“A happy face at least,” said Margaret, as he came to her. And that was not peculiar to Norman. The radiance had shone out upon every one in that moment, and it was one buzz of happy exclamation, query, and answer—the only tone of regret when Mary spoke of Harry, and all at once took up the strain—how glad poor Harry would be. As to the examination, that had been much less difficult than Norman had expected; in fact, he said, it was lucky for him that the very subjects had been chosen in which he was most up—luck which, as the doctor could not help observing, generally did attend Norman. And Norman had been so happy with Richard; the kind, wise elder brother had done exactly what was best for him in soothing his anxiety, and had fully shared his feelings, and exulted in his success. Margaret had a most triumphant letter, dwelling on the abilities of the candidates whom Norman had outstripped, and the idea that every one had conceived of his talent. “Indeed,” wrote Richard, “I fancy the men had never believed that I could have a clever brother. I am glad they have seen what Norman can do.”
Margaret could not help reading this aloud, and it made Norman blush with the compunction that Richard’s unselfish pride in him always excited. He had much to tell of his ecstasy with Oxford. Stoneborough Minster had been a training in appreciation of its hoary beauty, but the essentially prosaic Richard had never prepared him for the impression that the reverend old university made on him, and he was already, heart and soul, one of her most loyal and loving sons, speaking of his college and of the whole university as one who had a right of property in them, and looking, all the time, not elated, but contented, as if he had found his sphere and was satisfied. He had seen Cheviot, too, and had been very happy in the renewed friendship; and had been claimed as a cousin by a Balliol man, a certain Norman Ogilvie, a name well known among the Mays. “And how has Tom been getting on?” he asked, when he returned to home affairs.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Ethel. “He will not have my help.”
“Not let you help him!” exclaimed Norman.
“No. He says he wants no girls,” said Ethel, laughing.
“Foolish fellow!” said Norman. “I wonder what sort of work he has made!”
“Very funny, I should think,” said Ethel, “judging by the verses I could see.”
The little, pale, rough-haired Tom, in his perpetual coating of dust, softly crept into the room, as if he only wanted to elude observation; but Mary and Blanche were at once vociferating their news in his ears, though with little encouragement—he only shook them off abruptly, and would not answer when they required him to be glad.
Norman stretched out his arm, intercepting him as he was making for his hiding-place behind Dr. May’s arm-chair.
“Come, August, how have things gone on?”