And still less did it dream of the unwonted scene which was taking place that evening in the captain’s study.
Riddell and Gilks sat and talked far into the night.
I am not going to describe that talk. Let the reader imagine it.
Let him imagine all that a sympathetic and honest fellow like Riddell could say to cheer and encourage a broken-down penitent like Gilks. And let him imagine all that that forlorn, expelled boy, who had only just discovered that he had a friend in Willoughby, would have to say on this last night at the old school.
It was a relief to him to unburden his mind, and Riddell encouraged him to do it. He told all the sad history of the failures, and follies, and sins which had reached their catastrophe that day; and the captain, on his side, in his quiet manly way, strove all he could to infuse some hope for the future, and courage to bear his present punishment.
Whether he succeeded or not he could hardly tell; but when the evening ended, and the two finally betook themselves to bed in anticipation of Gilks’s early start in the morning, it was with a feeling of comfort and relief on both sides.
“If only I had known you before!” said Gilks. “I don’t know why you should be so kind to me. And now it’s too late to be friends.”
“I hope not,” said Riddell, cheerily. “We needn’t stop being friends because you’re going away.”
“Needn’t we!—will you write to me now and then?” asked Gilks, eagerly.
“Of course I will, and you must do the same. I’ll let you know all the news here.”