left the room with Casson, and did not return till Hamilton had gone into the class-room.

Casson was the only one to whom Louis could relieve his mind on the subject that weighed him down so heavily—and he had, at the time Hamilton was watching him so intently, been whispering some of his fears, only to be laughed at. Suddenly he paused—“Casson, just come with me; I think I recollect—yes, surely—”

He did not wait to conclude his sentence, but, pulling Casson into the hall, sought his great-coat, dived to the bottom of the pocket, and, to his great joy, drew forth Hamilton's poem.

“It's here! it's here! it's here!” he cried. “How could I have put it here without knowing? Oh, my dear Casson, I am so glad!”

“Well, what now?” said Casson, rudely. “What good is it? What do you mean to do with it?”

“Give it back, of course—I think Hamilton will forgive me, and if not, I must give it back to him, and then, perhaps, I shall be happy again; for I have not been happy for a long, long while: I have been very wrong,” he added, in a low, sorrowful tone.

“If ever I saw such a sap in my life,” said Casson; “this comes of all your fine boasting; a nice fellow you are—why you're afraid of your own shadow! Do you know what you'll get if you give it back?”

“Whatever happens,” said Louis, “I feel I have done wrong—wrong in listening to you, too, Casson. Oh, if ever it please God to make me happy again, I hope I shall be more careful! I have been afraid to do right—I am afraid to think of all that has happened lately.”

“I always thought you were a canting hypocrite,” said Casson, sneeringly. “I never see that you religious people do any better than any one else. Go and get a thrashing, as you deserve, for your cowardice, only don't tell any lies about me. Remember it was all your own doing.”

Casson opened the hall-door as he spoke, and ran into the playground, where most of the boys had assembled, the weather having cleared a little for the first time for the last two days.

Louis sat down on a chair to think what he should do, and the long-restrained tears coursed slowly down his face. His first and best thought was to go at once to Hamilton, acknowledge his fault, and restore the poem. Then came the idea of renewed disgrace, and his head sunk lower on his breast, and the parcel fell from his powerless hands. So intense was his grief, that he was as unconscious that Dr. Wilkinson passed through the hall while he sat there, as that he had heard the conversation between himself and Casson; for, unknown to them both, he had been in a recess of the hall, nearly covered by the cloaks and coats, looking there for something in a little corner closet. Louis at last took up the paper, and went to Hamilton's room; but a servant was there, and he did not like to leave it. Next he thought of the doctor's study, but he dared not venture to approach it. At length, after wandering about from the bed-room to the lass-room door several times, he ventured to peep into the latter room, and, throwing the parcel in, ran to the playground as fast as his feet could carry him.

---

Chapter XXII.

“Bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.”—Gal. vi. 2.

As soon as Hamilton had decided that it was of no use following Louis, he called his brother to him and marched with him into the class-room, to explain, according to promise, some classical allusions that occurred in his Latin grammar. Reginald took his arm, and several of the first class, who saw them move, accompanied him, for the glass-door opening at the moment, admitted more cold air than was agreeable to those who did not feel inclined to visit the playground. They almost expected to find the doctor in the study, as they knew he had been there a short time before, but the sole occupant of the chamber was Frank Digby, who, to the astonishment of all, was standing in a very disconsolate attitude near the fireplace, leaning his head on the mantelpiece, and neither moved nor spoke when they entered.

“Holloa, Momus!” exclaimed Reginald, “what's the row? as Salisbury would say; only, more properly we might ask, in your case, what do the tranquillity and genteel pensiveness of your demeanor denote?”

“We're going to have a change in the weather,” said Jones.

“What's the matter, Frank?” asked Hamilton.

“Nothing,” replied Frank, raising his head quickly, and endeavoring, rather unsuccessfully, to smile, amid something that looked very much like tears; at least, if we must not be allowed to hint at such appearances, there was certainly much agitation in his countenance—so unusual a phenomenon, that a dead silence followed the ghastly effort.

“Nonsense,” said Hamilton, kindly; “you won't persuade me that nothing is the matter, Frank.”

“Nothing particular,” said Frank, fidgeting with a penny that lay on the mantelpiece; “only the doctor has been giving me a lecture for the good of my morals, that's all.”

“A lecture?” repeated Norman.

“What's been the matter, Frank?” said Reginald.

“A small moral discourse upon the sin and danger of practical jokes,” said Frank, swallowing down such an evident degree of emotion as convinced his auditors that the discourse had been no ordinary one. “His hints were rather peculiar, Hamilton—too decided for so quick-sighted a youth as myself. I don't wonder he has such a horror of a joke; I should think the dear man never was guilty of such a crime in his life himself; or he has a strong imagination; or, perhaps, a bad opinion of your humble servant—all the same—the cause doesn't much signify; the effect's what one looks at.”

“Something dreadfully mysterious,” said Reginald.

Hamilton was silent. He watched anxiously Frank's varying countenance, the twitching of which, as well as the thick, quick tone in which he spoke, betrayed great excitement.

“The fact is, I suppose, the doctor has reasons for his suspicions,” continued Frank, still more quickly, while his face grew redder, and his eyelids twinkled painfully, and the penny was fairly spun into the fender.

“I haven't been quite so sage as I might have been, and, perhaps, jokes may not be quite gentlemanly—but,—but, Hamilton,—he thinks,—he thinks—and almost said it—that I changed your poem.”

“What a shame!” they cried.

Frank stooped to pick up the penny, and was some minutes finding it. When he rose, he said:

“One will grow old in time, but it's hard to pay so dearly for good spirits. However, you couldn't expect such a flow cheap, I suppose,” he added, with a little laugh.

“You must have mistaken him,” said Trevannion; “he couldn't have meant it.”

“I am not in the habit of taking offence at nothing,” replied Frank. “Nay, I can be as purposely obtuse as any one when I choose, but one couldn't be blind.”

“What did he say?” said Reginald.

“I don't exactly remember—a heap about ‘pain inflicted,’ of ‘misconstructions being placed on motives,’ of ‘transgressions against honor and kindliness;’ and then, when I was at a loss to comprehend him, he said, ‘he could not understand the gratification of seeing another disappointed and annoyed—when he discovered that his school-fellow, whom he confidently trusted, had substituted a blank sheet for a carefully, laboriously-written work;’ and then I asked him if he supposed I had tricked Hamilton? and he said he couldn't think of another who was so likely to do it as myself—that ‘the constant indulgence in these senseless follies was likely to blunt the sense of honor,’ ‘that I must excuse him’—excuse him, forsooth—‘if he spoke his mind on the subject;’ and then he raked up an old affair, that happened ages ago, about an exercise—Salisbury, you remember—you were the victim; but that was a paltry, every-day affair, only he didn't seem to understand the difference. I'll back the doctor up for as good a memory as any man in the three kingdoms. I had forgotten that piece of moral turpitude, and might have been excused for imagining that the caning I got then had wiped out the offence. Hamilton,” he added, with a faltering voice, laying his hand on Hamilton's shoulder—“you don't believe I did it?”

“To be sure not, Frank,” said Hamilton, heartily shaking Frank's hand. “I know you too well—I am as confident of you as I should be of myself in the same case. Don't think any more of it. I am sure the doctor doesn't believe it himself: he only wants to show what might be thought if you get a character for playing tricks. I am excessively vexed at this.”

“I don't feel at all certain he believes me yet,” said Frank; “but this I declare, that unless your poem is found, I will withdraw all claim—I won't touch the prize for any consideration.”

“Don't do that, Frank,” said Hamilton; “I'll give you some trouble yet with my new one.”

“If that gets it, so much the better,” said Frank, “and I dare say it will; but you all hear—my mind is made up—I won't have a prize for this poem unless it is gained over Hamilton's first.”

“How came the doctor to begin this rigmarole?” asked Salisbury.

Frank blushed, and replied, with a conscious laugh: “I did an abominably foolish thing last night, in dipping all the bed-room candles that were standing in the pantry, into a tempting basin of water; and Mrs. Guppy was malicious because the candles sputtered and wouldn't light, and, as usual, determined that I had done it; and Fudge taxed me with it this morning.”

“I wish,” said Hamilton, emphatically, “I could discover the author of this shameful piece of business. It was vexatious enough in the first place, but this is painful to us all. Frank, every one knows you.”

“Doctor best of all,” put in Frank.

“I will give myself up to discovering who has done it,” said Hamilton.

“You had better give yourself up to finishing your poem,” said Reginald; “for it's my humble opinion if you haven't found it now, your eyes won't discover the clue, if you were Argus himself.”

The others then began a rather noisy debate on the impropriety of their master's behavior; and little Alfred, finding his brother was not speaking, ventured to remind him of his promise. Contrary to his usual habit, Hamilton turned quite crossly to him:

“What an idle fellow you are! Why don't you get Lemprière and find them out for yourself?—you ought not to be beginning now.”

“I tried, Edward, but I couldn't understand it, and it went out of my head. I want to know about Cecropia again—I forget what country it was, Edward,” said the child, timidly, noticing an ominous reddening of his brother's face.

“A great deal of use it is giving you any information, is it not, sir? I have a great mind to make you write out every word I say. And pray what else have you forgotten?”

“Not forgotten any thing,” said Alfred, meekly; “but I wanted to know, please Edward, who was Hannibal's father, and whether it was true about Hannibal's making the rocks red hot, and pouring vinegar on them? I don't think it could, for I don't know where he could get so much.”

“A great deal he carried in his own countenance,” said Frank, “and the rest was made from the wine supplied for the Carthaginian officers. There's nothing like white-wine vinegar, Alfred; and the Carthaginians were renowned for parting with luxuries on an emergency.”

“Now I know that's your nonsense,” said Alfred, looking very puzzled. “And, please Edward, who was Philomela and—”

“That's enough—one at a time!” exclaimed Hamilton; “get Lemprière, and my Roman History, and you shall look them out with me. It's to be hoped you are not dreaming of a prize.”

“Poor infant!” said Salisbury; “it's hard work, I know, to remember the difference between those heathen chaps.”

Alfred had just brought the required books, and was opening them by his brother's desire, and Hamilton was standing near him at the table, when suddenly a packet was thrown into the room, and fell at his feet. Changing color, he picked it up with the rapidity of lightning, and, with an exclamation, rushed out of the room, before any one but Alfred had seen the transaction. Louis had just gained the threshold of the door leading to the playground, when Hamilton hailed him, and his long strides gaining on Louis' terror-impeded steps, he presently reached him, and, grasping him tightly by both arms, bore him back to the class-room, sternly desiring two or three boys, who attempted to follow, to stay behind. Louis did not make any resistance, and Hamilton, after locking the door and putting the key into his pocket, brought him irresistibly to the front of the fire, and, placing him with his back against the table, opposite the assembled group, desired him, under pain of instant punishment, to remain where he was.

“What is the matter with him, Hamilton?” asked Reginald.

“You shall see presently,” said Hamilton; “I mean to have some inquiries answered: and please, Mortimer, however unpleasant it may be to you, let us have fair play.”

“I only stipulate it for Louis too,” said Reginald.

“He shall have it,” said Hamilton, calmly; “but if he attempts to move till I have done, I will carry him at once to Dr. Wilkinson.”

Hamilton glanced at the windows, where five or six heads were darkening the lower panes, in their eagerness to discover the cause of Louis' forcible abduction; and, walking coolly up to them, bolted them, and drew down both blinds. He then returned to his place, and, drawing his coat-tails under his arms, arranged himself with his back to the fire, exactly opposite to Louis, who stood passively where he had been placed, very pale, but otherwise showing little emotion.

“Now, sir,” began Hamilton, “explain how you got this.”

As he spoke, he produced, to the astonishment of his school-fellows, the parcel—rubbed at the edges, but still the identical parcel, as he proved, by breaking the seal, and showing the writing inside.

“What! Louis Mortimer!” exclaimed Jones.

“Et tu Brute!” ejaculated Frank, in a tone of mingled surprise and reproach.

“Louis!” said Reginald, coloring deeply; “oh, Louis! How did you find it, Hamilton?”

“Did you not see it come in through the half-open door just now?” said Hamilton.

“I fancied I saw something fly along,” said Meredith.

“I thought I heard something fall,” said another.

“Too cowardly to come openly,” said Trevannion.

The room seemed to turn round with Louis.

“How did you come by this?” said Hamilton.

There was no answer.

“I will have an answer, Louis,” he said: “and if you don't give it to me, you shall to Dr. Wilkinson!”

Louis murmured something that no one heard.

“What?” said Hamilton, sharply; “speak so as we can all hear. If you have brought it back for some one else,” he added, in a softened tone, “say so at once; only let me know who took it.”

“I took it,” replied Louis, with a great effort.

“You ungrateful viper!” exclaimed Jones.

Hamilton appeared a little moved, but checking the emotion, continued:

“You! for—your—own—especial—gratification? And pray, when might you have accomplished that adroit and praiseworthy feat?”

“Last Friday,” said Louis, in so low a tone, that nothing but the silence that reigned could have made it audible.

“And what was your motive?” asked Hamilton, leaning back against the mantelpiece, and putting one foot on the fender behind him.

“Only a little fun!”

“Pretty respectable fun!” said Hamilton, contemptuously.

“Gratitude might have restrained you, one would think,” said Jones, “if nothing else would. A pretty return for all Hamilton's kindness, to set to work to lose him his prize!”

“I didn't, Jones,” said Louis, warmly; “I thought it was a letter; I didn't mean any harm. And as to gratitude—when Hamilton was kind to me, I was grateful—and I do feel grateful for his kindness now; but he has been unkind enough lately to make me forget that.”

“And reason enough he had,” said Meredith. “Unkind, indeed! why no one else stood your friend when we found out what a tell-tale you were.”

“I am sure nobody knew he was my friend then,” said Louis, assuming an air of independence that ill became him. “Only last Friday, he let me believe that Trevannion had the doctor's Rollin; he offered me his, but I wasn't likely to take that, and—” Louis hesitated, for Hamilton's eye was upon him so calmly and inquiringly; and Louis felt he was not likely to have had such an idea in his head.

“And what?” said Hamilton, quietly.

“Nothing,” replied Louis; “I don't believe you knew, only it was rather strange, Hamilton.”

“What was strange?” said Hamilton, in the same unmoved tone.

“Only when I came back into this room, I saw it on the table with your things, and I thought you had it, perhaps,” said Louis, reluctantly. “If it hadn't been for that, I shouldn't have come here, and shouldn't have thought of playing the trick.”

“You little—” exclaimed Trevannion. Not being able to find a genteel epithet strong enough, he continued, “When Hamilton had just taken the trouble of exchanging his own history with me, for your service! I see it all now, Hamilton—you ungrateful boy!”

“How should I know? he never said so,” replied Louis, touched to the heart at this proof of his friend's kindness; and grieved very deeply that he should have thought or said so unkind a thing of him in his anger. “How am I to know what people think, if they don't speak, or if I don't see them?”

“And so you did it out of revenge?” said Hamilton.

Louis was silent for a minute, for he could not speak; but at last he replied, in a quivering voice—

“No; I told you I did it out of fun. I thought it was a letter, and—and I have been very sorry I ever did any thing so foolish. I should have brought it back sooner, but I could not remember what I did with it.”

“Why did you not tell me, at least, that you had taken it, Louis,” said Hamilton, “when I was inquiring for it? It would have been more open.”

“I should have done it, I believe, if I had known how you would have heard me—but it's not so easy when every one is against you. I brought it only a few minutes after I found it.”

“Who put such a thing into your head, Louis?” asked Reginald.

Louis checked the answer he had nearly given, and remained silent.

“Were you alone?” said Hamilton. “Were you the only one concerned in this business?”

“I was not alone,” replied Louis, rather proudly; “but I do not mean to say who was with me. He was not to blame for what I did.”

“How so?” asked Hamilton. “Didn't he put it into your head, and help you to do it?”

“You have no right to ask such questions,” said Louis, uneasily. “He came in to help me find Rollin, and—that's all I shall tell you.”

“What, Casson help you to find Rollin!” said Hamilton, quickly. “He wouldn't know the book from a Lexicon.”

“He did, however,” said Louis; then, becoming suddenly conscious, from the intelligent glances exchanged among his judges, of the admission he had made, he turned very red, and exclaimed,

“It's very unfair!”

“I knew he was your companion,” said Hamilton, rather scornfully. “You have belonged to his set too much lately to suppose otherwise—and this is the consequence.”

“If it is, Hamilton,” said Louis, scarcely able to speak for the warmth of his feelings, “you might have prevented it if you would. You wouldn't forgive my speaking carelessly once—and no one that I cared for would notice me. He was almost the only one who would speak to me. If you had said one word, I shouldn't have been so bad. I thought you didn't care about me, and I didn't mean to stay where I wasn't wanted.”

The expression of Hamilton's face was not easy, and he drowned the end of Louis' speech by knocking all the fire-irons down with a movement of his poised foot.

“It was a likely way to be wanted, I imagine,” said Jones, “to go on as you have been doing. Besides, who is to know what's likely to be safe with such a tell-tale—a traitor—in the camp as you are?”

“If there hadn't been another as great,” said Louis, “you would never have known of me; but you bear with him because you can't turn him out.”

“Pray, sir!” exclaimed Norman, “whom do you mean?”

Louis felt sorry he had allowed himself to say so much; but he stood unshrinkingly before his interrogator, and replied:

“I mean you, Norman: you know if you hadn't told tales of me this wouldn't have happened.”

What vengeance Louis might have drawn on himself by this ill-judged speech we cannot tell, had not Hamilton stepped forward and interposed.

There was a grim ghost of a smile on his face as he put his arm in front of Louis.

“Fair play, Norman,” he said; “I won't have him touched here. You can go now.”

As Louis left the room, Hamilton resumed his former attitude, and seemed lost in a revery of an unpleasant description, while a discussion on Louis' conduct was noisily carried on around him: some declaring that Louis had done the deed from malicious motives, others believing that it was merely a foolish joke of which he had not calculated the consequences, and a third party attributing it entirely to Casson's influence.

“Vexed as I am to find Louis has been so foolish,” said Reginald, “I am glad, Frank, that you will now be cleared. Hamilton, I am sure you believe that Louis only intended a joke?”

Hamilton nodded gravely.

“I suppose you'll clear up the matter instanter, Hamilton?” said Jones.

“Clear up the matter? How! is it not clear enough already?” said Hamilton, almost fiercely.

“Clear to us, but not to the doctor,” said Meredith.

“It's as clear as it's likely to be, then,” said Hamilton. “I intend to send up this poem the last evening, and say nothing about it.”

“A likely story!” exclaimed Jones.

“If you don't, I shall, Hamilton,” said Salisbury.

“Whoever breathes a word of the matter,” cried Hamilton, “ceases from that moment to be a friend of mine. Whose business is it, I should like to know—if I choose to throw that unhappy thing on the fire, who is the loser but myself? What satisfaction can it be to any one to get that boy into such a mess?”

As Hamilton spoke he disdainfully flung the poem on the table, and drew the fender, contents and all, on the floor with his fidgety foot.

“The matter comes to this,” said Reginald: “it appears that either Louis must be exposed, or Frank suffer for his delinquencies. It is not, certainly, fair to Frank, and mustn't be, Hamilton, though Louis is my brother.”

Hamilton cast a bewildered look on Frank.

“True, I had really forgotten Frank. It must be so, then,” he said, in a lower tone.

“No, Hamilton, no!” said Frank; “I won't have you tell of poor Louis. I don't care a bit about Fudge's suspicions now, you all know I am clear. Don't say a word about it, I beg.”

“Frank, you're a fine fellow!” exclaimed Hamilton, grasping his hand; “but I don't think it is quite fair.”

“Nonsense!” said Frank, gayly; “I owe him something for relieving me from my situation; and, besides,” he added, more gravely, “Louis deserves a little forbearance from us: none of us would have done what he did, last half.”

“You are right,” said Hamilton, warmly; “none of us would, but all of us have forgotten that lately; even Ferrers, who ought, at least, to have befriended him, has turned the cold shoulder to him. I feel quite indignant with Ferrers.”

“Ferrers had a little reason to doubt him,” said Trevannion.

“What, for letting his name slip out by accident?” said Hamilton, scornfully; “you heard how he let out Casson's just now—you wouldn't blame him for that, I imagine?”

“No,” said Frank; “and I can tell you that Mrs. Paget (no offence to her nephew) is one of those dear retailers of all descriptions of news, that would worm a secret out of a toad in a stone, and Louis hasn't ready wit enough to manage her.”

“He has no presence of mind, and a little vanity,” said Hamilton.

“He is as vain as a peacock—a lump of vanity!” exclaimed Norman; “without an atom of moral courage to stand any persuasion short of being desired to put his head into the fire—a perfect coward!”

“And where did you get your moral courage, Mr. Norman?” said Hamilton, with deliberate gravity; “we may send you to the heathen for reproof:

‘If thou hast strength, 'twas heaven that strength bestowed,

For know, vain man, thy valor is from God.’ ”

Norman was on the point of speaking, but Hamilton continued in the same calm, irresistible manner:

“If Louis is vain, we are proud; and I should like to know which is the worst,—having an exalted opinion of ourselves, or craving the exalted opinion of others? We have not behaved well to Louis, poor fellow! we first spoiled him by over-indulgence and flattery, and when this recoils upon us, we visit all the evil heavily on him.”

“I only want to remark,” said Meredith, “that we had a right to expect more consistency in a professed saint.”

“Perhaps so,” said Hamilton; “yet, though I am sure Louis is a sincere Christian, he is not free from faults, and had still a hard work to do in overcoming them; and, because he has for a time forgotten that he had this work to do, shall we cast him off as a reprobate? Remember it was his former blameless conduct that made us expect more from him than another: the Power that guided him then can restore him again. But we have sadly forgotten that great duty, of bearing one another's burdens, which he taught us so sweetly a few months ago. Let us forgive him,” continued Hamilton, with tears in his eyes, “as we would be forgiven; considering how we should act in temptation ourselves.”

There was a dead silence, for Hamilton's address had something solemn in it. He added, after a short pause—

“I feel that we seniors have an immense responsibility: the power of doing much good or harm lies with us. I have been far too selfish and indifferent: Trevannion, will you forgive the thoughtless words that so justly offended you, but which, I assure you, had only the meaning of an angry emotion?”

“Willingly!” said Trevannion, starting up to meet the proffered hand of his friend; “I am sorry I should have been so much offended.”

Reginald was making some acknowledgments to Hamilton and Frank, when a messenger came to summon Hamilton to a short turn with the doctor, and after gladly accepting Reginald's offer of performing his task towards Alfred, he took up his poem, and went away full of deep thoughts and regrets, that the late scene had called forth.

---

Chapter XXIII.

“O Israel, return unto the Lord thy God; for thou hast fallen by thine iniquity. Take with you words, and turn to the Lord: say unto Him, Take away all iniquity, and receive us graciously; so will we render the calves of our lips.”—Hosea xiv. 1, 2.

When Louis left the class-room, his feelings of grief and shame were almost too bitter for restraint; but he had learned lately to conceal something of what he felt from those who were not likely to sympathize with him; and finding some boys in the school-room, and being subjected there to several disagreeable remarks and questions, he went into the playground, in the hope of finding either relief in change of scene, or a little more seclusion than he could hope for in-doors; and after escaping from some tormentors, who met him at the door, in their anxiety to know what Hamilton wanted with him, he went towards the side of the playground that looked upon the lane, hardly caring where he was going, or what became of him.

The door was open, and disregarding, or more properly, forgetting, the injunctions respecting it, he went up to it, and stood looking out into the lane, till at last, one of his school-fellows discovering the open door, came up, and asked him to keep watch for him, while he went on a forbidden errand.

Meantime, Dr. Wilkinson and Hamilton had, after a walk across the grounds in front of the house, turned into the lane, making as large a round as possible, on their way to the house. Hamilton was in a very silent humor, and as his tutor was equally grave, very few words passed between them during the first half of their walk; and if Hamilton had thought at all about what he had undertaken so mechanically, he might have wondered how the doctor could have wanted a companion, when he was in so taciturn a humor.

Suddenly the doctor remarked,—“Have you heard nothing of your poem, Hamilton?”

This was so unexpected a question, and Hamilton was so unwilling to make a direct answer, that he remained silent for a minute or two, his hesitation and color convincing his master that Louis had acted up to his determination.

“Well, have you forgotten all about it?” said the doctor, good-humoredly.

“I have found it, sir—here it is,” he replied, producing the paper.

“How did you get it?” asked the doctor, who betrayed far less surprise and satisfaction than the occasion seemed to demand.

“It was thrown into the class-room this morning, sir,” said Hamilton, reservedly.

“And you are ignorant of the party?” said the doctor, with raised eyebrows.

“No, sir, I know who has done it,” replied Hamilton, after a slight pause; “but I must beg you to excuse my naming him. I think there is no danger of a repetition of the offence. Of course you will understand, sir, that I do not mean Digby, who is as innocent as I ever believed him.”

There was a little silence, while the doctor ran his eye down a page of Hamilton's manuscript.

“As you wish to keep the matter secret, I shall ask no further questions; only, Digby may not think it quite fair.”

“He wishes it to be so, sir,” replied Hamilton, eagerly. “It is quite his wish now he knows I have proof that he is not the culprit.”

Dr. Wilkinson's face lighted up with an expression of great satisfaction, as he said,

“It does Digby credit.”

Hamilton was on the point of hazarding a remark on the impossibility of Frank's contemplating such a thing, when they turned a corner of the lane that brought them in sight of the playground wall and the farm-yard opposite. The doctor's attention was suddenly arrested by the figure of a boy, perched on the top of the high wall surrounding the latter, who was reaching downwards towards the top of a large hawthorn-tree that grew inside.

“Hey-day! Hamilton, who's that?” he exclaimed. “Do you recognize the figure? If my eyes deceive me not, it is Louis Mortimer. I have strongly suspected lately that I have been robbed more than once. It is Louis Mortimer.”

The doctor's tone assumed its ready sternness, and he quickened his pace. Hamilton could not doubt the evidence of his senses, but he felt miserably disappointed.

“I do not think Louis Mortimer would do so, sir,” he said, faintly.

“There he is, however, out of bounds,” said the doctor.

“Something else may have taken him there,” said Hamilton.

“I hope it may prove so, but he is surely receiving something from below—he sees us—he will be down—he will assuredly break his neck!” exclaimed the doctor, hurriedly. “There—quick, Hamilton—run.”

Hamilton needed no bidding, for, as soon as he saw Louis fall, he ran off in the direction of the stable-yard. The doctor followed so quickly that Hamilton had only just raised Louis from the ground when he came up. To their great satisfaction he was not much hurt, having fallen on a heap of straw that lay just under the wall. He was much frightened, and at first so stunned as to be almost incapable of understanding what was said to him. On the ground near him lay his green baize bag, and rolling about in all directions, some apples, one or two still remaining in the bag.

“Where is your companion, sir?” was the first question Dr. Wilkinson asked, after ascertaining that no injury had been done to Louis.

“There was no one with me, sir,” replied Louis, almost inarticulately.

“What were you doing here, sir?”

“I came to fetch my bag, sir.”

“It is a mercy you were not killed,” said Dr. Wilkinson, gravely. “Put the apples in that bag, Hamilton.”

Dr. Wilkinson waited till Hamilton had performed this task, and then desired Louis to take the bag and follow him.

Louis did as he was desired, but he was evidently not yet in a condition to walk, and trembled so violently that Hamilton caught hold of him to prevent him from falling.

“He can't walk yet, sir,” he said, compassionately. “I will bring him in when he has recovered a little.”

“It is too cold to sit out here,” said the doctor. “Where are you hurt?”

“I don't exactly know; I am not much hurt—but, oh! I feel so strange, Hamilton. Let me walk—I can take your arm.”

Dr. Wilkinson looked anxiously at him, and assisted him, with Hamilton's aid, across the road, through the garden, into the kitchen, where, with a little hartshorn and water, he was soon in a condition to go up stairs. Dr. Wilkinson desired him to go to bed for the rest of the day, and sent Reginald to help him. The bag he took into his own possession till further occasion.

Louis was too much dismayed by his ill success, and too much exhausted by the shock of his fall, to make any remarks till he reached his room. Hamilton did not leave him until he had seen him comfortably in bed; and then, after wrapping him up most tenderly, he leaned over him, and asked what was really the matter.

Louis endeavored to answer calmly, but in his present weak condition Hamilton's kind manner overcame him, and he burst into tears.

“Oh, dear!” he exclaimed, amid his violent sobs; “oh, Reginald, Reginald—Hamilton, I am so unfortunate! Every thing I do is always found out; but others can do all sorts of things, and no one knows it.”

“Is there any thing then to be found out, Louis?” said Hamilton, gravely; “if so, it is far better for you that it should be.”

Louis suddenly threw his arms round Hamilton, as he sat near him.

“Hamilton, I did not go there to steal, I am sure,” he said, throwing his head back, and examining his friend's face with the most intense anxiety. “I am sure, Hamilton, bad as I am, you could not believe it of me. I have been very sinful, but oh, I am very sorry; and, Hamilton, I could not do so very wicked a thing. Do remember, please, how things were against me before when I was not guilty. Though it seems all against me now, I assure you, the only thing I have done wrong is going out of bounds—oh, do let me keep my arms round you, Hamilton—don't believe me guilty. I haven't—oh, I haven't had a friend for so long! I have been very proud and self-willed—if I had been humble perhaps things would not have gone so wrong. I never even said I was sorry I repeated what you said to Mrs. Paget; but I was sorry, Hamilton—very, very sorry, only I did not like to say so. Will you forgive me, and be my friend again? I have been so ungrateful, I am afraid you will never love me any more.”

Hamilton was completely overcome by the vehemence of Louis' appeal. He pressed the poor boy closer to him, and even kissed his forehead, as if he were a little child.

“Love you, Louis! love you, dear boy!” he replied; “you have had reason to doubt it, but I have always loved you. I forgive you from my heart, but you have something to forgive in me. I have not been as kind to you as I might have been.”

“I am very sorry I spoke so unkindly of you this morning, Hamilton,” sobbed Louis, laying his wet cheek on Hamilton's shoulder. “I was cross, and didn't think of what I was saying.”

“Don't think any more about it,” said Hamilton, affectionately; “lie down, and tell me quietly how you came to be on that wall just now.”

“I was standing at the wooden door,” said Louis, “when Sally Simmons told me that she had seen my bag on the great hawthorn-tree, by the wall on the other side. And when I asked her how it got there, she said, she supposed I knew, but it was too high for her to reach; and if I didn't get it, the doctor would find me out. At first, I thought I wouldn't go,” said Louis, hesitating; “and then I was afraid I should be getting into a scrape—I am sometimes so unfortunate—and so I went across the lane, and got over the gate, and went into the yard to see if it were there. And there it was, Hamilton, with some apples in it, too, hanging partly, and partly lying, near the top of the tree; it was so high that I was obliged to get upon the cow-house roof, and as the cow-house was on the wrong side, I was obliged to get on the wall to read it. And I was pulling it off when you first saw me, and then—I was afraid, and as I was rather over-reaching myself, I tried to get down in a hurry, and fell down. I think the tree broke my fall; but I don't know how it was, for I hardly understood any thing, even when you came up.”

“You had better have let it alone,” said Reginald.

“What were you doing at the gate?” said Hamilton; “keeping watch?”

“One of them asked me,” replied Louis.

Hamilton shook his head.

“Have you any idea how your bag came there?”

“Please don't ask me any questions about that, Hamilton. Will you not believe I am innocent?”

“I fully believe your story, Louis, but I know you have been in bad company lately, and I wish to help you to clear yourself. Tell me all you know. If you have ever had even the least hand in any thing like this, make a friend of me, and tell me at once. Have you not some idea who put your bag there?”

“I may guess, you know,” said Louis, evasively; “but, Hamilton, I do assure you, I never had any thing to do with any robbery here at all—never once.”

“If you do not know who has done it, then,” said Hamilton, “I am sure your guess is a very accurate one—whom do you guess?”

“I cannot tell you, Hamilton; you mustn't ask me.”

“This is only nonsense,” said Reginald, impatiently. “Are you going to make a martyr of yourself for a set of bad fellows who are a disgrace to the school?”

“They may tell themselves, perhaps,” said Louis, “but I will not.”

“Louis!” said Hamilton, seriously, “this is folly; don't let a mistaken notion of honor induce you to screen these bad boys from their just punishment. By doing so, you are doing an injury to others as well as yourself. You must remember, that these evil-disposed boys are still mixing with others, to whom their example and principles may do much harm, independently of the evil done to themselves by being allowed to sin with impunity. Louis, you were saying just now, that you were very unfortunate—they are the most unfortunate whose crimes are undiscovered, and therefore unchecked. If you are, as you say, innocent of any participation in this affair, why should you wish to conceal what you know, or, at least, telling me whom you lent your bag to?”

“I did not lend it at all lately,” said Louis, raising his face from the pillow, where he had hidden it. “The thing is, Hamilton,” continued he, very sorrowfully, “I am called a tell-tale, and I know I deserve it; but the worst is, they call me a hypocrite, and say that religious people are no better than others. I could bear it if it were only myself, but it is more, and I have given reasons for them to say all kinds of things,” he added, and burst anew into tears. “But do not make me tell any more tales. I have promised, Hamilton—I dare not—I will not break my promise!”

Hamilton made no immediate reply, and the loud ringing of the dinner-bell obliged him to leave Louis to himself.

“If it is a promise, Louis,” he said, as he left the room with Reginald, “I won't urge you to break it; but remember well how the promise was made—remember the consequences.”

“Reginald,” he added, when they had closed the door, “I have a clue; depend upon it, he won't be much the worse, poor fellow. But the doctor knows him well, I am sure.”

Reginald stole away after dinner to sit with Louis, and to endeavor to persuade him to disclose all his suspicions, but all he could obtain was a kind of half-promise to clear it up, after he had seen how the matter would end; and the subject caused him so much distress, that Reginald at length left it alone.

“Sit down by my side, dear Reginald,” said Louis, “and tell me again that you forgive me. I cannot think how I could be so unkind to you as I have been lately, when you were so anxious about me. I have been ungrateful to every body.”

“Don't make yourself miserable,” said Reginald, as gayly as he could. “I know I am hasty and cross, and don't go the right way to help you; but you had spoiled me by being so very gentle before, and I didn't understand your having any spirit.”

“It was a very wrong spirit,” replied Louis; “the fact is, Reginald, I have not been serving God lately, though at first I did not know it myself. I thought I did a great many things when I came back to school, because it would glorify God; when, I really believe now, the reason was—to be praised for it. Every one seemed to think so much of me, and that every thing I did was right. I have wished so many times lately, that all the trouble of last half-year might come again if I should be so happy. But, Reginald, when the boys would not speak to me, then I knew by my angry feelings that I only cared for myself; and I saw that I had not been serving God, and I became afraid to pray. Sometimes so strangely, when I knew I was in the wrong, and that I ought to pray for help to be better, yet I wanted to look grand, and to show I didn't care, and I never used the time I had, and that's very little here, Reginald. I have been thinking of myself almost ever since I came back—I have been thinking of glorifying myself!” He paused, and then added, in a lower tone, “I fancied I was not selfish, but now I know I am!”

When Reginald went away, Louis had long and quiet time to trace the reason of his sad falling away, and to make his peace with Him whose great name he had so dishonored. Earnestly, humbly, and sorrowfully did he confess his faults. How bowed to the earth he felt, in the consciousness of his utter impotence! He remembered how confident he had been in his good name; and now he became aware, in this silent self-examination, how mixed his motives had been, how full of vanity and vain-glory he had been, how careless in waiting for “more grace,” how little he had thought of pressing forward, how wanting he had been in that single heart that thought only of doing the work committed to him regardless of the approbation of men—that only desired to know what was right in order fearlessly to follow it; and unutterable were the tearful desires of his heart that he might be strengthened for the time to come to walk more worthy of the vocation wherewith he was called.

---

Chapter XXIV.

“I will heal their backslidings, I will love them freely; for mine anger is turned away from him. Ephraim shall say, What have I to do any more with idols?”—Hosea xiv. 4, 8.

“I will hear what God the Lord will speak: for He will speak peace to His people, and to His saints, but let them not turn again to folly.”—Psalm lxxxv. 8.

Louis awoke from a calm, sound sleep very early the next morning, with a dim, indistinct recollection of having, when half awake during the night, seen Dr. Wilkinson standing by him, and of a consciousness of a hand being laid on his forehead and his hands; but, as he did not feel certain, much less suppose it likely, he settled that he must have dreamed it. It was quite dark when he awoke, and it was some few minutes before the events of the preceding day ranged themselves in any order in his mind; and then his thoughts flew to that rest whence they had been so long absent.

In about half an hour, several of his school-fellows began to rouse themselves, and, a candle or two being lighted, dressing was hastily accomplished; and, rolling themselves up in counterpanes and blankets, shawl fashion, they proceeded to pore over the books they had brought up the night before.

“I don't mean to get up,” growled Frank; ”it's a great deal more comfortable in bed. Clifton, bring me my candle here, and put it on that chair—I shall make a studium of my couch.”

“Dr. Wilkinson asked if we read with candles near the beds,” said Clifton. “He said he wouldn't have us read in bed unless it were daylight, Digby.”

“Well, we'll suppose he didn't,” said Frank, “so come along.”

“No, I won't,” said Clifton, sitting down, near a chest of drawers, on which was a candle, the joint property of himself, Reginald, and Louis.

“You won't, won't you?” said Frank, coolly; “Reginald, my candle's near you, I'll trouble you for it.”

“You must take the consequences, then,” said Reginald, “for I heard the doctor say so.”

“I didn't,” said Frank, snuffing his candle, and opening a book; “Meredith, I'd advise you to follow my example.”

“I followed it yesterday, and fell asleep in uncomfortable snoozes till the bell rang,” yawned Meredith. “Reading one word and dreaming six may be entertaining, but it is certainly not instructive.”

There was very little noise, and Louis lay for some time in deep thought. At length he moved as if with the intention of getting up, when Reginald started up and planted his beaming face over him so as to prevent his rising:

“Awake at last, Louis?”

“Yes, I have been awake a long time.”

“You've been very quiet.”

“How happy you look!” said Louis; “I could almost fancy you had something to tell.”

“What will you give me for my news?”

“I am afraid I can offer nothing but thanks,” replied Louis, smiling.

“What should you say if I were to tell you Casson was gone?”

“Casson gone!” exclaimed Louis, starting up in spite of his brother's incubian overseership. “Where? When? How? Was he ill? What was the matter?”

“He went home yesterday evening by the London coach. He was in perfect bodily health. The matter was, that the magister wouldn't keep him.”

“What! expelled, Reginald?” said Louis, aghast.

“Expelled, Louis,” Reginald replied, gravely; “don't look so frightened; he deserved it.”

“Oh, Reginald! it is so terrible! But how—why was it so sudden?”

“Ah, Beauty!” said Frank, “a few wonders have happened while your ladyship has been sleeping there. What will you say to Harris going, too?”

“Harris! no, surely not, Frank? Tell me, do tell me what's been the matter.”

“We promised to let Hamilton tell the story,” said Reginald. “He has been, in a great measure, the cause of finding all out; so make haste and go to him, for I want you back again.”

Louis did not need any further bidding—he hurried his toilette, and flew to the room that Hamilton enjoyed to himself. Hamilton was up. An open Bible lay near him, which he closed as Louis entered.

“How are you, foolish boy, this morning?” he said, kindly—very kindly, Louis thought, as he squeezed his hand.

“I am very well, thank you. Reginald's been telling me strange news this morning.”

“News?” said Hamilton. “He promised me—”

“Oh! I only know that Casson's gone, and Harris going, but he would not tell me any more.”

“Well, then, I will.”

“Hamilton,” said Louis, gently laying his hand on Hamilton's, “may I ask one thing?”

“What is it?”

“Will you read a little of this with me first?” he said, timidly, touching the Bible. “I have neglected it so lately. It would be so pleasant before we begin any thing else. You do not know how difficult it is in our room to be a minute quiet.”

Hamilton had opened the Bible before Louis had finished, and bade him select a chapter, which he asked him to read aloud.

Louis read the 7th Psalm, and the 14th of Hosea; and when he had finished, he and his friend remained very silent.

Hamilton felt for Louis, though he did not know how soothingly the sweet words fell on the soul of the erring boy; how unspeakably precious had been the promise, that the backslider should be healed, and the dew of the Spirit refresh him, and make him grow in grace. Louis felt a wish to prolong those gracious words, “Ephraim shall say, What have I any more to do with idols? I have heard and observed him; I am like a green fir-tree, from me is thy fruit found!”

“Dear Hamilton,” he said, at length, “I have a very great favor to beg of you—would you let me come in a little every morning to read with you? It would do me so much good.”

“By all means,” said Hamilton, perhaps a little shily; but it was promise enough to call forth Louis' heartfelt thanks.

Hamilton then made Louis don a cloak of his, and stretching his own legs, so as to rest them comfortably on the window where Louis was sitting, he entered into a minute detail of the events of yesterday afternoon, equally surprising and interesting to Louis.

It appeared that Hamilton, acting on his own strong suspicions, went immediately after dinner to Dr. Wilkinson, whom, strange to say, he found equally inclined to listen to them; for he confessed to Louis that he did not exactly know what had made Dr. Wilkinson so suddenly take such a decided view of Casson's character as he appeared to have done. They went to the stable and examined it very carefully. They found the door unfastened; but on further consideration, discovered that the staple, which was rusty, had been broken off, so that, though the key had been turned, it could be opened as easily as if it had had no lock. They went up through the trap-door, but found nothing to assist them, till, just as they were descending, Hamilton picked up part of a Greek exercise. It was very small, not more than two inches square; a more careless observer might not have noticed it, but Hamilton seized it as a treasure, and, with the doctor's advice, set to work to discover whose handwriting it was.

The few words he deciphered carried him to the second class for the owner: “And oh, Louis! Dr. Wilkinson looked so grave when I told him it was Kenrick. But I knew it was not your writing. With very little trouble, and without discovering any thing, I soon found Harris to have been the writer. Having settled this point about an hour after school had begun, I took the first opportunity of informing the doctor, who immediately entered the school-room, suspended all business, summoned every one, and in an able speech, as the papers would say, prefaced the proceedings by declaring how painful it had been to him to discover that any of his pupils were not trustworthy, et cetera; and his determination to arrive at some conclusion on the point, to know whether his orders were or were not to be obeyed. He then mentioned having found you, and his firm belief, that even supposing you had gone there for the purpose of abstracting the apples, which he could not believe, you must have been tempted and persuaded to it by older hands; he called upon the offenders to come forward and clear the matter. Well, no one answered; and then the doctor just alluded to you, and what you had suffered last half, and said that he had determined that every one should be aware of the grounds of accusation, and he desired, if any one knew of any thing that would throw a light on the matter, he would come forward.

“Then, to every one's surprise, comes up Charles Clifton, and tells him coolly, that he was sure you had not stolen the apples, and that it was very likely to be Harris, Casson, and Churchill, and that Sally Simmons had, in his presence, given them apples, and they joked about the place where they came from. Sally was called, and at last confessed that she had let Casson know where the apples were kept; and they frightened her, or something, for she tried to bring you in as an accomplice, only Clifton was so manful, and braved her with so much spirit, that she soon quitted that ground, and departed under sentence of dismissal.”

“Oh, poor Sally! I am very sorry.”

“She is a bad girl,” said Hamilton; “I never liked Clifton so well as I did yesterday: there is a great deal of truthful independence about him.”

“Oh, Charlie's a very nice fellow!” said Louis, warmly. “Well, Hamilton.”

“Well, Casson and Harris bullied, talked of characters defamed, and stoutly protested innocence. The doctor looked so indignant; I think I never saw him so thoroughly convinced of the evil-mindedness of any one, as he appeared to be of Casson's. He heard all they had to say, and spoke to them seriously of the crime they were adding. Harris looked abashed, but Casson declared there was not enough to convict him in the evidence of a ‘liar like Sally, and a self-sufficient fellow like Clifton;’ when, to my astonishment, Trevannion came forward, and gave his pocket-book open into the doctor's hands.” Hamilton then proceeded to tell Louis what Trevannion had seen on the memorable Friday, and the great effect produced upon the school by the reading of the memorandum. Churchill confessed every thing, and cried, and begged pardon.

It seemed that they had gone no further than the gate leading to the field, on the Friday morning, as they saw some one in the distance; but that the plan had been renewed on Monday at twilight, when they were disturbed by a man with a lantern, coming into the yard as they left the stable, and, instead of going out the usual way, they scrambled over the wall, dropping the bag in their hurry, and had no opportunity the ensuing day to look for it.

“Harris,” continued Hamilton, “turned as white as a sheet, and murmured something that no one could understand. The doctor spoke really beautifully. I hope something of what he said may remain with them, at least, be remembered at some future time.”

“What did he say?” asked Louis.

“He spoke about the heinousness of the offences they had committed, and of his sorrow; and, Louis, he spoke as if he were sorry,” said Hamilton, looking down, and speaking gravely. “I felt as if I were wrong in being so rejoiced at their detection. He spoke of the necessity he was under, not simply of making an example of such offenders, which was a duty he owed to the others under his charge, but of that of marking also to themselves the great abhorrence he entertained of their conduct. He then spoke of the consequences of unchecked sin, and, in a few words, mentioned a very sad history of a former pupil of his who turned out very ill—he is dead, Louis; the manner in which he spoke of that prayer of the Psalmist's, ‘Make me not a rebuke unto the foolish,’ was very solemn; I assure you there were very few dry eyes.”

Louis' were filled with tears.

“Well, Hamilton,” he said, slowly.

“He then desired Casson to go directly and make preparations for leaving his house in less than an hour, and told Harris that he should not allow him to return after the holidays. There was not a sound when Casson left the room, Louis, except the sobbing of one or two of the little boys. I think I never felt any thing so solemn. It is a serious, a very serious thing.”

“Very, very,” said Louis. “Did Casson seem sorry, Hamilton?”

“He was very pale and silent—I think frightened, not sorry. Harris stood like a statue while the doctor was speaking; but, when he told him he was not to return, I heard him sigh so deeply, it was quite painful.”

“And Churchill?” said Louis, with difficulty.

“Churchill is to stay a week behind the others, and to write exercises every day till he goes home.”

“Oh, Hamilton, Hamilton!” cried Louis, bursting fairly into tears, “I am not crying wholly for sorrow; for I am, and ought to be, thankful that I have not been made a ‘rebuke unto the foolish.’ ”

Hamilton pressed his hand.

“I hope,” he continued, “that this may be a blessing to me; but I am very much afraid of myself, Hamilton, for I am constantly making good resolutions and breaking them—but, Hamilton, do you think they would suppose I had told of them?”

“Dr. Wilkinson told them you would not break your promise and clear yourself by betraying them,” replied Hamilton; “and he also said a great deal on the folly of rash promises, and the evil of covering sin. I wish you had heard it; but we must not talk any more, for here is Alfred, and we shall have the prayer-bell presently; so, if you have any thing to do before you go down, you had better make haste.”

Louis dried his tears, and obeyed the hint, after submitting, with no very great reluctance, to a mighty hug from Alfred, who would have given vent to his delight in a great flow of words had not his brother been present and waiting for him. There was little time for talking when Louis returned to his dormitory; but he and his brother made the most of it, and, arm in arm, they issued forth when the summons was heard. All the way down stairs Louis received the congratulations of his school-fellows. Everybody, even Trevannion, seemed to have forgiven him, and Norman held out his hand at the hall-door with a “Shake hands, old fellow!”

Louis felt rather afraid of entering the school-room, but Dr. Wilkinson made no comment, and, as far as he could judge from the doubtful light of a few candles struggling with the coming daylight, scarcely looked at him. The names were called over. At Harris's name there was a pause—-some one answered, “Not here, sir;”and, as Dr. Wilkinson, without any comment, proceeded, Louis caught a few whispered words near him:

“He's been moaning nearly all night, poor fellow! he's in a terrible way now;”and then the reply, “Ah, the doctor never unsays any thing!”

When prayers were over, Dr. Wilkinson called Louis into the study, and kept him till breakfast-time with him. What passed, never transpired; but that it was something serious was conjectured from Louis' exceedingly humble manner and red eyes, when he left the room—though every one was sure, from the subsequent manner of both master and pupil, that all was entirely forgiven, and Louis reinstated fully in Dr. Wilkinson's good graces.

But I must hasten to finish my story. The prize day arrived. It was a dismal, wet, dreary day; but the boys cared nothing for that, except that the audience was smaller than usual. Charles Clifton carried away all the first prizes of his class, except that for French, which was, contrary to his expectation, adjudged to Louis. Hamilton having privately signified to the doctor his wish to withdraw all claim to the medal, it was likewise bestowed on Clifton. Reginald was not successful in any branch this half-year, having so recently entered the highest class. As for Frank and Hamilton, the poems were considered so equal—Hamilton's being the more correct, and Frank's displaying the greater talent and brilliancy—that they each received a prize exactly alike. The doctor passed a high encomium on Frank's industry, and that original young gentleman had the satisfaction of bearing away two prizes in addition to that already mentioned, leaving another for Hamilton, one for Ferrers, and one for Norman.

Just as the boys had dispersed, and Reginald and Louis were arranging a snug place in their carpet-bag for Louis' prize, a letter was put into the hand of the former.

“From home, Reginald?” cried Louis; “I suppose it is to say who is coming for us.”

But, no;—it was to tell them of the illness of a lady who had been staying at Dashwood Priory, which had assumed so much the character of typhus fever, that Mr. Mortimer considered it unsafe for his boys to return; and the letter, which was from their mother, informed them, with many expressions of affectionate regret, that their father had written to ask Dr. Wilkinson to keep them a few days, till it could be decided how they were to be disposed of. Poor Louis was grievously disappointed, and Reginald, not less so, inveighed aloud on the folly and impertinence of ladies going to friends' houses to fall ill there and prevent their sons from enjoying their holidays, so long, that Louis at length could not help laughing.

“But what shall we do, Reginald? it will be so dull here.”

“I shall die of the vapors, I think,” said Reginald.

“Come home with me,” said Salisbury, “both of you—I am sure my father and mother will be very glad to see you.”

“I should like nothing better,” replied Reginald; “provided your father and mother prove of the same accommodating opinion when you sound them.”

“Charlie asked me last week to go with him, Reginald,” said Louis; “if you go with Salisbury, I shall go with him; but if you remain here, I shall stay with you.”

The brothers received invitations on all sides when their desolate condition was known, but none could be accepted without the consent of their parents, or in the mean time of Dr. Wilkinson, as their guardian. It was finally, settled, that as both Salisbury and Clifton lived in the neighborhood, their invitations might be accepted till further notice from Dashwood.

The lady proved very ill, though, as it was not any infectious disease, the brothers probably might have been sent for, had not a heavy fall of snow rendered the roads near Dashwood impassable.

Louis spent nearly the whole of his holidays very happily with Charles; becoming, during his stay with them, a great favorite with Mr. Clifton and his little girls, as well as their nurse. Salisbury had the benefit of Reginald's company for a fortnight, the rest of his time being bestowed upon Meredith.

When the holidays were over, Hamilton returned for his last half-year. The reflections induced by the preceding term were not transient. He struggled manfully with the constitutional indifference of his character; and though there were many failings, for the habits were too deeply rooted to be suddenly overcome, yet the effort was not without its use, both to himself and others. To Louis, he was a constant and useful friend, never flagging in his efforts to make him more manly and independent in his conduct, as regarded the opinion of others; and also quietly strengthening, by his example and encouragement, every good feeling and impression he noticed. There were no tears shed, but Louis felt very low when he bade good-bye to Hamilton, at the close of the next half-year.

“Oh, Hamilton! I owe you a great deal. What shall I do next half without you? Who will help me?”

“Thy God, whom thou servest,” said Hamilton, reverentially. “The thanks are not to me for the help of the last few months, Louis. Good-bye, my dear fellow—our friendship does not end here; we are friends forever.”

They shook hands warmly and parted.

Louis continued at school for two or three years longer, and passed through the ordeal of school-life with credit to himself and his relations. I would not be thought to mean that he never did wrong, or was always equally steady in his Christian course; for the Christian's whole life is a continued fight against the evil of his nature. He still retained his strong desire to enter the ministry of the Church, and his studies and pursuits were principally directed to that end. It was one of his fairest day-dreams, to be his father's curate when old enough to be ordained, and though that might not be, he still felt, wherever he might be placed, his language would be that of the Psalmist, when he said—

“My soul hath a desire and a longing to enter into the courts of the living God.” “For I had rather be a door keeper in the house of my God, than to dwell in the tents of wickedness.”