“It’s been a strange day, hasn’t it, Walter?” said Power at last, laying his hand on Walter’s, and looking at him. “I shall never forget it; you have thrown a new light on one’s time here.”
“Have I, Power? How? I didn’t know it.”
“Why, on the top of Appenfell there, you opened my eyes to the fact that I’ve been living here a very selfish life. I know that I get the credit of being very conceited and exclusive, and all that sort of thing; but being naturally shy, I thought it better to keep rather aloof from all but the very few towards whom I felt at all drawn. I see now,” he said sadly, “that at the bottom this was mainly selfishness. Why, Walter, all the time I’ve been here, I haven’t done as much for any single boy as you, a new fellow, have done for little Eden this one half-year. But there’s time to do better yet; and by God’s help I’ll try. I’ll give Eden the run of my study to-morrow; and as there’s plenty of room, I’ll look out for some other little chap who requires a refuge for the destitute.”
“Thank you, for Eden’s sake,” said Walter; “I’m sure you’ll soon begin to like him, if he gets at home with you.”
“But that’s the worst of it,” continued Power; “so few ever do get at home with me. I suppose my manner’s awkward—or something; but I’d give anything to make fellows friendly in five minutes as you do. How do you manage it?”
“I really don’t know; I never think about my own manner or anything else. I suppose if one feels the least interest in any fellow, that he will probably feel some interest in me; and so, somehow, I’m on the best terms with all I care to know.”
“Well, Ken and I had a long talk after you left us, to cross the Devil’s Way; and I hope that the memory of that may make us three friends firm and fast, tender and true, as long as we live. We were in a horrible fright about you, and I suppose that, joined to our own danger, gave a solemn cast to our conversation; but we agreed that if we three, as friends, were united in the silent resolution to help others, and especially new fellows and young, as much as ever we can, we might do a great deal. Tell me, Walter, didn’t you find it a very hard thing when you first came, to keep right among All sorts of temptations?”
“Yes, I did, Power, very hard; and I confess, too, that I sometimes wondered that not one boy, though there are, as I see now, lots of thoroughly good and right fellows here, ever said one word, or did one thing to help me.”
“It’s all wrong, all wrong,” said Power; “but it was you first who made me see it. Walter, I shall pray to-night that God, Who has kept us safe, may teach and help us here to live less for ourselves. Who knows what we might not do for the school?”
They both sat for a short time in thoughtful silence. Boys do not often talk openly together about prayer or religion, though perhaps they do so even more than men do in common life. It is right and well that it should be so; it would be unnatural and certainly harmful were it otherwise. And these boys would probably never have talked to each other thus, if a common danger had not broken down completely the barriers of conventional reserve. Never again from this day did they allude to this sacred resolution; but they acted up to it, or strove to do so, not indeed unwaveringly, yet with manful courage, in the strength of that pure, strong, beautiful unity of heart and purpose which this day had cemented between them for the rest of their school-life.