Once out, however, I soon began to revive, for I am strong and healthy; but poor Frank Chandos lay hovering between life and death for nearly a week afterwards. I shall never forget that terrible time. I felt if he died I should be a murderer, for he would never have gone to the alder pond if I had not taken him there. Poor Miss Chandos, too, who had promised his mother to take good care of the lad, he was almost stunned with grief; and it was not until after his mother had come that he could be persuaded to leave his brother even for five minutes. Tom and the other fellows who came to see me told me all about it, for I was ill too, from cold and fright, but nothing to cause any alarm, and little notice was taken of me or my ailments, and I did not let any one know how miserably unhappy I was. I tried to talk to Tom about it once, but he only laughed, and said, "Oh, it's no good crying over spilt milk; let's forget all that miserable affair now. Of course we were all in the wrong box, I suppose; but then it was only done for a lark, and we've all been punished for it pretty stiffly. Jackson and I had a hundred lines of Milton to learn in after hours that took no end of time to get perfect, for the governor was so crabby he wouldn't let us off a single word, and actually heard us himself, so if you don't think that has squared accounts for us, then I don't know what will."
"If learning two hundred lines would square things, I'd do it; but think of poor Frank Chandos lying there dying, and all our fault."
"How can it be our fault? We didn't carry him to the pond. He came to please himself, and if he wasn't ill he'd have an imposition as well as us. I wonder whether the Doctor will give you one when you get well, Charley?"
"I wish he would," I said, bitterly. "Oh, I dare say it's all very well for you to talk when it isn't likely to happen, for I expect the governor will think it punishment enough for you to be kept up here and fed on slops for ever so long. I don't know myself that I would not rather have the imposition."
How glad I was when poor Chandos came to see me at last. I almost wished we really had been girls then, that I might have thrown my arms round his neck and kissed him and asked him to forgive me, for I could see he felt sorry for me, and the first words he spoke were meant to comfort me, only somehow they seemed to make me miserable.
"You did not mean to do any harm, Stewart, I know," he said, his voice shaking as he spoke.
"Will he die?" I asked. "It don't matter about me and what I meant about it, but tell me about him; is there any hope, Chandos?"
"Not much, I am afraid. Only God can save him; the doctor can do no more, he says. Stewart, you'll pray for him, won't you—pray that God will give him back to my mother, for she is almost heartbroken over it?"
"Me pray! What is the good? I don't know how; I never prayed in my life. I've said my prayers; but it's different, that is, from what you mean, and I haven't done that since I was a little chap."
"Then begin again now, Stewart. Pray for poor Frank. I know you feel unhappy about him."