“Well, Charlie boy, what can I do for you?” said Walter, cheerfully pushing away the Greek Lexicon and Aristophanes over which he was engaged, and wheeling round the armchair to the fire, which he poked till there was a bright blaze.
“Am I disturbing you at your work, Walter?” said the little boy, whose dejected air his brother had not noticed.
“No, Charlie, not a bit; you never disturb me. I was just thinking that it was about time to shut up, for it’s almost too dark too read, and we’ve nearly half an hour before tea-time; so come here and sit on my knee and have a chat. I haven’t seen you for an age, Charlie.”
Charlie said nothing, but he was in a weary mood, and was glad to sit on his brother’s knee and put his arm round his neck; for he was more than four years Walter’s junior, and had never left home before, and that night the homesickness was very strongly upon him.
“Why, what’s the matter, Charlie boy?” asked Walter playfully. “What’s the meaning of this pale face and red eyes? I’m afraid you haven’t found Saint Winifred’s so jolly as you expected; disenchanted already, eh?”
“O Walter, I’m very, very miserable,” said Charlie, overcome by his brother’s tender manner towards him; and leaning his head on Walter’s shoulder he sobbed aloud.
“What is it, Charlie?” said Walter, gently stroking his light hair. “Never be afraid to tell me anything. You’ve done nothing wrong, I hope?”
“O no, Walter. It’s because I won’t do wrong that they bully me.”
“Is that it? Then dry your tears, Charlie boy, for you may thank God, and nothing in earth or under the earth can make you do wrong if you determine not—determine in the right way, you know, Charlie.”
“But it’s so hard, Walter; I didn’t know it would be so very hard. The house is so bad, and no one helps me except Bliss. I don’t think you were ever troubled as I am, Walter.”