“What a place for catching cold!” said Flora.
“So Cheviot said, but I couldn’t help it; and when we went to call him afterwards, he was all right. Wasn’t it fun, when the names were called over, and May senior at the head! I don’t think it will be better when I am a post-captain myself! But Margaret has not heard half yet.”
After telling it once in her room, once in the nursery, in whispers like gusts of wind, and once in the pantry, Harry employed himself in writing—“Norman is Dux!” in immense letters, on pieces of paper, which he disposed all over the house, to meet the eyes of his father and Richard on their return.
Ethel’s joy was sadly damped by Norman’s manner. He hardly spoke—only just came in to wish Margaret good-night, and shrank from her affectionate sayings, departing abruptly to his own room.
“Poor fellow! he is sadly overdone,” said she, as he went.
“Oh!” sighed Ethel, nearly ready to cry, “‘tis not like what I used to fancy it would be when he came to the head of the school!”
“It will be different to-morrow,” said Margaret, trying to console herself as well as Ethel. “Think how he has been on the strain this whole day, and long before, doing so much more than older boys. No wonder he is tired and worn out.”
Ethel did not understand what mental fatigue was, for her active, vigorous spirit had never been tasked beyond its powers.
“I hope he will be like himself to-morrow!” said she disconsolately. “I never saw him rough and hasty before. It was even with you, Margaret.”
“No, no, Ethel you aren’t going to blame your own Norman for unkindness on this of all days in the year. You know how it was; you love him better; just as I do, for not being able to bear to stay in this room, where—”