“I’m glad I did,” said the boy, still half asleep. “I did not know you would be so kind.”
“Ah! Tom, I fear it was as much my fault as yours that you did not know it. But, my dear, there is a pardon that can give you better peace than mine.”
“I think,” muttered Tom, looking down—“I think I could say my prayers again now, if—”
“If what, my dear?”
“If you would help me, as mamma used—”
There could be but one response to this speech.
Tom was still giddy and unwell, his whole frame affected by the troubles of the last week, and Dr. May arranged him on the sofa, and desired him to be quiet, offering to send Mary to be his companion. Tom was languidly pleased, but renewed his entreaty, that his confession might be a secret from his sisters. Dr. May promised, and Mary, quite satisfied at being taken into favour, asked no questions, but spent the rest of the morning in playing at draughts with him, and in having inflicted on her the history of the Bloody Fire King’s Ghost—a work of Tom’s imagination, which he was wont to extemporise, to the extreme terror of much enduring Mary.
When Dr. May had called Mary, he next summoned Norman, who found him in the hall, putting on his hat, and looking very stern and determined.
“Norman!” said he hastily, “don’t say a word—it must be done—Hoxton must hear of this.”
Norman’s face expressed utter consternation.