But to return to Louis. The mathematical contest was finished, and there
was a little lull before the second class would be again called on, and
Louis determined to spend this little interval of leisure in giving a
finishing scrutiny of the history likely to be in demand. Full of his
purposes, he burst into the class-room, where only Hamilton and Reginald
were, the former writing very fast, and the latter looking carefully
over an English essay he had just finished. Louis flew to the shelves
and ransacked them in vain: almost every book he wanted was gone.
At length, in despair, he asked Reginald if he knew who had Rollin's
History. Reginald absently replied in the negative, as he noted down
something in the page he was reading.

"The books are always gone," said Louis, pettishly. "I suppose Charlie
has it. He had it yesterday--he might as well let me have it to-day."

"Trevannion has it, I think," said Reginald.

"You may have mine," said Hamilton.

Louis stood still; he wanted the book very much, but was too proud
to accept the offer.

"It is in my room," continued Hamilton, without looking up.

"Thank you, I don't want _yours_," replied Louis, proudly, walking
out of the room.

As he entered the school-room he confronted Dr. Wilkinson, who, having
given orders for a brisk walk, was inquiring for Hamilton. Louis had
scarcely taken his hand from the lock when Hamilton abruptly opened it
and came quickly out of the room.

"You are the person I want," said the doctor, laying his hand on his
arm. "Hamilton, I want you to come out with me this bright day."

"To-day, sir?" said Hamilton, whose countenance expressed any thing
but delight at the proposition.

"And why put off till to-morrow what may be done to-day so well?"
said the doctor, smiling. "I suppose you have hopes of the weather
making a walk impracticable to-morrow: but I must have you all out,
or some of you will be laid up before you go home."

His eye fell upon Clifton, who was sitting with his elbows on a desk
close by, his fingers pushed through his hair, wholly absorbed in
"_Gibbon's Decline and Fall_." Dr. Wilkinson addressed him twice,
but, producing no impression, he removed one of the props of his
head, and turned his face towards himself.

"What are you doing there?"

"History, sir," said the boy, getting up mechanically, and looking
very much as if he were not pleased at the interruption.

"I hear your name is very high in the list to-day."

"Yes, sir," replied Charles, gravely; and, as the doctor released him,
he settled down precisely in the same attitude, without showing the
least satisfaction at the notice he had received.

Hamilton turned away with an impatient gesture.

"Are you going immediately, sir?" he said. "Can you spare me a
few minutes?"

"I shall be at the garden-gate in a quarter of an hour from this time,"
replied the doctor.

"I will not fail, sir," said Hamilton; and, crossing the room in
immense strides, he flew up stairs, and returned almost immediately
with a large volume under his arm. He made some inquiries of
Trevannion's whereabouts, and, learning that he was in the playground,
went in search of him. He very soon found him, walking briskly
up and down with Norman, making extracts from an old book in his
hand, and questioning his friend alternately. Hamilton and he had
scarcely exchanged a word since their quarrel, and it was with some
surprise that he saw Hamilton present himself, and still more, when
a request was made that he would exchange books.

"I particularly want this just now," he replied.

"This is Rollin," said Hamilton. "I should feel obliged if you would
exchange copies."

Trevannion opened his eyes wider, but after a second's pause, he took
Hamilton's and gave him his book in exchange, without any comment.

"What a strange whim!" remarked Norman, when Hamilton had left them,
after shortly expressing his thanks.

"What can he mean, Norman?" said Trevannion. "This is his own, too."

"Perhaps some new way of trying to make up an old quarrel,"
said Norman, sneeringly.

"I don't think so," replied Trevannion; "he would not have tried
so odd a plan--no, there's something deeper than that."

"Are the histories alike?" asked Norman.

"I believe so," answered Trevannion; "if there's any advantage, I am
sure to have it, at any rate."

"You have a very high opinion of him."

"VERY," said Trevannion. "If Hamilton did mean this to make up our
quarrel, I am sure I shall be willing."

"Upon my word," said Norman, "this is dignity."

Trevannion made no answer, for something had attracted his attention
on the opposite side of the playground.

"Holloa! Norman, look there!" he exclaimed.

"Where? what! oh, horror!" cried Norman.

"There they are--they're hid; now, there they are again!--now look,
who is it? Stand behind this tree a minute--now let us look out."

Obedient to his instructions, Norman looked, and saw three boys drop
down one after another from the branch of a tree, that had evidently
assisted their descent from the playground wall, and then run across
the playground.

"Who are they?" said Trevannion, putting up his eye-glass (which,
gentle reader, be it known he carried for use). "One is Churchill,
I'm sure! Who's that long fellow? Why, it's Harris, isn't it? It
can't be, surely!"

"It is," said Norman; "and the other's Casson."

"I'm sure they are at no good," said Trevannion; "I shall make
a note of this remarkable occurrence."

So saying, he made a memorandum of the circumstance in his
pocket-book, and had just finished when the boys poured out
cloaked and great-coated, and informed him of the doctor's
desires.

The reader will be at no loss to discover Hamilton's reason for
exchanging the books. As Louis was out, he took Dr. Wilkinson's
with him into the class-room, and sat down to finish the six last
words of his poem; and then, folding it neatly up, enveloped it in
half a sheet of writing-paper. He was just pressing the seal upon
the wax, when his watch, which he had laid open before him, warned
him that the last minutes of the quarter of an hour had arrived.
He just pushed his things together, and left them on the table;
and snatching up his hat as he ran through the hall, scarcely
arrived at the garden-gate in time to save his character for
punctuality.

It so happened that Casson was Louis' companion during the walk,
and entertained him with a flowing account of all the vulgar tricks
he had been in the habit of playing at his former school. Louis could
not help laughing at them; nor would his vanity allow him to refrain
from boasting of--what he had before been properly ashamed--his own
share in some of Casson's late exploits. So afraid was he of seeming
inferior, even to a person he despised, and in those things which his
better feelings taught him equally to despise. Casson inwardly laughed
at Louis' boasted feats, as he had always done to others when Louis was
out of hearing; but he now quizzed him, stimulating him, by applauding
his spirit and ingenuity; and by the time they had reached the house,
Louis was in a thoroughly giddy humor, ready to try, at the risk of
disgrace, the new schemes to which he had just been listening.

The boys stayed in the playground till the dinner-bell rang, which
was a few minutes after they had entered the playground; but these
few minutes sufficed for Louis, in his present humor, to get himself
in a scrape, the consequences of which, at the time, he certainly did
not contemplate. He had been complaining to Casson, in the beginning
of their walk, that he could not get "Rollin's History," and, as Casson
persisted that it was in the study, Louis took him there to show him
his error, when they returned home.

"Ha, ha! Mr. Louis Mortimer, who's right?" cried Casson,
holding up the book.

"That can't be; I wonder how it got there," said Louis,
approaching the table in a mystified manner. "These must
be Trevannion's things, I suppose; only Hamilton was writing
here; and here is his dictionary,--I wonder what he wanted
with it--he never said he had it--he let me suppose Trevannion
had it--kind of him--I suppose he wanted to prevent my getting
it; but I'll have it now--he's got one of his own."

"I'd be even with him," said Casson; "what a heap of things! See,
here's an exercise of his; or a letter, I suppose--it's too neat
for an exercise. A good thick letter--sealed, too. I'll tell you
what, Louis--"

Accordingly, what Casson did tell Louis was, what a "capital dodge"
it would be to abstract Hamilton's sealed packet, and to leave another
folded like it in its place.

"We often used to trick the boys at old Stennett's with their
exercises," continued he; "they never wrote in books there--we
used to tear the leaves out of the exercise-books, and write on
them. It was such jolly fun to see them open the paper and find
nothing in it, or only some rubbish."

"How did you do it?" asked Louis.

"Oh, we doubled up a bit of an old exercise-book, and exchanged, that's
all!" replied Casson; "see, why here's half a sheet of paper, that'll
do for the cover; and now then, Louis, more paper--he'll never miss
it--that's it--fold it up just the size; how beautifully you have
done it!"

"But there's no seal," said Louis.

"He'll forget he sealed it," replied Casson; "oh, how jolly!--here's
a piece of sealing-wax--it is sealed with the top of a pencil-case."

"I have one just like that," said Louis; "oh, no; here's E. H. on
this--that won't do, Casson."

Casson presently relieved this difficulty by discovering Hamilton's
pencil-case; and the paper was quickly sealed, when Louis began to
doubt:

"But we don't know what it is, Casson."

"If it turns out to be any thing, send it by post, directed to him,
at his father's," said Casson; "he'll get it safely enough."

The dinner-bell rang loudly at this moment, and with a little laugh
at the idea of the oddity of sending it to Hamilton's home, and a
strong feeling of doubt as to the wisdom of his proceeding, Louis
hastily exchanged the packets, and ran out of the room. On his way
to the dining-room he paused--

"If it should be of any consequence, Casson," he said.

"Well, if it is, so much the better fun; he won't treat you so shabbily
another time."

"Ah, but--I don't want to revenge myself, and I don't like playing
tricks on Hamilton exactly, either: I think I must give it back."

"I thought you were such a dab at these kinds of things," said Casson,
sneeringly.

"What have I done with it now?" Louis exclaimed suddenly, as they
reached the dining-room door, after stopping a few seconds in the
hall to hang up his coat. "What can I have done with it? I must have
slipped it into my desk just now, when I put my Livy in."

He was not able to turn back then; and, in the mean time, Hamilton
had paid a hasty visit to the class-room, to collect his things,
and had locked up carefully the false packet; and Louis had not
courage to make any inquiries, though he hoped that he might have
found the right one, which, with all his care, he could not discover
himself. Louis had, in his hurry, left Rollin on the study-table, and
after school he ran into the room, and finding it in nearly the same
place where Hamilton had been guarding it for him, he carried it off,
and Hamilton, seeing the action, made no remark on the matter.

The next evening, the Latin poems were sent in to the doctor's study
for comparison, and Hamilton's blank counterfeit was titled on the
cover, and dispatched with a degree of nervous anxiety that certainly
would not have been called forth by a subject so empty. Louis was
in an agony of remorse, when the truth burst on him. His only hope
was, that Hamilton might have found the right packet. He heard the
speculations around him as to the probability of success, and saw
the last paper put into Norman's hand to be carried away, but he
dared not say any thing. He had never dreamt of the importance of
the paper he had so carelessly dropped or mislaid, and would have
given all he possessed to have remembered what he had done with it.

Nothing more was done that evening. Study had helped to drive away
the smaller qualms of conscience the day before; but he was now so
sick at heart, that he remained with his head on his hand doing
nothing, puzzling himself in vain to remember what he had done
with the poem.

CHAPTER XXI.

It was Saturday night when the manuscripts were delivered to the
doctor, and it was not till Monday that the absence of Hamilton's
poem was discovered. As much of Sunday as he was able, Louis spent
with Casson, trying to discover what could have become of the poem,
and in devising all manner of schemes for its recovery and restoration.
Little comfort he received from his tempter--Casson alternately laughed
at his fears, and blamed his cowardice--and, in order to escape this,
Louis affected to be indifferent to the consequences, concealing his
heaviness of heart under assumed mirth and unconcern. He had lately
spent many cold, careless Sabbaths, but one so utterly wretched as
this he could not remember.

The boys had just left the dining-room on Monday, after dinner, when
a summons to the doctor's study came for Hamilton. As this was not an
uncommon occurrence, Hamilton betrayed neither curiosity nor uneasiness,
but quietly gave a few directions to his little brother, and then
leisurely left the room. He was soon in the presence of Dr. Wilkinson,
Mr. James Wilkinson, and an old gentleman who had a day or two before
been examining his class, and who usually assisted in the half-yearly
examinations. The countenances of these gentlemen were not very
promising, and he instantly saw that something unpleasant might
be expected. Before the doctor lay a number of folded papers, which
Hamilton recognized as the poems under consideration, and in his
hand was a blank sheet of paper, the envelope of which had fallen
on the floor.

"Mr. Hamilton," said the doctor, "I have sent for you to explain
this strange affair. Pray can you tell me what was in this envelope?"
He stooped, and, picking up the paper as he spoke, handed it to Hamilton.

"My poem, sir," replied Hamilton, quietly.

"You are sure that is your writing?"

"Quite," said Hamilton, confidently.

"I have been able to discover nothing more than this," said the doctor,
with something like annoyance in his tone. "I do not know whether you
have been writing with invisible ink. This is a mistake, Hamilton,"
he added, turning the blank sheet in all directions. "Where is your
poem?"

"That in _my_ envelope, sir!" exclaimed Hamilton, reddening to the roots
of his hair. "In _my_ envelope!" he reiterated, taking up the envelope
and re-examining it in a state of tremulous excitement. "I _cannot_ have
made such a mistake--it is utterly impossible."

"I should say so--impossible, unconsciously, to make so great a mistake,"
said the old gentleman.

"And equally so, sir, to make it _consciously_," replied Hamilton.

"But where is the poem?" asked Dr. Wilkinson.

"I expected it was here," said Hamilton--"and, as it is not, I cannot
answer that question, sir." He again turned over the paper, but could
find no clue to the mystery.

"Is the paper the same as you used?" asked Mr. James.

"It is," replied Hamilton; "and the seal is my own, as well as
the writing."

"What is the seal?" asked Dr. Berry, the old gentleman.

"E.H. It belongs to this pencil-case," answered Hamilton, producing
his pencil-case. "I always carry it about with me."

"That's awkward again," said Dr. Berry, exchanging a look with Mr. James.

"Have you never left your pencil-case about lately, nor lent it to any
one?" asked Dr. Wilkinson.

Hamilton considered.

"I believe I left it with all my things on the class-room table
last Friday, when I went out with you, sir."

"Ah!" said Dr. Berry, "what did you leave there?"

"Some writing-paper, pens, a few books, and my poem, which I had
just finished."

"That was careless of you, Hamilton," said Dr. Wilkinson.

"I had only just sealed it in time to run after you, sir," replied
Hamilton; "and, as every one was out, I thought there could be no
harm in leaving them there till I returned."

"How much paper did you leave there?" asked Mr. James.

"About half a quire."

"_About_ half a quire; then, I suppose, you do not know whether
any of that paper was taken while you were away?"

"No, I do not," replied Hamilton. "If any one changed it, it must
have been then; as, after I came home, it was locked up in my own
writing-desk till Saturday evening."

"It might have been changed on the way," suggested Mr. James.

Hamilton was silent for a few seconds, when he answered:

"I do not think so; for I am sure this is my writing: I must
unwittingly have directed an empty packet."

"Unless," said Dr. Wilkinson, quietly, "some one has imitated
your writing?"

"I only know one who could," replied Hamilton, coloring; "and, I
am confident, he was not the party: besides, sir, I do not think
there was time, between Norman's departure and his return, to have
done it, and that was the only time any one would have had after
I had directed it. I did not direct it till Saturday evening."

"But you said the boys were all out at the same time with yourself;
and, in fact, I know they were: I saw them going in as we turned
into the playground," said Dr. Wilkinson. "Did no one stay at home?
Stay--_Friday_--Digby was at home; I remember he pleaded his cold."

Dr. Wilkinson looked down on the paper he held: there was a strong
expression of suspicion in his countenance. The other gentlemen
exchanged looks, and Mr. James remarked, that he considered Frank
the probable culprit.

"I am glad he does not hear you say so, sir," exclaimed Hamilton. "I
am sure Digby would sooner put his own on the fire! I'd trust Frank's
honor as much as my own; and, I am sure, sir," he added, turning to
Dr. Wilkinson, "_you_ know Frank too well."

To Hamilton's annoyance, Dr. Wilkinson did not reply immediately.

"Frank is too fond of practical jokes," he said, at last; "I wish I
could give him a lesson he would remember. He will never be cured till
it touches him severely."

"But Frank would not joke on this, sir," expostulated Hamilton.
"If he were not so high it might be so, but I'm sure it is not now."

"Well, there is no time now to consider of this any more," said
Dr. Wilkinson, getting up. "I could bring forward many instances
of Digby's disregard of feelings and appearances when his fancy
for joking interferes. Dr. Berry, will you be kind enough to attend
to these for me, this afternoon? I shall be glad to call upon you
on Wednesday for my second class, if you can spare me the day."

Dr. Berry signified his ready acquiescence; and Dr. Wilkinson turned
to Hamilton:

"It is just school-time," he said; "but I wish you, after school,
to make a search in every desk for your poem. I do not imagine it
is destroyed. Mr. James will assist you. In the mean time, in the
event of your poem not being discovered, you had better rewrite it
as well as you can; I will give you till nine o'clock on the last
morning."

Hamilton bowed, thanked his master, and retired, exceedingly
uncomfortable. His own loss was slight compared with the vexation
he felt at any suspicion of Frank's honor being raised. A very
different surmise would now and then try to rise in his own mind,
but was vigorously opposed as ungenerous in the extreme. An idea
of the real culprit never once occurred to him, nor to any other
person. The first class being disengaged that afternoon, Hamilton
employed himself with the new edition of his poem, but his thoughts
wandered; and, had it not been for a good memory and the force of
habitual concentration, he would have found it almost impossible
to resume a task he had considered as finished, in circumstances
so very disagreeable to him.

As soon as the business of the day was concluded Dr. Wilkinson
commanded every one to remain in his place, and then desired Hamilton
to begin the search, carefully refraining from mentioning the object
in quest. There was considerable excitement in the school when the
doctor's command was made known, and it was strictly enforced, that
no one should touch the desks till after the search had been made.

"Frank Digby, come here!" shouted the doctor from his post. "Did I not
desire that none of those desks should be touched at present?"

"I was only putting my slate away, sir," said Frank, in much amazement.

"I will not have your desk touched; stay here."

"What's in the wind?" muttered Jones, sulkily. "The magister's in
a splendid humor. What do you want in my desk, Hamilton?"

"A trick has been played on me," said Hamilton, hastily; "my poem has
been exchanged; but--" he added, hesitating, "I cannot bear this."

"Nonsense, Hamilton!" said Mr. James, who was turning over the contents
of Jones's desk. "There is nothing there."

"Stand back, and let Hamilton look, pray!" exclaimed Reginald Mortimer.
"What a shame it is!--you don't suspect _us_, Hamilton?"

"_To be sure not!_" said Hamilton, warmly; "but I am desired to do this."

"So much the better," said Salisbury; "you'll find mine locked, but here
are my keys: we'll go up to the doctor. I say, Hamilton, don't upset my
bottle of lemon kali, or my blue ink; you mightn't see them, perhaps,
among the other things."

Hamilton took the keys with some embarrassment, and the first class
moved in a body to the upper end of the room, where they remained
till every desk had been subjected to a fruitless ransacking.

Louis' state of mind may be easily imagined. He had guessed the reason
of the doctor's command the instant it was given; and had also heard
the few words that passed between Hamilton and his friends. Oh! what
would he have given that he had considered before he committed such
folly! He could not bear to face Hamilton, and yet he must be near him
when his own desk was examined, for he dared not move from his place.
He had looked carefully there himself, but still he was afraid it might,
by chance, be there. He hardly dared look round, for fear he should
betray his secret; and yet his distress sadly longed for vent. "I did
not mean to do any harm," was his reiterated thought; "I am sure, I
thought it was a letter--I did not mean it." And then he wished to
confess his fault; but, with his usual vacillation of purpose, he
deferred it, till he should see how things went. It did seem strange
that, with all the lessons he had had, he should have put off his
confession; yet he dared not, and tried to quiet his conscience with,
"I shall tell Hamilton alone;" and, "It's no use telling, when I can't
find the poem." But his trouble was tenfold increased when Hamilton
and Mr. James came near him, and finding his desk locked, inquired
who's it was, and where the keys were.

Hamilton remarked in a low tone, not aware that Louis was so near,
"I suppose for form's sake we must look, but I am sure, poor fellow,
he has nothing to do with it."

Louis just then handed his key; and, as Hamilton's hand came in contact
with his, he was struck by its cold clamminess, and just looking at him,
noticed the troubled expression, and the almost tearful eyes that were
fixed on him. He attributed Louis' anxiety to his natural timidity, as
well as to his having probably overheard the remark on himself; and his
heart smote him, for he still loved him, and had felt once or twice
lately, that he had not done his duty towards him.

The poem was not found. Louis ran out into the playground, despite the
cold and twilight, to cry; and hurried in again in a few minutes, for
fear of discovery. The members of the first class gathered round Hamilton
to learn the story and to condole with him, and even Trevannion made some
remark on the shamefulness of such a trick.

"I am sure, whoever gets the prize will not feel comfortable unless your
poem is found and compared," said Frank; "write away, Hamilton; no one
shall disturb you. I don't wonder Fudge was in such a passion."

Louis was very glad when bed-time came, and he could hide his tears and
misery under the bed-clothes. Reginald had been too busy to notice that
any thing was the matter with him; but Hamilton, occupied as he was, had
seen it, though Louis had kept out of his way as much as possible. He
dared not tell Reginald his trouble; and he felt afraid to pray--he did
not remember that, though our Heavenly Father knows all our thoughts and
wants, He requires that all our care and sin should be poured out before
Him. The Christian does not love sin; and when, through unwatchfulness
or neglect of prayer, he has been betrayed into the commission of it,
let him remember, that He alone can remove it and restore peace to his
wounded conscience, who has said, "Return, ye backsliding children, and
I will heal your backslidings."

Louis got on very ill the next Wednesday, and Reginald, extremely vexed,
spoke very angrily to him. Louis answered as unkindly, and walked proudly
away from him to the other end of the school-room, where, in spite of
his abhorrence of such company, he was soon surrounded by his worst
companions. Hamilton was standing near Reginald at the time; he watched
Louis in his proud descent, and saw that, though he turned away with
an erect head and high words, his step soon grew more listless, and an
expression of indefinable weariness usurped the place of the independence
he had assumed.

"Louis is unwell, I am sure, Reginald," he said.

"He is well enough," said Reginald, abruptly; "but he is sadly altered:
I never saw a boy so changed. He is quite ill-tempered now, and so
horridly idle. Why, Hamilton, you'd never believe that in to-day's
examination in _Prometheus Vinctus_, he got down below Harris!--he's
positively at the bottom. He hardly answered any thing, and seemed
quite stupefied."

"The more reason to think he's not well," said Hamilton; "for, to my
certain knowledge, he would have stood an examination on Prometheus
better than that, a week after we came back. Why, Harris and Peters,
and half the rest, are not to be compared with him."

"I know it," said Reginald; "and that makes it the more vexatious.
It's bad enough to think that Clifton should get ahead of him,
but one may comfort one's self in the idea of his genius; but when
it comes to those donkeyfied ignorami, it is past endurance. He
has not tried a bit: I have seen him lately with his book before
him, dreaming about some wonderful story of some enchanted ass, or
some giantess Mamouka, I suppose; or imagining some new ode to some
incomprehensible, un-come-at-able Dulcinea. He is always shutting
himself up in his air-castles, and expecting that dry Latin and Greek,
and other such miserable facts, will penetrate his atmosphere."

"Don't be angry with him; something is the matter. You only drive
him to herd with those boys," said Hamilton. "Look there!--there
they are!--oh, Reginald! it is not right to leave him with them."

"Speak to him yourself, Hamilton," said Reginald, a little sobered.
"He will mind you. You have had a great deal to bear with him, but
I know you make allowances."

Hamilton did not reply, but he had determined on making the effort to
detach Louis from his evil counsellors, when the latter suddenly left
the room with Casson, and did not return till Hamilton had gone into
the class-room.

Casson was the only one to whom Louis could relieve his mind on the
subject that weighed him down so heavily--and he had, at the time
Hamilton was watching him so intently, been whispering some of his
fears, only to be laughed at. Suddenly he paused--"Casson, just come
with me; I think I recollect--yes, surely--"

He did not wait to conclude his sentence, but, pulling Casson into the
hall, sought his great-coat, dived to the bottom of the pocket, and,
to his great joy, drew forth Hamilton's poem.

"It's here! it's here! it's here!" he cried. "How could I have put it
here without knowing? Oh, my dear Casson, I am _so_ glad!"

"Well, what now?" said Casson, rudely. "What good is it? What do you
mean to do with it?"

"Give it back, of course--I think Hamilton will forgive me, and if not,
I _must_ give it back to him, and then, perhaps, I shall be happy
again; for I have not been happy for a long, long while: I have been
very wrong," he added, in a low, sorrowful tone.

"If ever I saw such a sap in my life," said Casson; "this comes of
all your fine boasting; a nice fellow you are--why you're afraid
of your own shadow! Do you know what you'll get if you give it back?"

"Whatever happens," said Louis, "I feel I have done wrong--wrong in
listening to you, too, Casson. Oh, if ever it please God to make me
happy again, I hope I shall be more careful! I have been afraid to
do right--I am afraid to think of all that has happened lately."

"I always thought you were a canting hypocrite," said Casson,
sneeringly. "I never see that you religious people do any better
than any one else. Go and get a thrashing, as you deserve, for
your cowardice, only don't tell any lies about me. Remember it
was all your own doing."

Casson opened the hall-door as he spoke, and ran into the playground,
where most of the boys had assembled, the weather having cleared a
little for the first time for the last two days.

Louis sat down on a chair to think what he should do, and the
long-restrained tears coursed slowly down his face. His first
and best thought was to go at once to Hamilton, acknowledge his
fault, and restore the poem. Then came the idea of renewed disgrace,
and his head sunk lower on his breast, and the parcel fell from his
powerless hands. So intense was his grief, that he was as unconscious
that Dr. Wilkinson passed through the hall while he sat there, as that
he had heard the conversation between himself and Casson; for, unknown
to them both, he had been in a recess of the hall, nearly covered by
the cloaks and coats, looking there for something in a little corner
closet. Louis at last took up the paper, and went to Hamilton's room;
but a servant was there, and he did not like to leave it. Next he
thought of the doctor's study, but he dared not venture to approach
it. At length, after wandering about from the bed-room to the
lass-room door several times, he ventured to peep into the latter
room, and, throwing the parcel in, ran to the playground as fast
as his feet could carry him.

CHAPTER XXII.

  "Bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfil the law
   of Christ."--Gal. vi. 2.

As soon as Hamilton had decided that it was of no use following Louis,
he called his brother to him and marched with him into the class-room,
to explain, according to promise, some classical allusions that occurred
in his Latin grammar. Reginald took his arm, and several of the first
class, who saw them move, accompanied him, for the glass-door opening
at the moment, admitted more cold air than was agreeable to those who
did not feel inclined to visit the playground. They almost expected to
find the doctor in the study, as they knew he had been there a short
time before, but the sole occupant of the chamber was Frank Digby, who,
to the astonishment of all, was standing in a very disconsolate attitude
near the fireplace, leaning his head on the mantelpiece, and neither
moved nor spoke when they entered.

"Holloa, Momus!" exclaimed Reginald, "what's the row? as Salisbury
would say; only, more properly we might ask, in your case, what do
the tranquillity and genteel pensiveness of your demeanor denote?"

"We're going to have a change in the weather," said Jones.

"What's the matter, Frank?" asked Hamilton.

"Nothing," replied Frank, raising his head quickly, and endeavoring,
rather unsuccessfully, to smile, amid something that looked very
much like tears; at least, if we must not be allowed to hint at such
appearances, there was certainly much agitation in his countenance--so
unusual a phenomenon, that a dead silence followed the ghastly effort.

"Nonsense," said Hamilton, kindly; "you won't persuade me that nothing
is the matter, Frank."

"Nothing particular," said Frank, fidgeting with a penny that lay on
the mantelpiece; "only the doctor has been giving me a lecture for the
good of my morals, that's all."

"A lecture?" repeated Norman.

"What's been the matter, Frank?" said Reginald.

"A small moral discourse upon the sin and danger of practical jokes,"
said Frank, swallowing down such an evident degree of emotion as
convinced his auditors that the discourse had been no ordinary one.
"His hints were rather peculiar, Hamilton--too decided for so
quick-sighted a youth as myself. I don't wonder he has such a
horror of a joke; I should think the dear man never was guilty
of such a crime in his life himself; or he has a strong imagination;
or, perhaps, a bad opinion of your humble servant--all the same--the
cause doesn't much signify; the effect's what one looks at."

"Something dreadfully mysterious," said Reginald.

Hamilton was silent. He watched anxiously Frank's varying countenance,
the twitching of which, as well as the thick, quick tone in which he
spoke, betrayed great excitement.

"The fact is, I suppose, the doctor has reasons for his suspicions,"
continued Frank, still more quickly, while his face grew redder, and
his eyelids twinkled painfully, and the penny was fairly spun into
the fender.

"I haven't been quite so sage as I might have been, and, perhaps, jokes
may not be quite gentlemanly--but,--but, Hamilton,--he thinks,--he
thinks--and almost said it--that _I changed your poem_."

"What a shame!" they cried.

Frank stooped to pick up the penny, and was some minutes finding it.
When he rose, he said:

"One will grow old in time, but it's hard to pay so dearly for good
spirits. However, you couldn't expect such a flow cheap, I suppose,"
he added, with a little laugh.

"You must have mistaken him," said Trevannion; "he couldn't have
meant it."

"I am not in the habit of taking offence at nothing," replied Frank.
"Nay, I can be as purposely obtuse as any one when I choose, but one
couldn't be blind."

"What did he say?" said Reginald.

"I don't exactly remember--a heap about 'pain inflicted,' of
'misconstructions being placed on motives,' of 'transgressions
against honor and kindliness;' and then, when I was at a loss to
comprehend him, he said, 'he could not understand the gratification
of seeing another disappointed and annoyed--when he discovered that
his school-fellow, whom he confidently trusted, had substituted a
blank sheet for a carefully, laboriously-written work;' and then
I asked him if he supposed I had tricked Hamilton? and he said he
couldn't think of another who was so likely to do it as myself--that
'the constant indulgence in these senseless follies was likely to
blunt the sense of honor,' 'that I must excuse him'--excuse him,
forsooth--'if he spoke his mind on the subject:' and then he raked
up an old affair, that happened ages ago, about an exercise--Salisbury,
you remember--you were the victim; but that was a paltry, every-day
affair, only he didn't seem to understand the difference. I'll back
the doctor up for as good a memory as any man in the three kingdoms.
I had forgotten that piece of moral turpitude, and might have been
excused for imagining that the caning I got then had wiped out the
offence. Hamilton," he added, with a faltering voice, laying his
hand on Hamilton's shoulder--"you don't believe I did it?"

"To be sure not, Frank," said Hamilton, heartily shaking Frank's hand.
"I know you too well--I am as confident of you as I should be of myself
in the same case. Don't think any more of it. I am sure the doctor
doesn't believe it himself: he only wants to show what might be
thought if you get a character for playing tricks. I am excessively
vexed at this."

"I don't feel at all certain he believes me yet," said Frank; "but
this I declare, that unless your poem is found, I will withdraw all
claim--I won't touch the prize for any consideration."

"Don't do that, Frank," said Hamilton; "I'll give you some trouble yet
with my new one."

"If that gets it, so much the better," said Frank, "and I dare say it
will; but you all hear--my mind is made up--I won't have a prize for
this poem unless it is gained over Hamilton's first."

"How came the doctor to begin this rigmarole?" asked Salisbury.

Frank blushed, and replied, with a conscious laugh: "I did an abominably
foolish thing last night, in dipping all the bed-room candles that were
standing in the pantry, into a tempting basin of water; and Mrs. Guppy
was malicious because the candles sputtered and wouldn't light, and,
as usual, determined that I had done it; and Fudge taxed me with it
this morning."

"I wish," said Hamilton, emphatically, "I could discover the author of
this shameful piece of business. It was vexatious enough in the first
place, but this is painful to us all. Frank, every one knows you."

"Doctor best of all," put in Frank.

"I will give myself up to discovering who has done it," said Hamilton.

"You had better give yourself up to finishing your poem," said Reginald;
"for it's my humble opinion if you haven't found it now, your eyes won't
discover the clue, if you were Argus himself."

The others then began a rather noisy debate on the impropriety of
their master's behavior; and little Alfred, finding his brother was
not speaking, ventured to remind him of his promise. Contrary to his
usual habit, Hamilton turned quite crossly to him:

"What an idle fellow you are! Why don't you get _Lempriere_ and find
them out for yourself?--you ought not to be beginning now."

"I tried, Edward, but I couldn't understand it, and it went out of my
head. I want to know about Cecropia again--I forget what country it was,
Edward," said the child, timidly, noticing an ominous reddening of his
brother's face.

"A great deal of use it is giving you any information, is it not, sir?
I have a great mind to make you write out every word I say. And pray
what else have you forgotten?"

"Not _forgotten_ any thing," said Alfred, meekly; "but I wanted to
know, please Edward, who was Hannibal's father, and whether it was
true about Hannibal's making the rocks red hot, and pouring vinegar
on them? I don't think it could, for I don't know where he could
get so much."

"A great deal he carried in his own countenance," said Frank, "and
the rest was made from the wine supplied for the Carthaginian officers.
There's nothing like white-wine vinegar, Alfred; and the Carthaginians
were renowned for parting with luxuries on an emergency."

"Now I know that's your nonsense," said Alfred, looking very puzzled.
"And, please Edward, who was Philomela and--"

"That's enough--one at a time!" exclaimed Hamilton; "get _Lempriere_,
and my Roman History, and you shall look them out with me. It's to be
hoped you are not dreaming of a prize."

"Poor infant!" said Salisbury; "it's hard work, I know, to remember
the difference between those heathen chaps."

Alfred had just brought the required books, and was opening them by
his brother's desire, and Hamilton was standing near him at the table,
when suddenly a packet was thrown into the room, and fell at his feet.
Changing color, he picked it up with the rapidity of lightning, and,
with an exclamation, rushed out of the room, before any one but Alfred
had seen the transaction. Louis had just gained the threshold of the
door leading to the playground, when Hamilton hailed him, and his long
strides gaining on Louis' terror-impeded steps, he presently reached
him, and, grasping him tightly by both arms, bore him back to the
class-room, sternly desiring two or three boys, who attempted to
follow, to stay behind. Louis did not make any resistance, and
Hamilton, after locking the door and putting the key into his pocket,
brought him irresistibly to the front of the fire, and, placing him
with his back against the table, opposite the assembled group, desired
him, under pain of instant punishment, to remain where he was.

"What is the matter with him, Hamilton?" asked Reginald.

"You shall see presently," said Hamilton; "I mean to have some
inquiries answered: and please, Mortimer, however unpleasant it
may be to you, let us have fair play."

"I only stipulate it for Louis too," said Reginald.

"He shall have it," said Hamilton, calmly; "but if he attempts to
move till I have done, I will carry him at once to Dr. Wilkinson."

Hamilton glanced at the windows, where five or six heads were
darkening the lower panes, in their eagerness to discover the
cause of Louis' forcible abduction; and, walking coolly up to
them, bolted them, and drew down both blinds. He then returned
to his place, and, drawing his coat-tails under his arms, arranged
himself with his back to the fire, exactly opposite to Louis, who
stood passively where he had been placed, very pale, but otherwise
showing little emotion.

"Now, sir," began Hamilton, "explain how you got this."

As he spoke, he produced, to the astonishment of his school-fellows,
the parcel--rubbed at the edges, but still the identical parcel, as
he proved, by breaking the seal, and showing the writing inside.

"What! Louis Mortimer!" exclaimed Jones.

"_Et tu Brute!_" ejaculated Frank, in a tone of mingled surprise
and reproach.

"Louis!" said Reginald, coloring deeply; "oh, Louis! How did you
find it, Hamilton?"

"Did you not see it come in through the half-open door just now?"
said Hamilton.

"I fancied I saw something fly along," said Meredith.

"I thought I heard something fall," said another.

"Too cowardly to come openly," said Trevannion.

The room seemed to turn round with Louis.

"How did you come by this?" said Hamilton.

There was no answer.

"I will have an answer, Louis," he said: "and if you don't give it
to me, you shall to Dr. Wilkinson!"

Louis murmured something that no one heard.

"What?" said Hamilton, sharply; "speak so as we can all hear. If you
have brought it back for some one else," he added, in a softened tone,
"say so at once; only let me know who took it."

"I took it," replied Louis, with a great effort.

"You ungrateful viper!" exclaimed Jones.

Hamilton appeared a little moved, but checking the emotion, continued:

"You! for--your--own--especial--gratification? And pray, when might
you have accomplished that adroit and praiseworthy feat?"

"Last Friday," said Louis, in so low a tone, that nothing but the
silence that reigned could have made it audible.

"And what was your motive?" asked Hamilton, leaning back against
the mantelpiece, and putting one foot on the fender behind him.

"Only a little fun!"

"Pretty respectable _fun_!" said Hamilton, contemptuously.

"Gratitude might have restrained you, one would think," said Jones,
"if nothing else would. A pretty return for all Hamilton's kindness,
to set to work to lose him his prize!"

"I didn't, Jones," said Louis, warmly; "I thought it was a letter; I
didn't mean any harm. And as to gratitude--when Hamilton was kind to
me, I was grateful--and I do feel grateful for his kindness now; but
he has been unkind enough lately to make me forget that."

"And reason enough he had," said Meredith. "Unkind, indeed! why no one
else stood your friend when we found out what a tell-tale you were."

"I am sure nobody knew he was my friend then," said Louis, assuming an
air of independence that ill became him. "Only last Friday, he let me
believe that Trevannion had the doctor's Rollin; he offered me his, but
I wasn't likely to take that, and--" Louis hesitated, for Hamilton's eye
was upon him so calmly and inquiringly; and Louis felt he was not likely
to have had such an idea in his head.

"And what?" said Hamilton, quietly.

"Nothing," replied Louis; "I don't believe you knew, only it was rather
strange, Hamilton."

"What was strange?" said Hamilton, in the same unmoved tone.

"Only when I came back into this room, I saw it on the table with your
things, and I thought you had it, perhaps," said Louis, reluctantly.
"If it hadn't been for that, I shouldn't have come here, and shouldn't
have thought of playing the trick."

"You little--" exclaimed Trevannion. Not being able to find a genteel
epithet strong enough, he continued, "When Hamilton had just taken the
trouble of exchanging his own history with me, for your service! I see
it all now, Hamilton--you ungrateful boy!"

"How should I know? he never said so," replied Louis, touched to the
heart at this proof of his friend's kindness; and grieved very deeply
that he should have thought or said so unkind a thing of him in his
anger. "How am I to know what people think, if they don't speak, or
if I don't see them?"

"And so you did it out of revenge?" said Hamilton.

Louis was silent for a minute, for he could not speak; but at last
he replied, in a quivering voice--

"No; I told you I did it out of fun. I thought it was a letter,
and--and I have been very sorry I ever did any thing so foolish.
I should have brought it back sooner, but I could not remember
what I did with it."

"Why did you not tell me, at least, that you had taken it, Louis,"
said Hamilton, "when I was inquiring for it? It would have been
more open."

"I should have done it, I believe, if I had known how you would have
heard me--but it's not so easy when every one is against you. I brought
it only a few minutes after I found it."

"Who put such a thing into your head, Louis?" asked Reginald.

Louis checked the answer he had nearly given, and remained silent.

"Were you alone?" said Hamilton. "Were you the only one concerned
in this business?"

"I was not alone," replied Louis, rather proudly; "but I do not mean
to say who was with me. He was not to blame for what I did."

"How so?" asked Hamilton. "Didn't he put it into your head, and help
you to do it?"

"You have no right to ask such questions," said Louis, uneasily.
"He came in to help me find Rollin, and--that's all I shall tell you."

"What, Casson help you to find Rollin!" said Hamilton, quickly.
"He wouldn't know the book from a Lexicon."

"He did, however," said Louis; then, becoming suddenly conscious,
from the intelligent glances exchanged among his judges, of the
admission he had made, he turned very red, and exclaimed,

"It's very unfair!"

"I knew he was your companion," said Hamilton, rather scornfully. "You
have belonged to his set too much lately to suppose otherwise--and this
is the consequence."

"If it is, Hamilton," said Louis, scarcely able to speak for the warmth
of his feelings, "you might have prevented it if you would. You wouldn't
forgive my speaking carelessly once--and no one that I cared for would
notice me. He was almost the only one who would speak to me. If you had
said one word, I shouldn't have been so bad. I thought you didn't care
about me, and I didn't mean to stay where I wasn't wanted."

The expression of Hamilton's face was not easy, and he drowned the end
of Louis' speech by knocking all the fire-irons down with a movement of
his poised foot.

"It was a likely way to be wanted, I imagine," said Jones, "to go on
as you have been doing. Besides, who is to know what's likely to be
safe with such a tell-tale--a traitor--in the camp as you are?"

"If there hadn't been another as great," said Louis, "you would never
have known of me; but you bear with him because you can't turn him out."

"Pray, sir!" exclaimed Norman, "whom do you mean?"

Louis felt sorry he had allowed himself to say so much; but he stood
unshrinkingly before his interrogator, and replied:

"I mean you, Norman: you know if you hadn't told tales of me this
wouldn't have happened."

What vengeance Louis might have drawn on himself by this ill-judged
speech we cannot tell, had not Hamilton stepped forward and interposed.

There was a grim ghost of a smile on his face as he put his arm in
front of Louis.

"Fair play, Norman," he said; "I won't have him touched here.
You can go now."

As Louis left the room, Hamilton resumed his former attitude,
and seemed lost in a revery of an unpleasant description, while
a discussion on Louis' conduct was noisily carried on around him:
some declaring that Louis had done the deed from malicious motives,
others believing that it was merely a foolish joke of which he had
not calculated the consequences, and a third party attributing it
entirely to Casson's influence.

"Vexed as I am to find Louis has been so foolish," said Reginald,
"I am glad, Frank, that you will now be cleared. Hamilton, I am sure
you believe that Louis only intended a joke?"

Hamilton nodded gravely.

"I suppose you'll clear up the matter instanter, Hamilton?"
said Jones.

"_Clear up the matter?_ How! is it not clear enough already?"
said Hamilton, almost fiercely.

"Clear to us, but not to the doctor," said Meredith.

"It's as clear as it's likely to be, then," said Hamilton. "I intend
to send up this poem the last evening, and say nothing about it."

"A likely story!" exclaimed Jones.

"If you don't, I shall, Hamilton," said Salisbury.

"Whoever breathes a word of the matter," cried Hamilton, "ceases from
that moment to be a friend of mine. Whose business is it, I should like
to know--if I choose to throw that unhappy thing on the fire, who is the
loser but myself? What satisfaction can it be to any one to get that boy
into such a mess?"

As Hamilton spoke he disdainfully flung the poem on the table, and
drew the fender, contents and all, on the floor with his fidgety foot.

"The matter comes to this," said Reginald: "it appears that either
Louis must be exposed, or Frank suffer for his delinquencies. It is
not, certainly, fair to Frank, and mustn't be, Hamilton, though Louis
is my brother."

Hamilton cast a bewildered look on Frank.

"True, I had really forgotten Frank. It must be so, then," he said,
in a lower tone.

"No, Hamilton, no!" said Frank; "I won't have you tell of poor Louis.
I don't care a bit about Fudge's suspicions now, _you_ all _know_ I
am clear. Don't say a word about it, I beg."

"Frank, you're a fine fellow!" exclaimed Hamilton, grasping his hand;
"but I don't think it is quite fair."

"Nonsense!" said Frank, gayly; "I owe him something for relieving
me from my situation; and, besides," he added, more gravely, "Louis
deserves a little forbearance from us: none of us would have done
what he did, last half."

"You are right," said Hamilton, warmly; "none of us would, but all of
us have forgotten that lately; even Ferrers, who ought, at least, to
have befriended him, has turned the cold shoulder to him. I feel quite
indignant with Ferrers."

"Ferrers had a little reason to doubt him," said Trevannion.

"What, for letting his name slip out by accident?" said Hamilton,
scornfully; "you heard how he let out Casson's just now--you wouldn't
blame him for that, I imagine?"

"No," said Frank; "and I can tell you that Mrs. Paget (no offence to
her nephew) is one of those dear retailers of all descriptions of news,
that would worm a secret out of a toad in a stone, and Louis hasn't
ready wit enough to manage her."

"He has no presence of mind, and a little vanity," said Hamilton.

"He is as vain as a peacock--a lump of vanity!" exclaimed Norman;
"without an atom of moral courage to stand any persuasion short of
being desired to put his head into the fire--a perfect coward!"

"And where did you get your moral courage, Mr. Norman?" said Hamilton,
with deliberate gravity; "we may send you to the heathen for reproof:

    'If thou hast strength, 'twas heaven that strength bestowed,
     For know, vain man, thy valor is from God.'"

Norman was on the point of speaking, but Hamilton continued in the
same calm, irresistible manner:

"If Louis is vain, we are proud; and I should like to know which is
the worst,--having an exalted opinion of ourselves, or craving the
exalted opinion of others? We have not behaved well to Louis, poor
fellow! we first spoiled him by over-indulgence and flattery, and
when this recoils upon us, we visit all the evil heavily on him."

"I only want to remark," said Meredith, "that we had a right to expect
more consistency in a professed saint."

"Perhaps so," said Hamilton; "yet, though I am sure Louis is a sincere
Christian, he is not free from faults, and had still a hard work to do
in overcoming them; and, because he has for a time forgotten that he
had this work to do, shall we cast him off as a reprobate? Remember it
was his former blameless conduct that made us expect more from him than
another: the Power that guided him then can restore him again. But we
have sadly forgotten that great duty, of bearing one another's burdens,
which he taught us so sweetly a few months ago. Let us forgive him,"
continued Hamilton, with tears in his eyes, "as we would be forgiven;
considering how we should act in temptation ourselves."

There was a dead silence, for Hamilton's address had something solemn
in it. He added, after a short pause--

"I feel that we seniors have an immense responsibility: the power of
doing much good or harm lies with us. I have been far too selfish and
indifferent: Trevannion, will you forgive the thoughtless words that
so justly offended you, but which, I assure you, had only the meaning
of an angry emotion?"

"Willingly!" said Trevannion, starting up to meet the proffered hand
of his friend; "I am sorry I should have been so much offended."

Reginald was making some acknowledgments to Hamilton and Frank, when a
messenger came to summon Hamilton to a short turn with the doctor, and
after gladly accepting Reginald's offer of performing his task towards
Alfred, he took up his poem, and went away full of deep thoughts and
regrets, that the late scene had called forth.

CHAPTER XXIII.

  "O Israel, return unto the Lord thy God; for thou hast
   fallen by thine iniquity. Take with you words, and turn
   to the Lord: say unto Him, Take away all iniquity, and
   receive us graciously; so will we render the calves of
   our lips."--Hosea xiv. 1, 2.

When Louis left the class-room, his feelings of grief and shame were
almost too bitter for restraint; but he had learned lately to conceal
something of what he felt from those who were not likely to sympathize
with him; and finding some boys in the school-room, and being subjected
there to several disagreeable remarks and questions, he went into the
playground, in the hope of finding either relief in change of scene,
or a little more seclusion than he could hope for in-doors; and after
escaping from some tormentors, who met him at the door, in their anxiety
to know what Hamilton wanted with him, he went towards the side of the
playground that looked upon the lane, hardly caring where he was going,
or what became of him.

The door was open, and disregarding, or more properly, forgetting, the
injunctions respecting it, he went up to it, and stood looking out into
the lane, till at last, one of his school-fellows discovering the open
door, came up, and asked him to keep watch for him, while he went on a
forbidden errand.

Meantime, Dr. Wilkinson and Hamilton had, after a walk across the
grounds in front of the house, turned into the lane, making as large
a round as possible, on their way to the house. Hamilton was in a very
silent humor, and as his tutor was equally grave, very few words passed
between them during the first half of their walk; and if Hamilton had
thought at all about what he had undertaken so mechanically, he might
have wondered how the doctor could have wanted a companion, when he
was in so taciturn a humor.

Suddenly the doctor remarked,--"Have you heard nothing of your poem,
Hamilton?"

This was so unexpected a question, and Hamilton was so unwilling to
make a direct answer, that he remained silent for a minute or two,
his hesitation and color convincing his master that Louis had acted
up to his determination.

"Well, have you forgotten all about it?" said the doctor, good-humoredly.

"I have found it, sir--here it is," he replied, producing the paper.

"How did you get it?" asked the doctor, who betrayed far less surprise
and satisfaction than the occasion seemed to demand.

"It was thrown into the class-room this morning, sir," said Hamilton,
reservedly.

"And you are ignorant of the party?" said the doctor, with raised
eyebrows.

"No, sir, I know who has done it," replied Hamilton, after a slight
pause; "but I must beg you to excuse my naming him. I think there
is no danger of a repetition of the offence. Of course you will
understand, sir, that I do not mean Digby, who is as innocent as
I ever believed him."

There was a little silence, while the doctor ran his eye down
a page of Hamilton's manuscript.

"As you wish to keep the matter secret, I shall ask no further
questions; only, Digby may not think it quite fair."

"He wishes it to be so, sir," replied Hamilton, eagerly. "It is quite
his wish now he knows I have _proof_ that he is not the culprit."

Dr. Wilkinson's face lighted up with an expression of great satisfaction,
as he said,

"It does Digby credit."

Hamilton was on the point of hazarding a remark on the impossibility
of Frank's contemplating such a thing, when they turned a corner of the
lane that brought them in sight of the playground wall and the farm-yard
opposite. The doctor's attention was suddenly arrested by the figure of
a boy, perched on the top of the high wall surrounding the latter, who
was reaching downwards towards the top of a large hawthorn-tree that
grew inside.

"Hey-day! Hamilton, who's that?" he exclaimed. "Do you recognize
the figure? If my eyes deceive me not, it is Louis Mortimer. I have
strongly suspected lately that I have been robbed more than once.
It _is_ Louis Mortimer."

The doctor's tone assumed its ready sternness, and he quickened his
pace. Hamilton could not doubt the evidence of his senses, but he felt
miserably disappointed.

"I do not think Louis Mortimer would do so, sir," he said, faintly.

"There he is, however, out of bounds," said the doctor.

"Something else may have taken him there," said Hamilton.

"I hope it may prove so, but he is surely receiving something from
below--he sees us--he will be down--he will assuredly break his neck!"
exclaimed the doctor, hurriedly. "There--quick, Hamilton--run."

Hamilton needed no bidding, for, as soon as he saw Louis fall,
he ran off in the direction of the stable-yard. The doctor followed
so quickly that Hamilton had only just raised Louis from the ground
when he came up. To their great satisfaction he was not much hurt,
having fallen on a heap of straw that lay just under the wall. He
was much frightened, and at first so stunned as to be almost incapable
of understanding what was said to him. On the ground near him lay his
green baize bag, and rolling about in all directions, some apples,
one or two still remaining in the bag.

"Where is your companion, sir?" was the first question Dr. Wilkinson
asked, after ascertaining that no injury had been done to Louis.

"There was no one with me, sir," replied Louis, almost inarticulately.

"What were you doing here, sir?"

"I came to fetch my bag, sir."

"It is a mercy you were not killed," said Dr. Wilkinson, gravely.
"Put the apples in that bag, Hamilton."

Dr. Wilkinson waited till Hamilton had performed this task, and
then desired Louis to take the bag and follow him.

Louis did as he was desired, but he was evidently not yet in a
condition to walk, and trembled so violently that Hamilton caught
hold of him to prevent him from falling.

"He can't walk yet, sir," he said, compassionately. "I will bring
him in when he has recovered a little."

"It is too cold to sit out here," said the doctor. "Where are you hurt?"

"I don't exactly know; I am not much _hurt_--but, oh! I feel so
strange, Hamilton. Let me walk--I can take your arm."

Dr. Wilkinson looked anxiously at him, and assisted him, with Hamilton's
aid, across the road, through the garden, into the kitchen, where, with
a little hartshorn and water, he was soon in a condition to go up stairs.
Dr. Wilkinson desired him to go to bed for the rest of the day, and
sent Reginald to help him. The bag he took into his own possession
till further occasion.

Louis was too much dismayed by his ill success, and too much exhausted
by the shock of his fall, to make any remarks till he reached his room.
Hamilton did not leave him until he had seen him comfortably in bed;
and then, after wrapping him up most tenderly, he leaned over him, and
asked what was really the matter.

Louis endeavored to answer calmly, but in his present weak condition
Hamilton's kind manner overcame him, and he burst into tears.

"Oh, dear!" he exclaimed, amid his violent sobs; "oh, Reginald,
Reginald--Hamilton, I am so unfortunate! Every thing I do is always
found out; but others can do all sorts of things, and no one knows it."

"Is there any thing then to be found out, Louis?" said Hamilton,
gravely; "if so, it is far better for you that it should be."

Louis suddenly threw his arms round Hamilton, as he sat near him.

"Hamilton, I did not go there to steal, I am sure," he said, throwing
his head back, and examining his friend's face with the most intense
anxiety. "I am sure, Hamilton, bad as I am, you could not believe it
of me. I have been very sinful, but oh, I am very sorry; and, Hamilton,
I _could_ not do so very wicked a thing. Do remember, please, how things
were against me before when I was not guilty. Though it seems all against
me now, I assure you, the only thing I have done wrong is going out of
bounds--oh, do let me keep my arms round you, Hamilton--don't believe
me guilty. I haven't--oh, I haven't had a friend for so long! I have
been very proud and self-willed--if I had been humble perhaps things
would not have gone so wrong. I never even said I was sorry I repeated
what you said to Mrs. Paget; but I was sorry, Hamilton--very, very sorry,
only I did not like to say so. Will you forgive me, and be my friend
again? I have been so ungrateful, I am afraid you will never love me
any more."

Hamilton was completely overcome by the vehemence of Louis' appeal.
He pressed the poor boy closer to him, and even kissed his forehead,
as if he were a little child.

"Love you, Louis! love you, dear boy!" he replied; "you have had reason
to doubt it, but I have always loved you. I forgive you from my heart,
but you have something to forgive in me. I have not been as kind to you
as I might have been."

"I am very sorry I spoke so unkindly of you this morning, Hamilton,"
sobbed Louis, laying his wet cheek on Hamilton's shoulder. "I was cross,
and didn't think of what I was saying."

"Don't think any more about it," said Hamilton, affectionately; "lie
down, and tell me quietly how you came to be on that wall just now."

"I was standing at the wooden door," said Louis, "when Sally Simmons
told me that she had seen my bag on the great hawthorn-tree, by the
wall on the other side. And when I asked her how it got there, she
said, she supposed I knew, but it was too high for her to reach; and
if I didn't get it, the doctor would find me out. At first, I thought
I wouldn't go," said Louis, hesitating; "and then I was afraid I should
be getting into a scrape--I am sometimes so unfortunate--and so I went
across the lane, and got over the gate, and went into the yard to see
if it were there. And there it was, Hamilton, with some apples in it,
too, hanging partly, and partly lying, near the top of the tree; it was
so high that I was obliged to get upon the cow-house roof, and as the
cow-house was on the wrong side, I was obliged to get on the wall to
read it. And I was pulling it off when you first saw me, and then--I
was afraid, and as I was rather over-reaching myself, I tried to get
down in a hurry, and fell down. I think the tree broke my fall; but I
don't know how it was, for I hardly understood any thing, even when
you came up."

"You had better have let it alone," said Reginald.

"What were you doing at the gate?" said Hamilton; "keeping watch?"

"One of them asked me," replied Louis.

Hamilton shook his head.

"Have you any idea how your bag came there?"

"Please don't ask me any questions about that, Hamilton. Will you not
believe I am innocent?"

"I fully believe your story, Louis, but I know you have been in bad
company lately, and I wish to help you to clear yourself. Tell me all
you know. If you have ever had even the least hand in any thing like
this, make a friend of me, and tell me at once. Have you not some
idea who put your bag there?"

"I may guess, you know," said Louis, evasively; "but, Hamilton, I
do assure you, I never had any thing to do with any robbery here at
all--never once."

"If you do not know who has done it, then," said Hamilton, "I am sure
your _guess_ is a very accurate one--whom do you _guess_?"

"I cannot tell you, Hamilton; you mustn't ask me."

"This is only nonsense," said Reginald, impatiently. "Are you going to
make a martyr of yourself for a set of bad fellows who are a disgrace
to the school?"

"They may tell themselves, perhaps," said Louis, "but I will not."

"Louis!" said Hamilton, seriously, "this is folly; don't let a
mistaken notion of honor induce you to screen these bad boys from
their just punishment. By doing so, you are doing an injury to others
as well as yourself. You must remember, that these evil-disposed boys
are still mixing with others, to whom their example and principles
may do much harm, independently of the evil done to themselves by
being allowed to sin with impunity. Louis, you were saying just now,
that you were very unfortunate--they are the most unfortunate whose
crimes are undiscovered, and therefore unchecked. If you are, as you
say, innocent of any participation in this affair, why should you wish
to conceal what you know, or, at least, telling me whom you lent your
bag to?"

"I did not lend it at all lately," said Louis, raising his face from
the pillow, where he had hidden it. "The thing is, Hamilton," continued
he, very sorrowfully, "I am called a tell-tale, and I know I deserve
it; but the worst is, they call me a hypocrite, and say that religious
people are no better than others. I could bear it if it were only
myself, but it is more, and I have given reasons for them to say all
kinds of things," he added, and burst anew into tears. "But do not
make me tell any more tales. I have promised, Hamilton--I dare not--I
_will_ not break my promise!"

Hamilton made no immediate reply, and the loud ringing of the
dinner-bell obliged him to leave Louis to himself.

"If it is a promise, Louis," he said, as he left the room with
Reginald, "I won't urge you to break it; but remember well how
the promise was made--remember the consequences."

"Reginald," he added, when they had closed the door, "I have a clue;
depend upon it, he won't be much the worse, poor fellow. But the
doctor knows him well, I am sure."

Reginald stole away after dinner to sit with Louis, and to endeavor
to persuade him to disclose all his suspicions, but all he could
obtain was a kind of half-promise to clear it up, after he had seen
how the matter would end; and the subject caused him so much distress,
that Reginald at length left it alone.

"Sit down by my side, dear Reginald," said Louis, "and tell me again
that you forgive me. I cannot think how I could be so unkind to you
as I have been lately, when you were so anxious about me. I have been
ungrateful to every body."

"Don't make yourself miserable," said Reginald, as gayly as he could.
"I know I am hasty and cross, and don't go the right way to help you;
but you had spoiled me by being so very gentle before, and I didn't
understand your having any spirit."

"It was a very wrong spirit," replied Louis; "the fact is, Reginald,
I have not been serving God lately, though at first I did not know it
myself. I thought I did a great many things when I came back to school,
because it would glorify God; when, I really believe now, the reason
was--to be praised for it. Every one seemed to think so much of me,
and that every thing I did was right. I have wished so many times
lately, that all the trouble of last half-year might come again if
I should be so happy. But, Reginald, when the boys would not speak
to me, then I knew by my angry feelings that I only cared for myself;
and I saw that I had not been serving God, and I became afraid to pray.
Sometimes so strangely, when I knew I was in the wrong, and that I ought
to pray for help to be better, yet I wanted to look grand, and to show
I didn't care, and I never used the time I had, and that's very little
here, Reginald. I have been thinking of myself almost ever since I came
back--I have been thinking of glorifying myself!" He paused, and then
added, in a lower tone, "I fancied I was not selfish, but now I _know_
I am!"

When Reginald went away, Louis had long and quiet time to trace the
reason of his sad falling away, and to make his peace with Him whose
great name he had so dishonored. Earnestly, humbly, and sorrowfully
did he confess his faults. How bowed to the earth he felt, in the
consciousness of his utter impotence! He remembered how confident
he had been in his good name; and now he became aware, in this silent
self-examination, how mixed his motives had been, how full of vanity
and vain-glory he had been, how careless in waiting for "more grace,"
how little he had thought of pressing forward, how wanting he had been
in that single heart that thought only of doing the work committed
to him regardless of the approbation of men--that only desired to
know what was right in order fearlessly to follow it; and unutterable
were the tearful desires of his heart that he might be strengthened
for the time to come to walk more worthy of the vocation wherewith
he was called.

CHAPTER XXIV.

  "I will heal their backslidings, I will love them freely;
   for mine anger is turned away from him. Ephraim shall say,
   What have I to do any more with idols?"--Hosea xiv. 4, 8.

  "I will hear what God the Lord will speak: for He will speak
   peace to His people, and to His saints, but let them not
   turn again to folly."--Psalm lxxxv. 8.

Louis awoke from a calm, sound sleep very early the next morning,
with a dim, indistinct recollection of having, when half awake during
the night, seen Dr. Wilkinson standing by him, and of a consciousness
of a hand being laid on his forehead and his hands; but, as he did not
feel certain, much less suppose it likely, he settled that he must have
dreamed it. It was quite dark when he awoke, and it was some few minutes
before the events of the preceding day ranged themselves in any order
in his mind; and then his thoughts flew to that rest whence they had
been so long absent.

In about half an hour, several of his school-fellows began to rouse
themselves, and, a candle or two being lighted, dressing was hastily
accomplished; and, rolling themselves up in counterpanes and blankets,
shawl fashion, they proceeded to pore over the books they had brought
up the night before.

"I don't mean to get up," growled Frank; "it's a great deal more
comfortable in bed. Clifton, bring me my candle here, and put it
on that chair--I shall make a studium of my couch."

"Dr. Wilkinson asked if we read with candles near the beds," said
Clifton. "He said he wouldn't have us read in bed unless it were
daylight, Digby."

"Well, we'll suppose he didn't," said Frank, "so come along."

"No, I won't," said Clifton, sitting down, near a chest of drawers,
on which was a candle, the joint property of himself, Reginald, and
Louis.

"You won't, won't you?" said Frank, coolly; "Reginald, my candle's
near you, I'll trouble you for it."

"You must take the consequences, then," said Reginald, "for I heard
the doctor say so."

"_I_ didn't," said Frank, snuffing his candle, and opening a book;
"Meredith, I'd advise you to follow my example."

"I followed it yesterday, and fell asleep in uncomfortable snoozes
till the bell rang," yawned Meredith. "Reading one word and dreaming
six may be entertaining, but it is certainly not instructive."

There was very little noise, and Louis lay for some time in deep
thought. At length he moved as if with the intention of getting up,
when Reginald started up and planted his beaming face over him so as
to prevent his rising:

"Awake at last, Louis?"

"Yes, I have been awake a long time."

"You've been very quiet."

"How happy you look!" said Louis; "I could almost fancy you had
something to tell."

"What will you give me for my news?"

"I am afraid I can offer nothing but thanks," replied Louis, smiling.

"What should you say if I were to tell you Casson was gone?"

"Casson _gone_!" exclaimed Louis, starting up in spite of his
brother's incubian overseership. "Where? When? How? Was he ill?
What was the matter?"

"He went home yesterday evening by the London coach. He was in
perfect bodily health. The matter was, that the magister wouldn't
keep him."

"What! _expelled_, Reginald?" said Louis, aghast.

"Expelled, Louis," Reginald replied, gravely; "don't look so
frightened; he deserved it."

"Oh, Reginald! it is so terrible! But how--why was it so sudden?"

"Ah, Beauty!" said Frank, "a few wonders have happened while
your ladyship has been sleeping there. What will you say to
Harris going, too?"

"Harris! no, surely not, Frank? Tell me, do tell me what's been
the matter."

"We promised to let Hamilton tell the story," said Reginald.
"He has been, in a great measure, the cause of finding all out;
so make haste and go to him, for I want you back again."

Louis did not need any further bidding--he hurried his toilette,
and flew to the room that Hamilton enjoyed to himself. Hamilton
was up. An open Bible lay near him, which he closed as Louis entered.

"How are you, foolish boy, this morning?" he said, kindly--very kindly,
Louis thought, as he squeezed his hand.

"I am very well, thank you. Reginald's been telling me strange news
this morning."

"News?" said Hamilton. "He promised me--"

"Oh! I only know that Casson's gone, and Harris going, but he would
not tell me any more."

"Well, then, I will."

"Hamilton," said Louis, gently laying his hand on Hamilton's,
"may I ask one thing?"

"What is it?"

"Will you read a little of this with me first?" he said, timidly,
touching the Bible. "I have neglected it so lately. It would be so
pleasant before we begin any thing else. You do not know how difficult
it is in our room to be a minute quiet."

Hamilton had opened the Bible before Louis had finished, and bade
him select a chapter, which he asked him to read aloud.

Louis read the 7th Psalm, and the 14th of Hosea; and when he had
finished, he and his friend remained very silent.

Hamilton felt for Louis, though he did not know how soothingly
the sweet words fell on the soul of the erring boy; how unspeakably
precious had been the promise, that the backslider should be healed,
and the dew of the Spirit refresh him, and make him grow in grace.
Louis felt a wish to prolong those gracious words, "Ephraim shall say,
What have I any more to do with idols? I have heard and observed him;
I am like a green fir-tree, from me is thy fruit found!"

"Dear Hamilton," he said, at length, "I have a very great favor to
beg of you--would you let me come in a little every morning to read
with you? It would do me so much good."

"By all means," said Hamilton, perhaps a little shily; but it was
promise enough to call forth Louis' heartfelt thanks.

Hamilton then made Louis don a cloak of his, and stretching his own
legs, so as to rest them comfortably on the window where Louis was
sitting, he entered into a minute detail of the events of yesterday
afternoon, equally surprising and interesting to Louis.

It appeared that Hamilton, acting on his own strong suspicions, went
immediately after dinner to Dr. Wilkinson, whom, strange to say, he
found equally inclined to listen to them; for he confessed to Louis
that he did not exactly know what had made Dr. Wilkinson so suddenly
take such a decided view of Casson's character as he appeared to have
done. They went to the stable and examined it very carefully. They
found the door unfastened; but on further consideration, discovered
that the staple, which was rusty, had been broken off, so that, though
the key had been turned, it could be opened as easily as if it had had
no lock. They went up through the trap-door, but found nothing to
assist them, till, just as they were descending, Hamilton picked up
part of a Greek exercise. It was very small, not more than two inches
square; a more careless observer might not have noticed it, but Hamilton
seized it as a treasure, and, with the doctor's advice, set to work to
discover whose handwriting it was.

The few words he deciphered carried him to the second class for the
owner: "And oh, Louis! Dr. Wilkinson looked so grave when I told him
it was Kenrick. But I knew it was not your writing. With very little
trouble, and without discovering any thing, I soon found Harris to have
been the writer. Having settled this point about an hour after school
had begun, I took the first opportunity of informing the doctor, who
immediately entered the school-room, suspended all business, summoned
every one, and in an able speech, as the papers would say, prefaced
the proceedings by declaring how painful it had been to him to discover
that any of his pupils were not trustworthy, _et cetera_; and his
determination to arrive at some conclusion on the point, to know
whether his orders were or were not to be obeyed. He then mentioned
having found you, and his firm belief, that even supposing you had
gone there for the purpose of abstracting the apples, _which he could
not believe_, you must have been tempted and persuaded to it by
older hands; he called upon the offenders to come forward and clear
the matter. Well, no one answered; and then the doctor just alluded
to you, and what you had suffered last half, and said that he had
determined that every one should be aware of the grounds of accusation,
and he desired, if any one knew of any thing that would throw a light
on the matter, he would come forward.

"Then, to every one's surprise, comes up Charles Clifton, and tells
him coolly, that he was sure you had not stolen the apples, and that
it was very likely to be Harris, Casson, and Churchill, and that Sally
Simmons had, in his presence, given them apples, and they joked about
the place where they came from. Sally was called, and at last confessed
that she had let Casson know where the apples were kept; and they
frightened her, or something, for she tried to bring you in as an
accomplice, only Clifton was so manful, and braved her with so much
spirit, that she soon quitted that ground, and departed under sentence
of dismissal."

"Oh, poor Sally! I am very sorry."

"She is a bad girl," said Hamilton; "I never liked Clifton so well
as I did yesterday: there is a great deal of truthful independence
about him."

"Oh, Charlie's a very nice fellow!" said Louis, warmly. "Well, Hamilton."

"Well, Casson and Harris bullied, talked of characters defamed, and
stoutly protested innocence. The doctor looked so indignant; I think
I never saw him so thoroughly convinced of the evil-mindedness of any
one, as he appeared to be of Casson's. He heard all they had to say,
and spoke to them seriously of the crime they were adding. Harris
looked abashed, but Casson declared there was not enough to convict
him in the evidence of a 'liar like Sally, and a self-sufficient
fellow like Clifton;' when, to my astonishment, Trevannion came
forward, and gave his pocket-book open into the doctor's hands."
Hamilton then proceeded to tell Louis what Trevannion had seen on
the memorable Friday, and the great effect produced upon the school
by the reading of the memorandum. Churchill confessed every thing,
and cried, and begged pardon.

It seemed that they had gone no further than the gate leading to the
field, on the Friday morning, as they saw some one in the distance; but
that the plan had been renewed on Monday at twilight, when they were
disturbed by a man with a lantern, coming into the yard as they left
the stable, and, instead of going out the usual way, they scrambled
over the wall, dropping the bag in their hurry, and had no opportunity
the ensuing day to look for it.

"Harris," continued Hamilton, "turned as white as a sheet, and
murmured something that no one could understand. The doctor spoke
really beautifully. I hope something of what he said may remain
with them, at least, be remembered at some future time."

"What did he say?" asked Louis.

"He spoke about the heinousness of the offences they had committed,
and of his sorrow; and, Louis, he spoke as if he were sorry," said
Hamilton, looking down, and speaking gravely. "I felt as if I were
wrong in being so rejoiced at their detection. He spoke of the
necessity he was under, not simply of making an example of such
offenders, which was a duty he owed to the others under his charge,
but of that of marking also to themselves the great abhorrence he
entertained of their conduct. He then spoke of the consequences of
unchecked sin, and, in a few words, mentioned a very sad history
of a former pupil of his who turned out very ill--he is dead, Louis;
the manner in which he spoke of that prayer of the Psalmist's, 'Make
me not a rebuke unto the foolish,' was very solemn; I assure you there
were very few dry eyes."

Louis' were filled with tears.

"Well, Hamilton," he said, slowly.

"He then desired Casson to go directly and make preparations for leaving
his house in less than an hour, and told Harris that he should not allow
him to return after the holidays. There was not a sound when Casson left
the room, Louis, except the sobbing of one or two of the little boys. I
think I never felt any thing so solemn. It is a serious, a very serious
thing."

"Very, very," said Louis. "Did Casson seem sorry, Hamilton?"

"He was very pale and silent--I think frightened, not sorry. Harris
stood like a statue while the doctor was speaking; but, when he told
him he was not to return, I heard him sigh so deeply, it was quite
painful."

"And Churchill?" said Louis, with difficulty.

"Churchill is to stay a week behind the others, and to write exercises
every day till he goes home."

"Oh, Hamilton, Hamilton!" cried Louis, bursting fairly into tears,
"I am not crying wholly for sorrow; for I am, and ought to be, thankful
that I have not been made a 'rebuke unto the foolish.'"

Hamilton pressed his hand.

"I hope," he continued, "that this may be a blessing to me; but I am
very much afraid of myself, Hamilton, for I am constantly making good
resolutions and breaking them--but, Hamilton, do you think they would
suppose I had told of them?"

"Dr. Wilkinson told them you would not break your promise and clear
yourself by betraying them," replied Hamilton; "and he also said a
great deal on the folly of rash promises, and the evil of covering
sin. I wish you had heard it; but we must not talk any more, for here
is Alfred, and we shall have the prayer-bell presently; so, if you
have any thing to do before you go down, you had better make haste."

Louis dried his tears, and obeyed the hint, after submitting, with no
very great reluctance, to a mighty hug from Alfred, who would have given
vent to his delight in a great flow of words had not his brother been
present and waiting for him. There was little time for talking when
Louis returned to his dormitory; but he and his brother made the most
of it, and, arm in arm, they issued forth when the summons was heard.
All the way down stairs Louis received the congratulations of his
school-fellows. Everybody, even Trevannion, seemed to have forgiven
him, and Norman held out his hand at the hall-door with a "Shake hands,
old fellow!"

Louis felt rather afraid of entering the school-room, but
Dr. Wilkinson made no comment, and, as far as he could judge
from the doubtful light of a few candles struggling with the
coming daylight, scarcely looked at him. The names were called
over. At Harris's name there was a pause---some one answered,
"Not here, sir;" and, as Dr. Wilkinson, without any comment,
proceeded, Louis caught a few whispered words near him:

"He's been moaning nearly all night, poor fellow! he's in a terrible
way now;" and then the reply, "Ah, the doctor never unsays any thing!"

When prayers were over, Dr. Wilkinson called Louis into the
study, and kept him till breakfast-time with him. What passed,
never transpired; but that it was something serious was conjectured
from Louis' exceedingly humble manner and red eyes, when he left the
room--though every one was sure, from the subsequent manner of both
master and pupil, that all was entirely forgiven, and Louis reinstated
fully in Dr. Wilkinson's good graces.

But I must hasten to finish my story. The prize day arrived. It was
a dismal, wet, dreary day; but the boys cared nothing for that, except
that the audience was smaller than usual. Charles Clifton carried away
all the first prizes of his class, except that for French, which was,
contrary to his expectation, adjudged to Louis. Hamilton having privately
signified to the doctor his wish to withdraw all claim to the medal, it
was likewise bestowed on Clifton. Reginald was not successful in any
branch this half-year, having so recently entered the highest class.
As for Frank and Hamilton, the poems were considered so equal--Hamilton's
being the more correct, and Frank's displaying the greater talent and
brilliancy--that they each received a prize exactly alike. The doctor
passed a high encomium on Frank's industry, and that original young
gentleman had the satisfaction of bearing away two prizes in addition
to that already mentioned, leaving another for Hamilton, one for Ferrers,
and one for Norman.

Just as the boys had dispersed, and Reginald and Louis were arranging
a snug place in their carpet-bag for Louis' prize, a letter was put
into the hand of the former.

"From home, Reginald?" cried Louis; "I suppose it is to say who is
coming for us."

But, no;--it was to tell them of the illness of a lady who had been
staying at Dashwood Priory, which had assumed so much the character
of typhus fever, that Mr. Mortimer considered it unsafe for his boys
to return; and the letter, which was from their mother, informed
them, with many expressions of affectionate regret, that their father
had written to ask Dr. Wilkinson to keep them a few days, till it
could be decided how they were to be disposed of. Poor Louis was
grievously disappointed, and Reginald, not less so, inveighed aloud
on the folly and impertinence of ladies going to friends' houses to
fall ill there and prevent their sons from enjoying their holidays,
so long, that Louis at length could not help laughing.

"But what shall we do, Reginald? it will be so dull here."

"I shall die of the vapors, I think," said Reginald.

"Come home with me," said Salisbury, "both of you--I am sure my father
and mother will be very glad to see you."

"I should like nothing better," replied Reginald; "provided your father
and mother prove of the same accommodating opinion when you sound them."

"Charlie asked me last week to go with him, Reginald," said Louis;
"if you go with Salisbury, I shall go with him; but if you remain
here, I shall stay with you."

The brothers received invitations on all sides when their desolate
condition was known, but none could be accepted without the consent
of their parents, or in the mean time of Dr. Wilkinson, as their
guardian. It was finally, settled, that as both Salisbury and Clifton
lived in the neighborhood, their invitations might be accepted till
further notice from Dashwood.

The lady proved very ill, though, as it was not any infectious
disease, the brothers probably might have been sent for, had not
a heavy fall of snow rendered the roads near Dashwood impassable.

Louis spent nearly the whole of his holidays very happily with Charles;
becoming, during his stay with them, a great favorite with Mr. Clifton
and his little girls, as well as their nurse. Salisbury had the benefit
of Reginald's company for a fortnight, the rest of his time being
bestowed upon Meredith.

When the holidays were over, Hamilton returned for his last
half-year. The reflections induced by the preceding term were
not transient. He struggled manfully with the constitutional
indifference of his character; and though there were many failings,
for the habits were too deeply rooted to be suddenly overcome, yet
the effort was not without its use, both to himself and others.
To Louis, he was a constant and useful friend, never flagging in
his efforts to make him more manly and independent in his conduct,
as regarded the opinion of others; and also quietly strengthening,
by his example and encouragement, every good feeling and impression
he noticed. There were no tears shed, but Louis felt very low when he
bade good-bye to Hamilton, at the close of the next half-year.

"Oh, Hamilton! I owe you a great deal. What shall I do next half
without you? Who will help me?"

"Thy God, whom thou servest," said Hamilton, reverentially.
"The thanks are not to me for the help of the last few months,
Louis. Good-bye, my dear fellow--our friendship does not end
here; we are friends forever."

They shook hands warmly and parted.

Louis continued at school for two or three years longer, and
passed through the ordeal of school-life with credit to himself
and his relations. I would not be thought to mean that he never
did wrong, or was always equally steady in his Christian course;
for the Christian's whole life is a continued fight against the
evil of his nature. He still retained his strong desire to enter
the ministry of the Church, and his studies and pursuits were
principally directed to that end. It was one of his fairest
day-dreams, to be his father's curate when old enough to be
ordained, and though that might not be, he still felt, wherever
he might be placed, his language would be that of the Psalmist,
when he said--

"My soul hath a desire and a longing to enter into the courts of
the living God." "For I had rather be a door keeper in the house
of my God, than to dwell in the tents of wickedness."

THE END

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