“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.’ ”