"Henry, it strikes me that you have had your griefs and troubles, inexperienced as you are," resumed Mr. St. John.
"Oh yes, I have," he answered, betrayed into an earnestness, incompatible with cautious reserve. "Some of the college boys have not suffered me to lead a pleasant life with them," he continued, more calmly; "and then there has been my father's gradually straitening income."
"I think there must have been some other grief than these," was Mr. St. John's remark.
"What other grief could there have been?"
"I know but of one. And you are over young for that."
"Of course I am; too young," was the eager answer.
"That is enough," quietly returned Mr. St. John; "I did not tell you to betray yourself. Nay, Henry, don't shrink from me; let me hear it: it will be better and happier for you that I should."
"There is nothing—I don't know what you mean—what are you talking of, Mr. St. John?" was the incoherent answer.
"Harry, my poor boy, I know almost as much as you," he whispered. "I know what it is, and who it is. Georgie Beauclerc. There; you cannot tell me much, you see."
Henry Arkell laid his hand across his face and aching eyes; his chest was heaving with emotion. Mr. St. John leaned over him, not less tenderly than a mother.