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.”