Hugh was half asleep when his tea came up, and quite so directly after he had drunk it. Though he slept a great deal in the course of the night, he woke often,—such odd feelings disturbed him! Every time he opened his eyes, he saw his mother sitting by the fire-side; and every time he moved in the least, she came softly to look. She would not let him talk at all till near morning, when she found that he could not sleep any more, and that he seemed a little confused about where he was,—what room it was, and how she came to be there by fire-light. Then she lighted a candle, and allowed him to talk about his friend Dale, and several school affairs; and this brought back gradually the recollection of all that had happened.
“I don’t know what I have been about, I declare,” said he, half laughing. But he was soon as serious as ever he was in his life, as he said, “But oh! Mother, tell me,—do tell me if I have let out who pulled me off the wall.”
“You have not,—you have not indeed,” replied she. “I shall never ask. I do not wish to know. I am glad you have not told; for it would do no good. It was altogether an accident.”
“So it was,” said Hugh; “and it would make the boy so unhappy to be pointed at! Do promise me, if I should let it out in my sleep, that you will never, never tell anybody.”
“I promise you. And I shall be the only person beside you while you are asleep, till you get well. So you need not be afraid.—Now, lie still again.”
She put out the light, and he did lie still for some time; but then he was struck with a sudden thought which made him cry out.
“O, mother, if I am so lame, I can never be a soldier or a sailor.—I can never go round the world!”
And Hugh burst into tears, now more really afflicted than he had been yet. His mother sat on the bed beside him, and wiped away his tears as they flowed, while he told her, as well as his sobs would let him, how long and how much he had reckoned on going round the world, and how little he cared for anything else in the future; and now this was just the very thing he should never be able to do! He had practised climbing ever since he could remember;—and now that was of no use;—he had practised marching, and now he should never march again. When he had finished his complaint, there was a pause, and his mother said—
“Hugh, do you remember Richard Grant?”
“What,—the cabinet-maker? The man who carved so beautifully?”