 Part 1, Chapter 20 of the Daisy Chain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. The Daisy Chain by Charlotte Mary Young. Part 1, Chapter 20. Think how simple things and lowly have a part in nature's plan, how the great has small beginnings, and the child will be a man. Little efforts work great actions, lessons in our childhood taught, mull the spirit of that temper whereby blessed deeds are wrought. Cherish then the gifts of childhood, use them gently, guard them well. For their future growth and greatness, who can measure, who can tell? Moral Songs The first shock of Tom's misdemeanor passed away, though it still gave many an anxious thought to such of the family as felt responsible for him. The girls were busily engaged in preparing an Easter feast for Coxmore. Mr. Wilmot was to examine the scholars, and buns and tea were provided, in addition to which Ethel designed to make a present to everyone. A great task, considering that the Coxmore funds were reserved for absolute necessaries, and were at a very low ebb, so that twenty-five gifts were to be composed out of nothing. There was a grand turn out of drawers of rubbish all over Margaret, raising such a cloud of dust as nearly choked her. What cannot rubbish and willy hands affect? Envelopes and wafer boxes were ornamented with pictures, bags, needle cases, and pin cushions, beautiful balls, tippets, both of list and gay print, and even sun-bonnets and penifors were contrived to the supreme importance and delight of Mary and Blanche, who found it as good or better than play, and ranged their performances and rose till the room looked like a bazaar. To provide for boys was more difficult, but Richard mended all toys and repaired the frames of slates, and Norman's contribution of half a crown bought mugs, marbles, and penny-knives, and there were even hopes that something would remain for bodkins to serve as nozzles to the bellows, which were the pride of Blanche's heart. Never were Easter gifts the source of more pleasure to the givers, especially when the nursery establishment met Dr. Hoxton near the pastry cook shop, and he bestowed on Blanche a packet of variegated sugar-plums, all of which she literally poured out at Ethel's feet, saying, I don't want them. Only let me have one for Aubrey, because he is so little. All the rest are for the poor children at Coxmore. After this, Margaret declared that Blanche must be allowed to buy the bodkin and give her bellows to Jane Taylor, the only Coxmore child she knew, and whom she always destined in turn every gift that she thought more successful. So Blanche went with Florida to the toy shop, and there fell in love with a little writing box that so eclipsed the bellows that she tried to persuade Florida to buy it for Jane Taylor to be kept till she could write, and was much disappointed to hear that it was out of the question. Just then a carriage stopped, and from it stepped the pretty little figure of Meta Rivers. Oh, how do you do? How delightful to meet you. I was wondering if we should. Little Blanche, too, kissing her. And here's Mrs. Larpent. Mrs. Larpent? Miss Flora May. How is Miss May? This was all uttered in eager delight, and Flora, equally please, answered the inquiries. I hope you're not in a hurry, preceding Meta. I want your advice. You know all about schools, don't you? I have come to get some Easter presents for our children, and I'm sure you can help me. Are the children little or big, asked Flora? Oh, all sorts and sizes. I have some books for the great sensible ones, and some stockings and shoes for the tiresome stupid ones, but there are some dear little pets that I want nice things for. There. There's the doll that looks just fit for little curly-headed Annie Langley. Don't you think so, Mrs. Larpent? The price of the doll was a shilling, and there were quickly added to it boxes of toys, elaborate beadwork pin cushions, polished blue and green boxes, the identical writing case, even a small Noah's Ark. Meta hardly asked the prices, which certainly were not extravagant, since she had nearly twenty articles for little more than a pound. Papa has given me a benefaction of five pounds for my school gifts, said she. Is not that charming? I wish you would come to the feast. Now do. It is not Easter Tuesday. Won't you come? Thank you, I am afraid we can't. I should like it very much. You never will come to me. No compassion. We should enjoy coming very much, perhaps in the summer, when Margaret is better. Could not she spare any of you? Well, I shall talk to Papa and make him talk to Dr. Bay. Mrs. Larpent will tell you I always get my way. Don't I? Goodbye. See if I don't. She departed and Flo returned to her own business, but Blanche's interest was gone. Dazzled by the more lavish gifts, she looked listlessly and disdainfully at Bodkin's three for two pence. I wish I might have bought the writing box for Janet Taylor. Why does not Papa give us money to get pretty things for the children, said she, as soon as they came out? Because he is not so rich as Mrs. Rivers' Papa. Laura was interrupted by meeting the Mrs. Anderson, who asked, Was not that carriage Mr. Rivers' of Abbott's stroke range? Yes, we like Mrs. Rivers very much, said Laura, resolved to show that she was acquainted. Oh, do you visit her? I knew he was a patient of Dr. May. Laura thought there was no need to tell that the only call had been owing to the rain and continued. She has been making us to come to her school feast, but I do not think we can manage it. Oh, indeed. The grange is very beautiful, is it not? Very, said Laura. Good morning. Laura had a little uneasiness in her conscience, but it was satisfactory to have put down Louisa Anderson, who never could aspire to an intimacy with Mrs. Rivers. Her little sister looked up, Why, Flora, have you seen the grange? No, but Papa Norman said so, and Blanche showed that the practical lesson on the palms of the world was not lost on her by beginning to wish they were as rich as Mrs. Rivers. Flora told her it was wrong to be discontented, but the answer was, I don't want it for myself. I want to have pretty things to give away. And her mind could not be turned from the thought by any attempt of her sister. Even when they met Dr. May coming out of the hospital, Blanche renewed the subject. She poured out the catalog of Mrs. Rivers' purchases, making appealing attempts at looking under his spectacles into his eyes, and he perfectly understood the tenor of her song. I have at a sight, too, of little maidens preparing Easter gifts, said he. Have you, Papa? What were they? Were they as nice as Mrs. Rivers'? I don't know, but I thought they were the best sort of gifts, and I saw that plenty of kind thought and clever contrivance went to them. I, and some little self-denial, too. Papa, you look as if you meant something, but ours are nothing but nasty old rubbish. Perhaps some fairy or something better has brought a wand to touch the rubbish, Blanche, for I think that the maidens gave what would have been worthless kept, but became precious as they gave it. Do you mean the list of our flannel petticoats, Papa? Then Mary has made into a tippet? Perhaps I meant Mary's own time and pains, as well as the tippet. Would she have done much good with him otherwise? No, she would have played. Oh, then you like the presents because they are on making? I never thought of that. Was that the reason you did not give us any of your sovereigns to buy things with? Perhaps I want my sovereigns for the eleven gaping mouths at home, Blanche, but would not it be a pity to spoil your pleasure? You would have lost all the chattering and laughing and buzzing I have heard on Margaret of late, and I am quite sure Miss Rivers can hardly be as happy in the gifts that cost her nothing as one little girl who gives her sugar plums out of her own mouth. Blanche claps her papa's hand tight and bounded five or six times. They are our presents, not yours, said she. Yes, I see. I like them better now. I, I, said the doctor, seeing Miss Rivers' must not take the shine out of yours, my little maize. For if you can't give much, you have the pleasure of giving the best of all, your labor of love, then thinking on and speaking to Flora. The longer I live, the more I see the blessing of being born in a state of life where you can't both eat your cake and give it away. Flora never was at ease in a conversation with her father. She could not follow him and did not like to show it. She answered aside from the mark, you would not have Blanche underrate Miss Rivers? No, indeed. She is as good and sweet a creature as ever came across me, most kind to Margaret and loving to all the world. I like to see one whom care and grief have never set their grip upon. Most likely she would do like Ethel if she had the opportunity, but she has not. So she has not the same merit, said Flora? We don't talk of merit. I mean that the power of sacrifice is a great advantage. The habit of small sacrifice that is made necessary in a large family is a discipline that only children are without. And so, with regard to wealth, I think people are to be pitied who can give extensively out of such abundance that they can hardly feel the want. In effect, they can do much more, said Flora. I'm not sure of that. They can, of course, but it must be at the cost of personal labor and sacrifice. I have often thought of the words silver and gold have I none, but such as I have give I thee, and such as we have, it is that does the good. The gold if we have it, but at any rate, the personal influence, the very proof of sincerity shown by the exertion and self-denial tells far more than money lightly come by, lightly spent. Do you mean that a person who maintained a whole school would do less good than one who taught one child? If the rich person take no pains and leave the school to take care of itself, nay, if he only visited now and then and never let it inconvenience him, has he the least security that the scholars are obtaining any real good from it? If the teacher of the one child is doing his utmost, he is working for himself at least. Suppose we could build, say, our church and school on Coxmore at once in attendance besides. If things were right for it, the means would come. As it is, it is a fine field for Ethel and Richard. I believe it will be the making of them both. I am sure it is training Ethel or making her train herself as we could never have done without it. But here, come in and see old Mrs. Robbins. A visit from you will cheer her up. Flora was glad of the interruption. The conversation was uncomfortable to her. She almost fancied her papa was moralizing for their good but that he carried it too far for wealthy people assuredly had it in their power to do great things and might work as hard themselves. Besides, it was finer in them. There was so much a claw in their stooping's charity. But her knowledge of his character would not allow her to think for a moment that he could say ought but from the bottom of his heart. No, it was one of his one-sided views that led him into paradox. It was just like papa and so there was no need to attend to it. It was one of his enthousiasms. He was so very fond of Ethel probably because of her likeness to himself. Flora thought Ethel put almost two forward. They all helped at Coxmore and Ethel was very queer and unformed and could do nothing by herself. The only thing Flora did keep in her mind was that her papa had spoken to her as if she were a woman compared with Ethel. Little Blanche made her report of the conversation to Mary that it was so nice and now she did not care about Ms. Rivers' fine presence at all for papa said what one made oneself was better to give than what one bought. And papa said too that it was a good thing not to be rich for then one never felt the miss of what one gave away. Little Blanche's position thought it so much to Blanche's credit that she could not help repeating it in the evening after the little girl was gone to bed when Mr. Wilmot had come in to arrange the program for Coxmore. So the little fit of discontent and its occasion, the meeting with Mina Rivers, were discussed. Yes, said Mr. Wilmot, those Rivers' is are open-handed. They really seem to have so much money that they don't know what to do with it. My brother is ready to complain that they spoil his parish. It is all meant so well and they are so kind-hearted and excellent that it is a shame to find fault. And I tell Charles and his wife that their grumbling at such a squire proves them the most spoiled of all. Indiscriminate liberality asked the doctor, I should guess the old gentleman to be rather soft. That's one thing, the parish is so small there are so few to share all this bounty on and they are so utterly unused to country people. They seem to think by laying out money they can get a show set of peasants in rustic cottages just as they have their fancy cows and poultry all that fancy eye out of the way. Making it a matter of taste said the doctor. I'm sure I would, said Norman aside to Ethel. What's the use of getting oneself disgusted? One must not begin with showing dislike, began Ethel. Or, I, you like rags, don't you? But hush. That is just what I should expect of Mr. Rivers, said Dr. May. He has cultivated his taste till it is getting to be a disease but his daughter has no lack of wit. Perhaps not. Charles and Mary are very fond of her but she is entirely inexperienced and that is the serious thing there is so much money to throw about. She pays people for sending their children to school and keeping their houses tidy and there is so much given away that it is enough to take away all independence and motive for exertion. The people speculate on it and take it as a right. By and by there will be a reaction. She will find out she is imposed upon, take offense and for the rest of her life will go about saying how ungrateful the poor are. It is a pity good people won't have a little common sense, said Dr. May, but there is something so bewitching in that little girl that I can't give her up. I verily believe she will write herself. I have scarcely seen her, said Mr. Wilmot. She has won Papa's heart by her kindness to me, said Margaret, smiling. You see her beautiful flowers. She seems to be made to lavish pleasures on others wherever she goes. Oh, yes, they are most kind-hearted, said Mr. Wilmot. It is only the excess of a virtue that could be blamed in them and they are most valuable to the place. She will learn experience in time. I only hope she will not be spoiled. Flora felt as if her father must be thinking his morning's argument confirmed and she was annoyed, but she thought there was no reason why wealth should not be used sensibly and if she were at the head of her punishment as the Grange, her charity should be so well regulated as to be the subject of general approbation. She wanted to find someone else on her side and, as they went to bed, she said to Ethel, Don't you wish we had some of this superfluity of the rivers is for poor Coxmore? I wish we had anything for Coxmore. Here's a great hole in my boot and Nurse says I must get a new pair. That is seven and six pins gone. I shall never get the first pound made up towards building and pounds seem nothing to them said Flora. Yes, but if they don't manage right with them I'll tell you Flora, I got into a fit of wishing me the other day. It does seem such a grievous pity to see those children running to ways for want of daily teaching and Jenny Hall had forgotten everything. I was vexed and thought it was all no use while we could not do more, and I began to look out the texts that Richie had marked for me to print for them to learn and the first was be thou faithful over a few things and I will make thee ruler over many things and then I thought perhaps we were learning to be faithful with a few things. I am sure what they said tonight showed it was lucky we have not more in our hands. I should do wrong forever with the little we have if it were not for Richie and Margaret together for the school perhaps I shall have more sense. Got the money as if we ever could. Oh yes, we shall and will. It need not be more than seventy pounds, Richie says, and I have twelve shillings for certain put out from the money for hire of the room and the books and the clothes and in spite of these forehead boots I shall save something out of this quarter half a crown at least and the plan decides. But Flora had to go down to Margaret's room to bed. Flora was always ready to throw herself into the present and like to be the most useful person in all that went forward so that no thoughts of greatness interfered with her enjoyment at Coxmoor. The house seemed wild that Easter Monday morning. Ethel, Mary, and Blanche flew about in all directions and in spite of much undoing of their own arrangements finished their preparations so much too early that at half past eleven Mary complained that she had nothing to do and that dinner would never come. Many were the lamentations of leaving Margaret behind but she answered them by talking of the treat of having Papa all to herself for he had lent them the gig and promised to stay home all the afternoon with her. The First Division started on foot directly after dinner the Real Council of Education as Norman called them namely Mr. Wilmot, Richard, Ethel, and Mary. Flora, the other member waited to take care of Blanche and Aubrey who were to come in the gig with the cakes, tea kettles, and prizes driven by Norman. Tom and Hector Ernstcliffe were invited to join the party and many times did Mary wish for Harry. Supremely happy were the young people as they reached the common and heard the shout of tumultuous joy raised by their pupils who were on the watch for them. All was now activity. Everybody tripped into Mrs. Green's house while Richard and Ethel ran different ways to secure that the fires were burning which they had hired to boil their kettles with the tea in them. Then when the kitchen was so full that it seemed as if it could hold no more some kind of order was produced the children were seated on their benches and while the mother stood behind to listen Mr. Wilmot began to examine as well as he could and so crowded an audience. There was progress, yes there was. Only three were as utterly rude and idealist as they used to be at Christmas. Glimmerings had dawned on most and one, Luna McCarthy, was fit to come forward to claim Mr. Wilmot's promise of a prayer book. She could really read and say the catechism. Her Irish wit and love of learning had outstripped all the rest and she was the pride of Ethel's heart fit now to present herself on able terms with the stone borough set as far as her sense was concerned. Though alas neither present nor exhortation had succeeded in making her anything in looks but a picturesque Tatra de Malian her sandy elf flocks streaming over a pair of eyes so dancing in grace uses that it was impossible to scold her with beating heart as if her own success in life depended forever on the way her flock appreciated themselves. Ethel stood by Mr. Wilmot trying to read answers coming out of the dull mouths of her children and looking exultingly at Richard whenever some good reply was made especially when Luna answered an unexpected question. It was too delightful to hear how well she remembered all the history up to the flood and how pridly it came out in her Irish accent. That made up for all the atrocious stupidity of others who after being told every time none who gave their names now chose to forget. In the midst, while the assembly were listening with admiration to the reading of the scholar next in proficiency to Una, a boy who could read words of five letters without spelling, there was a fresh squeezing at the door and the crowd opening as well as it could in came Flora and Blanche while Norm's head was seen for a moment in the doorway. Flora's whisper to Ethel was her first discovery when the heat of the room was nearly overpowering. Her excitement had made all be forgotten. Could not a window be opened? Mrs. Green interfered. It had been nailed up because her husband had the rubentess. Where's Aubrey? Asked Mary with Norman. Norman said he would not let him go into the black hole so he has got him out of doors. Ethel, we must come out. You don't know what an atmosphere it is. Blanche, go out to Norman. Flora, you don't consider, said Ethel, in an agony. Yes, yes, it is not at all cold. Let them have their presents out of doors and eat their buns. Richard and Mr. Wilmot agreed with Flora and the party were turned out. Ethel did own when she was in the open air that it had been rather hot. Norman's face was a sight as he stood holding Aubrey in his arms to gratify the child's impatience. The stifling din, the uncouth aspect of the children, the head girl so very ragged as specimen, thoroughly revolted his somewhat fastidious disposition. This was Ethel's delight. To this she made so many sacrifices. This was all that her time in labor had affected. He did not wish to vex her, but it was more than he could stand. However, Ethel was too much engrossed to look for sympathy. It was a fine spring day, and on the open space of the common specimens were quickly made. The children stood on a long line and the baskets were unpacked. Flora and Ethel called the names Mary and Blanche gave the presents and assuredly the grins, curtesies and pulls of the forelock they elicited could not have been more hearty for any of Miss Rivers' treasures. The buns in the kettles of tea followed. It was perfect delight to entertainers and entertained except when Mary's dignity was cruelly hurt by Norman's actively taking a kettle out of her hands telling her she would be the death of herself or somebody else and reducing her to the mere rank of a bun distributor, which Blanche and Aubrey could do just as well while he stalked along with a grave and resigned countenance filling up the cups held out to him by timid-looking children. Mary next fell in with Granny Hall who had gone into such an ecstasy over Blanche and Aubrey that Blanche did not know and Aubrey, in some fear that the old woman might intend to kiss him, returned the compliments by telling her she was ugly up in her face at which she laughed hardly and uttered more vehement benedictions. Finally, the three best children, boys and girls were to be made fit to be seen and recommended by Mr. Wilmot to the Sunday School and Penny Club at Stonewall and, this being proclaimed in the children selected, the assembly dispersed. Mr. Wilmot rejoicing Ethel and Richard by saying, Well, really, you have made a beginning. There is an improvement in tone among those children that is more satisfactory than any progress they may have made. Ethel's eyes beamed and she hurried to tell Flora. Richard colored and gave his quiet smile, then turned to put things in order for their return. Will you drive home, Richard? Don't you wish it? said Richard, who had many minor arrangements to make and would have preferred walking home independently. No, thank you. I have a headache and walking may take it off, said Norman, taking off his hat and passing his fingers through his hair. A headache again. I am sorry to hear it. It is only that suffocating dent of yours. My head ached from the moment I looked into it. How can you take Ethel into such a hole, Richard? How can you kill her to go on with it forever? It is not so every day, said the elder brother quietly. It is a warm day and there was an unusual crowd. I shall speak to my father, exclaimed Norman, with somewhat of the supercilious tone that he had known and been tempted to address to his brother. It is not fit that Ethel should give up everything, health and all, to such a set as these. They look as if they had been out of the gutter. Dirt, squalor, everything disgusting and summer coming on too and that horrible place with no window to open. It is utterly unbearable. Richard stooped to pick up a heavy basket then smiled and said, you must get over such things as these if you mean to be a clergyman, Norman. Whatever I am to be it does not concern the girls being in such a place as this. I am surprised that you could suffer it. There was no answer. Richard was walking off with his basket and putting it into the carriage. Norman was not pleased with himself but thought it his duty to let his father know his opinion of Ethel's weekly resort. All he wished was to avoid Ethel herself, not liking to show her his sentiments and he was glad to see her put into the gig with Aubrey and Mary. They rushed into the drawing room full of glee when they came home to bring their news together and had not at first leisure to perceive that Margaret had some tidings for them in return. Mr. Rivers had been there with a pressing invitation to his daughter's school feast and it had been arranged that Flora and Ethel should go and spend the day at the Grange and their father come to dine and fetch them home in the evening. Margaret had been much pleased with the manner in which the thing in the proposal that related to himself was called out of the room Mr. Rivers had, in a most kind manner, begged her to say whether she thought it would be painful to him or whether it might do his spirits good. She decidedly gave her opinion in favor of the invitation. Mr. Rivers gained his point and she had ever since been persuading her father to like the notion and assuring him it need not be made a precedent for the renewal of the Granges to dine out in the town. He thought the change would be pleasant for his girls and had, therefore, consented. Oh, papa, papa, thank you, cried Ethel, enraptured as soon as he came into the room. How very kind of you, how I have wished to see the Grange and all Mormon talks about. Oh, dear, I am so glad you're going there, too. Why, what should you do with me? said Dr. May, who felt at this taking up of the world again. Oh, dear, I should not like it at all without you. It would be no fun at all by ourselves. I wish Flora would come home. How pleased she will be. Papa, I do wish you would look as if you didn't mind it. I can't enjoy it if you don't like going. I shall when I am there, my dear, said the doctor affectionately, putting his arm around her as she stood by him. It will be a fine day sport for you. But can't you like it before him, Papa? Not just this minute, Ethel, said he, with his bright, sad smile. All I like just now is my girls not being able to do without me. But we'll do the best we can. So your flock acquitted themselves brilliantly? Who is your senior wrangler? Ethel threw herself eagerly into the history of the examination and had almost forgotten the invitation till she heard the front door open. Then it was not she, but Margaret who told Flora, Ethel could not, as she said, enjoy what seemed to sadden her father. Flora received it much more calmly. It will be very pleasant, said she. It was very kind of Papa to consent. You will have Richard and Norman Margaret to be with you in the evening. And as soon as they went upstairs, Ethel began to write down the list of prizes in her school journal, while Flora took out the best evening frocks to study whether the crepe looked fresh enough. The invitation was a convenient subject of conversation, for Norman had so much to tell his sisters of the curiosities they must look for at the Grange that he was not obliged to mention Coxmore. He did not like to morphe Ethel by telling her his intense disgust, and he knew he was about to do what she would think a great entry by speaking to his father on the subject. But he thought it for her real welfare, and took the first opportunity of making with her and Margaret a most formidable description of Ethel's black hole. He quite alarmed Margaret, but the doctor smiled, saying, I, I, I know the face Norman puts on if he looks into a cottage. Well, said Norman, with some mortification, all I know is that my head ached all the rest of the day. Very likely, but your head is not Ethel's, and there were twice as many people as the place was intended to hold. A stuffy hole, full of Pete's smoke and with a window that can't open at the best of times. Pete's smoke is wholesome, said Dr. May, looking, provoking. You don't know what it is, Papa, or you would never let Ethel spend her life there. It is poisonous. I'll take care of Ethel, said Dr. May, walking off, and leaving Norman in a state of considerable annoyance at being mistreated. He broke out into fresh exclamations against the horrors telling Margaret she had no idea what a den it was. But Norman, it can be so very bad or Richard would not allow it. Richard is deluded, said Norman, but if he chooses to run after dirty brats, why should he take Ethel there? My dear Norman, you know it is all Ethel's doing. Yes, I know she has gone crazy after them and given up all her Greek for it. It is past endurance, said Norman, who had worked himself up for great indignation. Well, but surely, Norman, it is better they should do what they can for those poor creatures than for Ethel to learn Greek. I don't know that. Let those who are fit for nothing else go and drone over ABC with ragged children if they like. It is just their vocation. But there is an order in everything, Margaret, and minds of a superior kind are intended for higher purposes, not to be wasted in her. I don't know whether they are wasted, said Margaret, not quite liking Norman's tone, though she had not much to say to his arguments. Not wasted? Not in doing what anyone can do? I know what you'll say about the poor. I grant it, but high ability must be given for a purpose, not to be thrown away. It is common sense that someone must be meant to do the dirty work. I see what you mean, Norman, I think, she hesitated. Don't you think you dislike such things more than anyone must abominate dirt and slovenliness? I know what you mean. My father thinks tis all nonsense in me, but his profession has made him insensible to such things. And he fancies everyone else is the same. Now, Margaret, am I being unreasonable? I am sure I don't know, dear Norman, said Margaret, hesitating, feeling at her duty to say something. I dare say it was very disagreeable. And you think, too, that I made a disturbance for nothing? No, indeed I don't, nor does your papa. I have no doubt he will see whether it is proper for Ethel. All I think he meant is that perhaps your not being well last winter has made you a little more sensitive in such things. Norman paused and colored. He remembered the pain it had given him unbearable of being of use to his father, and that he had resolved to conquer the weakness of nerve of which he was ashamed. But he did not like to connect this with his fastidious feelings of refinement. He would not own to himself that they were overnice, and, at the bottom of all this justification, rankled Richard saying that he who cared for such things was unfit for a clergyman. Norman's secret thought was that, in his great graduate colleges, people who could distinguish themselves were more useful at the university, forming minds, and opening new discoveries in learning. Was Norman quite proof against the consciousness of daily excelling all his competitors? His superiority had become even more manifest this Easter when Chevion Forter, the two elder boys whom he had outstripped, left the school avowedly because it was not worthwhile to have so little chance of the Randall Scholarship. Norman had now only to walk over the course, no one even approaching him but Arvy Anderson. Meta Rivers always said that fine weather came at her call, and so it did, glowing sunshine streaming over the shaven turf and penetrating even the solid masses of the great cedar. The carriage was sent for the Mrs. May, and at two o'clock they arrived. She was told that Ethel should comport herself discreetly, and Ethel full of curiosity and eagerness he only drawback her fears that her papa was doing what he disliked. She was not in the least shy and did not think about her manner enough to be troubled by the consciousness that it had a good deal of abruptness and eagerness, and that her short sight made her awkward. Meta met them with outstretched hands and a face beaming with welcome. me, and after her warm greeting she looked with some respect at the face of the Miss May who was so very clever. It certainly was not what she expected, not at all like either of the four sisters she had already seen. Brown, Salo, and with that sharp long nose, and the eager eyes, and brow a little knit by the desire to see as far as she could, it was pleasanter to look at Flora. Ethel left the talk chiefly to Flora. There was wonder and study enough for her in the grounds and garden, and when Mrs. Larpent tried to enter into conversation with her, she let it drop two or three times while she was peering hard at a picture and trying to make out its subject. However, when they all went out to walk to church, Ethel lighted up and talked, admired, and asked questions in her quick, eager way, which interest of Mrs. Larpent greatly. The governess asked after Norman, and no more was wanted to produce a volume of histories of his successes, till Flora turned as she walked before with Mayda, saying, Why, Ethel, you are quite overwhelming, Mrs. Larpent. But some civil answer convinced Ethel that what she said was interesting, and she would not be stopped in her account of their anxieties on the day of the examination. Flora was pleased that Metta, catching some words, begged her more, and Flora gave an account of the matter, sober, in terms, but quietly setting Norman at a much greater distance from all his competitors. After church came the feast in the school. It was a large, commodious building. Metta declared it was very tiresome that it was so good inside. It was so ugly. She should never rest till Papa had built her a real beauty. They found Mr. and Mrs. Charles Womott in the school, with a very nice, well-dressed set of boys and girls, and, but there's no need to describe the roast beef in plum pudding, the feast ate merrily, and Ethel was brilliantly happy waiting on the children, and so was sending hearted Metta. Flora was too busy in determining what the rivers is might be thinking of her and her sister to give herself up to the enjoyment. Ethel found a small boy looking ready to cry at an untouched slice of beef. She examined him whether he could cut it, and at last discovered that, as had been the case with one or two of her own brothers at the same age, Metta was repugnant to him. In her vehement manner she flew off to fetch him some pudding, and hurrying up, as she thought, to Mr. Charles Womott, who had been giving it out, she thrust her plate between him and the dish, and had begun her explanation when she perceived it was a stranger, and she stood, utterly discomfited, not saying, I beg your pardon, but only blushing, awkward, and confused, as he spoke to her in a good-natured, hospitable manner, which showed her it must be Mr. Rivers. She obtained her pudding, and, turning hastily, retreated. Metta, said Mr. Rivers, as his daughter came out of the school with him, for, open in areas it was, the numbers and the dinner made him regarded as Norman had viewed the Coxmore Room. Was that one of the Miss Mays? Yes, Papa, Ethel, the third, the clever one. I thought she must be one of them, from her dress, but what a difference between her and the others. Mr. Rivers was a great admirer of beauty, and Metta, brought up to be the same, was disappointed, but consoled herself by admiring Flora. Ethel, after the awkwardness was over, thought no more of the matter, but went on in full enjoyment of the feast. The eating finished, the making of presents commenced, and choice ones they were. The smile so made it, and of the children, were a pretty sight, and Ethel thought she had never seen anything so like a beneficent fairy. Mr. and Mrs. Woolott said the words of counsel and encouragement, and, by five o'clock, all was over. Oh, I am so sorry, said Metta. Easter won't come again for a whole year, and it has been so delightful. How that dear little Annie smiled and nursed her doll. I wish I could see her show it to her mother. Oh, how nice it is. I am so glad Papa brought me to live in the country. I don't think anything can be so charming in all the world as seeing little children happy. Ethel could not think how the Wilmots could have found it in their heart to regret the liberality of this sweet damsel, on whom she began to look with Norman's enthusiastic admiration. There was time for a walk around the grounds, Metta doing the honors to Flora, and Ethel walking with Mrs. Larpent. Both pairs were very good friends, and the two sisters admired and were charmed with the beauty of the gardens and conservatories. Ethel laying up a rich store of intelligence for Margaret, but still she was not entirely happy. Her Papa was more and more on her mind. He had looked dispirited at breakfast, he had a long hard day's work before him, and she was increasingly uneasy at the thought that it would be a painful effort to him to join them in the evening. Her mind was full of it when she was conducted, with Flora, to the room where they were to dress. And when Flora began to express her delight, her answer was only that she hoped it was not very unpleasant to Papa. It is not worthwhile to be unhappy about that, Ethel. If it is an effort, it will be good for him when he is once here. I know he will enjoy it. Yes, I should think he would. I hope he will. He must like you to have such a friend as Mrs. Rivers. How pretty she is! Now, Ethel, it is high time to dress. Pray and make yourself look nice. Don't twist up your hair in that anyhow fashion. Ethel sighed, then began talking fast about some hints on schoolkeeping which she had picked up for Coxmore. Flora's glossy braids were in full order, while Ethel was still struggling to get her plate smooth, and was extremely beholden to her sister for taking it into her own hands and doing the best with it that its thinness and roughness permitted. And then Flora pinched and pulled and arranged Ethel's frock in vain attempts to make it sit like her own, though sharp high bones resisted all attempts to disguise them. Never mind, Flora. It is quite tidy. I am sure. There. Do let me be in peace. You are like old nurse. So those are all the thanks I get? Well, thank you very much, dear Flora. You are a famous person. How I wish Margaret could see that lovely mimosa. And Ethel, do take care. Pray don't poke and spy when you come into the room and don't frown when you are trying to see. I hope you won't have anything to help at dinner. Take care of how you manage. I'll try, said Ethel Meekly, though a good deal tormented. As Flora went on with half a dozen more injunctions closed by Metta's coming to fetch them. Little Metta did not like to show them her own bedroom. She pitted them so much when she thought of the contrast. She would have liked to put Flora's arm through hers, but she thought it would look neglectful of Ethel. So she only showed the way downstairs. Ethel forgot all her sisters' orders, for there stood her father and she looked most earnestly at his face. It was cheerful and his voice sounded well-cleased as he greeted Metta, then resumed an animated talk with Mr. Rivers. Ethel drew as near him as she could. She had a sense of protection and could open to full enjoyment when she saw him bright. At the first pause in the conversation the gentleman turned to the young ladies. Mr. Rivers began talking to Flora and Dr. May, after a few pleasant words to Metta, went back to Ethel. He wanted her to see his favorite pictures. He led her up to them, made her put on his spectacles to see them better, and showed her their special merits. Mr. Rivers and the others joined them. Ethel said little, except her mark or two in answer to her papa, but she was very happy. She felt that he liked to have her with him, and Metta, too, was struck by the soundness of her few sayings, and the participation there seemed to be in all things between the father and daughter. At dinner Ethel went on pretty well. She was next to her father and was very glad to find the dinner so grand that no side dish fell to her lot to be carved. There was a great deal of pleasant talk, such as the girls could understand, though they did not join much in it, except that now and then Dr. May turned to Ethel as a reference for names and dates. To make up for silence at dinner there was a most confidential chatter in the drying room. Flora and Metta on one side, hand in hand, calling each other by their Christian names, Mrs. Larpin and Ethel on the other. Flora dreaded only that Ethel was talking too much, and revealing too much in how different style they lived. Then came the gentleman, Dr. May begging Mr. Rivers to show Ethel one of his prints, when Ethel stooped more than ever, as if her eyelashes were feelers, but she was in transports of delight, and her embarrassment entirely at an end in her admiration, as she exclaimed and discussed with her papa, and by her hearty appreciation made Mr. Rivers for the time forget her plainness. Music followed, Flora played nicely, Metta like a well-taught girl, Ethel went amusing over the engravings. The carriage was announced, and so ended the day in Norman's Fairyland. Ethel went home, leaning hard against her papa, talking to him of Raphael's Madonna's, and looking out at the stars and thinking how the heavenly beauty of those faces that, in the prints she had been turning over, seemed to be connected with the glories of the dark blue sky and glowing stars. As one star differs from another star in glory, murmured she, that was the lesson today, papa, and when she felt him press her hand, she knew he was thinking of that last time she had heard the lesson, when he had not been with her, and her thoughts went with his, though not another word was spoken. Flora hardly knew when they ceased to talk. She had musings equally engrossing of her own. She saw she was likely to be very intimate with Metta Rivers, and she was roaming away into schemes for not letting the intercourse drop, and hopes of being admitted to many a pleasures as yet little within her reach, parties, falls, London itself, and above all, the satisfaction of being admired. The certainty that Mr. Rivers thought her pretty and agreeable had gratified her all the evening, and if he, with his refined taste, thought so, what would others think? Her only fear was that Ethel's awkwardness might make an unfavorable impression. But, at least, she said to herself, it was anything but vulgar awkwardness. The reflections were interrupted by the fly stopping. It was at a little shop in the outskirts of the town, and Dr. May explained that he wanted to inquire for a patient. He went in for a moment, then came back to desire that they would go home, for he should be detained some little time. No one needs to sit up for him, he would let himself in. It seemed a comment on Ethel's thoughts bringing them back to the present hour. That daily work of homely mercy, hoping for nothing again, was surely the true way of doing service. End of Part 1, Chapter 20, Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. How, if he will not stand! Dogbury, why then take no note of him, but let him go. Much ado about nothing. Dr. May had promised Margaret that he would see whether the black hole of Coxmore was all that Norman depicted it, and accordingly he came home that way on Tuesday evening the next week, much to the astonishment of Richard, who was in the act of so mending the window that it might let in air when open and keep it out when shut, neither of which purposes had it ever yet answered. Dr. May walked in, met his daughter's look of delight and surprise, spoke cheerfully to Mrs. Green, a hospital acquaintance of his, like half the rest of the country, and made her smile and curtsy by asking if she was not surprised at such doings in her house, then looked at the children and patted the head that looked most fit to Pat, inquired who was the best scholar, and offered a penny to whoever could spell copper teakettle, which being done by three merry mortals and having made him extremely popular, he offered Ethel a lift and carried her off between him and Adams, on whom he now depended for driving him since Richard was going to Oxford at once. It was possible to spare him now. Dr. May's arm was as well as he expected it ever would be. He had discarded the sling and could use his hand again, but the arm was still stiff and weak, he could not stretch it out nor use it for anything requiring strength. It soon grew tired with writing and his daughters feared that it ached more than he chose to confess when they saw it resting in the breast of his waistcoat. Driving he never would have attempted again, even if he could, and he had quite given up carving, he could better bear to sit at the side than at the bottom of the dinner table. Means of carrying Margaret safely had been arranged by Richard, and there was no necessity for longer delaying his going to Oxford, but he was so unwillingly spared by all as to put him quite into good spirits. Ethel was much concerned to lose him from coxmore and dreaded hindrances to her going thither without his escort, but she had much trust in having her father on her side, and meant to get authority from him for the propriety of going alone with Mary. She did not know how Norman had jeopardised her projects, but the danger blew over. Dr. May told Margaret that the place was clean and wholesome, and though more smoky than might be preferred, there was nothing to do anyone in health any harm, especially when the walk there and back was over the fresh moor. He lectured Ethel herself on opening the window, now that she could, and advised Norman to go and spend an hour in the school, that he might learn how pleasant Pete's smoke was. A speech Norman did not like at all. The real touchstone of temper is ridicule on a point where we do not choose to own ourselves fastidious, and if it had been from anyone but his father, Norman would not have so entirely kept down his irritation. Richard passed his examination successfully, and Dr. May wrote himself to express his satisfaction. Nothing went wrong just now except little Tom, who seemed to be justifying Richard's fears of the consequence of exciting his father's anger. At home he shrank and hesitated at the simplest question if put by his father suddenly, and the appearance of cowardice and pervercation displeasing Dr. May further rendered his tone louder and frightened Tom the moor, giving his manner an air of sullen reserve that was most unpleasant. At school it was much the same. He kept aloof from Norman and threw himself moor into the opposite faction by whom he was shielded from all punishment except what they chose themselves to inflict on him. Norman's post as head of the school was rendered more difficult by the departure of his friend Cheville, who had always upheld his authority. Harvey Anderson did not openly transgress, for he had a character to maintain, but it was well known throughout the school that there was a wide difference between the boys and that Anderson thought it absurd, superfluous and troublesome in May not to wink at abuses which appeared to be licensed by long-standing. When Edward Anderson, axworthy in their set, broke through rules, it was with the understanding that the second boy in the school would support them if he durst. The summer and the cricket season brought the battle of Balhatchett's house to issue. The cricket ground was the field close to it and for the last two or three years there had been a frequent custom of dispatching juniors to his house for tarts and ginger beer bottles. Norman knew of instances last year in which this had led to serious mischief and had made up his mind that at whatever loss of popularity it was his duty to put a stop to the practice. He was an ardent cricketer himself and though the game did not in anticipation seem to him to have all the charms of last year he entered into it with full zest when once engaged. But his eye was on all parts of the field and especially on the corner by the bridge and the boys knew him well enough to attempt nothing unlawful within the range of that glance. However, the constant vigilance was a strain too great to be always kept up and he had reason to believe he was alluded more than once. At last came a capture, something like that of Tom when which he could not have well avoided making. The victim was George Larkins, the son of a clergyman in the neighborhood, a wild Mary Varley who got into mischief rather for the sake of the fun than from any bad disposition. His look of consternation was exaggerated into a most comical character in order to hide how much of it was real. So you are at that trick, Larkins. There, that bet is lost, exclaimed Larkins. I laid hill half a crown that you would not see me when you were moaning over your verses. Well, I have seen you and now come you would not thrash a fellow when you have just lost him half a crown. Single misfortunes never come alone, they say. So there's my money and my credit gone to say nothing of ball hatchet's ginger beer. The boy made such absurd faces that Norman could hardly help laughing, though he wished to make it a serious affair. You know, Larkins, I have given out that such things are not to be. It is a melancholy fact. I say you must make an example of me, said Larkins, pretending to look resigned. Better call all the fellows together, hadn't you, and make it more effective? It would be grateful to one's feelings, you know. And June added he with ridiculous confidential air. If you'll only lay it on soft, I'll take care it makes noise enough. Great cry, little wool, you know. Come with me, said Norman. I'll take care you are example enough. What did you give for those articles? Fifteen pence, half penny. Rascally dear, isn't it? But the old rogue makes one pay double for the risk. You are making his fortune. You have raised his prices fourfold. I'll take care of that. Why? Where are you taking me? Back to him? I am going to gratify your wish to be an example. A jibbit! A jibbit! cried Larkins. I'm to be turned off on the spot where the crime took place. A warning to all beholders. Only let me send home for Old Neptune's chain, if you please, sir. If you hang me in the combined watchchains of the school, I fear they would give way and defeat the purposes of justice. They were by this time at the bridge. Come in, said Norman, to his follower, as he crossed the entrance of the little shop, the first time he had ever been there. A little cringing, shriveled old man stood up in astonishment. Mr. May, can I have the pleasure, sir? Mr. Bellhatchet, you know that it is contrary to the rules that there should be any traffic with the school without special permission? Yes, sir. Just nothing, sir. Only when the young gentleman come here, sir. I'm an old man, sir, and I don't like not to oblige young gentlemen, sir. Pleaded the old man in a great fright. Very likely, said Norman. But I am come to give you fair notice. I am not going to allow the boys here to be continually smuggling spirits into the school. Spirits! Bless you, sir! I never thought of no such a thing. It is nothing in life but ginger beer, very cooling drink, sir, of my wife's making. She had the receipt from her grandmother up in Leicestershire. Won't you taste a bottle, sir? And he hastily made a cork bounce and poured it out. That, of course, was genuine, but Norman was up to him in schoolboy phrase. Give me yours, Larkins. No pop ensued. Larkins, and join the detection, put his hands on his knees and looked wickedly up in the old man's face to see what was coming. Bless me, it is a little flat. I wonder how that happened. I'll be most happy to change it, sir. Wife, what's the meaning of Mr. Larkins' ginger-pop being so flat? It is very curious ginger beer indeed, Mr. Balhatchet, said Norman. And since it is liable to have such strange properties, I cannot allow it to be used any more at the school. Very well, sir, as you please, sir. You are the first gentlemaness as objected, sir. And, once for all, I give you warning, added Norman, that if I have reason to believe you have been obliging the young gentleman, the magistrates and the trustees of the road shall certainly hear of it. You would not hurt a poor man, sir, as is drove to it. You was as such a name for goodness. I have given you warning, said Norman. The next time I find any of your bottles in the school fields, your license goes. Now there are your goods. Give Mr. Larkins back the fifteen pence. I wonder you are not ashamed of such a charge. Having extracted the money, Norman turned to leave the shop. Larkins' triumphant, ha! there's Harrison, as the tutor rode by, and they touched their caps. How he stared! My eyes! June, you'll be had up for dealing with old Balh! And he went into an ecstasy of laughing. You've settled him, I believe. Well, is justice satisfied? It would be no use thrashing you, said Norman, laughing as he leaned up against the parapet of the bridge and pinched the boy's ear. There's nothing to be got out of you but chaff. Larkins was charmed with the compliment. But I'll tell you what, Larkins. I can't think how a fellow like you can go and give in to those sneaking, underhand tricks that make you ashamed to look one in the face. It is only for the fun of it. Well, I wish you would find your fun in some other way. Come, Larkins, recollect yourself a little. You have a home not so far off. How do you think your father and mother would fancy seeing you reading the book you had yesterday, or coming out of Balhatchits with a bottle of spirits, called by a false name? Larkins pinched his fingers. Home was a string that could touch him, but it seemed beneath him to own it. At that moment a carriage approached, the boy's whole face lighted up and he jumped forward. Our own, he cried. There she is! She was, of course, his mother, and Norman, though turning hastily away that his presence might prove no restraint, saw the boy fly over the door of the open carriage and could have sobbed at the thought of what that meeting was. Who was that with you, asked Mrs. Larkins, when she had obtained leave to have her boy with her while she did her shopping. That was May Sr., our docks. Was it? I'm very glad you should be with him, my dear George. He is very kind to you, I hope. He is a jolly good fellow, said Larkins sincerely, though by no means troubling himself as to the appropriateness of the eulogy, nor thinking it necessary to explain to his mother the terms of the conversation. It was not fruitless. Larkins did avoid Miss Jiff when it was not extremely inviting, was more amenable to May Sr., and having been put in mind by him of his home, was not ashamed to bring the thought to the aid of his eyes when, on Sunday, during a long sermon of Mr. Ramsden's, he knew that Axworthy was making the grimace which irresistibly incited him to make a still finer one. And Bahlachet was so much convinced of that there young May, being an earnest, that he assured his persuasive customers that it was as much as his licence was worthy to supply them. Evil and insubordination were more easily kept under than Norman had expected when he first made up his mind to the struggle. Firmness had so far carried the day, and the power of manful assertion of the right had been proved, contrary to Cheville's parting auguries, that he would only make himself disliked and do no good. The whole of the school was extremely excited this summer by a proceeding of Mr. Tompkins, the brewer who suddenly closed up the footway called Randall's Alley, declaring that there was no right of passage through a certain field at the back of his brewery. Not only the school, but the town was indignant, and the maze especially so. It had been the doctor's way to school forty years ago, and there were recollections connected with it that made him regard it with personal affection. Norman, too, could not bear to lose it. He had not entirely conquered his reluctance to pass that spot in the high street, and the loss of the Alley would be a positive deprivation to him. Almost every native of Stoneborough felt strongly the encroachment of the brewer, and the boys, of course, carried the sentiment to exaggeration. The propensity to public speaking perhaps added to the excitement, for Norman May and Harvey Anderson, for once in Unison, each made a vehement harangue in the school court. Anderson's a fine specimen of the Village Hampton style, about Britain's never-suffering indignities and free-born Englishmen swelling at injuries. That they do, my hearty, interjected Larkins, pointing to an inflamed eye that had not returned to its right dimensions. However, Anderson went on unmoved by the undertitter, and demonstrated, to the full satisfaction of all the audience, that nothing could be more illegal and unfounded than the brewer's claims. Then came a great outburst from Norman, with all his father's headlong vehemence. The way was the right of the town, the walk had been trodden by their forefathers for generations past. It had been made by the good old, generous-hearted man who loved his town and townspeople, and would have heard with shame and anger of a stranger, a new inhabitant, a grasping radical, caring, as radicals always did, for no rights but their own chance of unjust gains. Coming here to Stoneborough to cut them off from their own path—he talk of liberalism and the rights of the poor—he who cut off Randall's poor old creatures in the almshouses from their short way, and then came some stories of his oppression as a poor law guardian, which greatly aggravated the wrath of the speaker and the audience, though otherwise they did not exactly bear on the subject. What would old Nicholas Randall say to these nineteenth-century doings, finished Norman? Down with them, cried a voice from the throng, probably Larkins, but there was no desire to investigate. It was the universal sentiment. Down with it! Hurrah! We'll have our footpath open again! Down with the fences! Britain's never shall be slaves, as Larkins finally ejaculated. That's the way to bring it to bear, said Harvey Anderson. See if he dares to bring an action against us. Hurrah! Yes, that's the way to settle it, said Norman. Let's have it down. It's an oppressive, arbitrary, shameful proceeding, and we'll show him we won't submit to it. Carried along by the general feeling, the whole troop of boys dashed shouting up to the barricade at the entrance of the field, and leveled it with the ground. A handkerchief was fastened to the top of one of the stakes and waved over the brew-house wall, and some of the boys were for picking up stones and dirt and launching them over in hopes of spoiling the beer. But Norman put a stop to this, and brought them back to the schoolyard, still in a noisy state of exaltation. It cooled a little by and by, under the doubt how their exploit would be taken. At home, Norman found it already known, and his father half glad, half vexed, and joined the victory over Tomkins, yet a little uneasy on his son's behalf. What will Dr. Hoxton say to the ducks, said he? I didn't know he was to be ducks in mischief as well as out of it. You can't call it mischief, Papa, to resent an unwarranted encroachment of our rights by such an old ruffian as that, once blood is up to think of the things he has done. He richly deserves it, no doubt, said the doctor, and yet I wish you had been out of the row. If there is any blame, you will be the first it will light on. I'm glad of it, that is but just. Anderson and I seem to have stirred it up, if it wanted stirring, for it was in every fellow there. Indeed, I had no notion it was coming to this when I began. Oratory, said the doctor, smiling. Norman, think a little another time, my boy, before you take the lawn to your own hands, or what is worse, into a lot of hands you can't control for good, though you may excite them to harm. Dr. Hoxton did not come into the school at the usual hour, and in the course of the morning, sent for May Sr. to speak to him in his study. He looked very broad, awful, and dignified, as he informed him that Mr. Tompkins had just been with him to complain of the damage that had been done, and he appeared extremely displeased that the ducks should have been no check on such proceedings. I am sorry, sir, said Norman, but I believe it was the general feeling that he had no right to stop up the alley, and therefore that it could not be wrong to break it down. Whether he has a right or not is not a question to be settled by you, so I find that you, whose proper office is to keep order, have been inflaming the mischievous and aggressive spirit amongst the others. I am surprised at you. I thought you were more to be depended upon, May, in your position. Norman Cullard a good deal, and simply answered, I am sorry, sir. Take care, then, that nothing of the kind happens again, said Dr. Hoxton, who was very fond of him, and did not find fault with him willingly. That the first inflammatory discourse had been made by Anderson did not appear to be known. He only came in for the general reprimand given to the school. It was reported the following evening, just as the town boys turned out to go to their homes, that old Tompkins had his fence up five times higher than before. Have at him again, say I, exclaimed axworthy. What business has he, coming stopping at ways that were made before he was born? We shall catch it from the doctor, if we do, said Edward Anderson. He looked in no end of a rage yesterday when he talked about the credit of the school. Who cares for the credit of the school, said the elder Anderson. We are out of the school now. We are townsmen, stone-brow boys, citizens not bound to submit to injustice. No. No, the old rogue knew it would not stand if it was brought into court, so he brings down old Hoxton on this instead—a dirty trick he deserves to be punished for. And there was a general shout and yell and reply. Anderson, said Norman, you had better not excite them again. They are ripe for mischief. It will go further than it did yesterday, don't you see? Anderson could not afford to get into a scrape without May to stand before him, and rather silkily he assented. It is of no use to rave about old Tompkins, preceded Norman, in his style of popular oratory. If it is illegal, someone will go to law about it, and we shall have our alley again. We have shown him our mind once, and that is enough. If we let him alone now, he will see tis only because we are ordered, not for his sake. It would be just putting him in the right, and maybe winning his cause for him to use any more violence. There's law for you, Anderson, so now know more about it. Let us all go home like rational fellows. August, where's August? Tom was not visible. He generally avoided going home with his brother. And Norman, having seen the boys divide into two or three little parties as their roads lay homewards, found he had an hour of light for an expedition of his own, along the bank of the river. He had taken up botany with much ardour, and sharing the study with Margaret was a great delight to both. There was a report that the rare yellow bog-bean grew in a meadow about a mile and a half up the river, and thither he was bound, extremely enjoying the summer evening walk, as the fresh, dewy coolness sunk on all around, and the noises of the town were mellowed by distance, and the sun's last beams slanted on the green meadows, and the mayflies danced, and dragonflies started, and fish rose or leaped high in the air, or showed their spotted sides, and opened and shut their gills as they rested in the clear water, and the evening breeze rustled in the tall reeds, and brought fragrance from the fresh moan hay. It was complete enjoyment to Norman after his day's study and the rule and watch over the unruly crowd of boys, and he walked and wandered, and collected plants for Margaret till the sun was down, and the grasshoppers tripped clamorously, while the fern owl purred, and the beetle hummed, and the skimming swallows had given place to the soft-winged bat, and the large white owl floating over the fields as it moused in the long grass. The summer twilight was sobering every tint when, as Norman crossed the cricket field, he heard, in the distance, a loud shout. He looked up, and it seemed to him that he saw some black specks dancing in the forbidden field, and something like the waving of a flag. But it was not light enough to be certain, and he walked quickly home. The front door was fastened, and while he was waiting to be let in, Mr. Harrison walked by and called out, You are late at home tonight. It is half past nine. I've been taking a walk, sir. A good night was the answer, and he was admitted. Everyone in the drawing room looked up and exclaimed as he entered, Where's Tom? What? Is he not come home? No. Was he not with you? I missed him after school. I was persuaded he was come home. I have been to look for the yellow bog bean. There, Margaret, had I not better go and look for him? Yes, do, said Dr. May, the boy is never off one's mind. A sort of instinctive dread directed Norman's steps down the open portion of Randall's alley, and voices growing louder as he came near confirmed his suspicions. The fence at this end was down, and on entering the field a gleam of light met his eye on the ground. A cloud of smoke, black figures were flitting around it, pushing brands into red places, and feeding the bonfire. What have you been doing? exclaimed Norman. You have got yourselves into a tremendous scrape. A peal of laughter, and a shout of Randall and Stoneboro forever, was the reply. August, May, Jr., Tom, answer me. Is he here? asked Norman, not solicitous to identify anyone, but gruff voices broken upon them. There they are, nothing like them for mischief. Come, young gentlemen, said a policeman, be off if you please. We don't want to have none of you at the station tonight. A general hurry scurry ensued. Norman alone, strong in innocence, walked quietly away, and as he came forth from the darkness of the alley, beheld something scouring away before him in the direction of home. It popped in at the front door before him, but was not in the drawing-room. He strode upstairs, called, but was not answered, and found, under the bed-clothes, a quivering mass consisting of Tom, with all his clothes on, fully persuaded that it was the policeman who was pursuing him. End of Part 1, Chapter 21, Recording by Hannah Mary Oh life! Without thy checkered scene of right and wrong of wheel and woe, success and failure could aground for magnanimity be found. Wordsworth, Dr. May was called for late the next day, Friday, and spent some time in one of the houses near the river. It was nearly eight o'clock when he came away, and he lingered, looking towards the school, in hopes of a walk home with his boys. Presently he saw Norman coming out from under the archway, his cap drawn over his face, and step, gesture and manner, betraying that something was seriously wrong. He came up almost to his father without seeing him, until, startled by his exclamation, Norman! Why, Norman! What's the matter? Norman's lips quivered, and his face was pale. He seemed as if he could not speak. Where's Tom? said the doctor, much alarmed. Has he got into disgrace about this business of Tomkins? That boy! He has only got an imposition, interrupted Norman. No, it's not that. It is myself. And it was only with a gulp and struggle that he brought out the words. I am turned down in the school. The doctor started back a step or two, aghast. What? How? Speak, Norman! What have you done? Nothing! said Norman, recovering in the desire to reassure his father. Nothing! That's right! said the doctor, breathing freely. What's the meaning of it? A misunderstanding? Yes, said Norman with bitterness. It's all Anderson's doing. A word from him would have set all straight. But he would not. I believe from my heart he held his tongue to get me down, that he might have the randle. We'll see you, righted, said the doctor eagerly. Come, tell me the whole story, Norman. Is it about this unlucky business? Yes. The town fellows were all up about it last evening, when we came out of school. Anderson Sr. himself began to put them up to having the fence down again. Yes, that he did. I remember his very words, that Tomkins could not bring it into court. And so set old Hoxton at us. Well, I told them it would not do. Thought I had settled them. Saw them off home. Yes, Simpson and Benson and Gray up the high street, and the others their way. I only left Axe Worthy going into a shop when I set off on my walk. What could a fellow do more? How was I to know that that Axe Worthy would get them together again, and take them off to this affair, pull up the stakes, saw them down, they were hard to get down, shy all sorts of things over into the court. Hooted old Tomkins man, when he told them to be off, and make a bonfire of the sticks at last. And Harvey Anderson was there? No, not he. He's too sharp. Born and bred attorney as he is. He talked them up to the mischief when my back was turned, and then sneaked quietly home, quite innocent, and out of the scrape. But Dr. Hoxton can never entertain a suspicion that you had anything to do with it? Yes, he does, though. He thinks I incited them, and Tomkins and the policeman declare I was there in the midst of the row, and not one of these fellows will explain how I came at the last to look for Tom. Not Tom himself. He did try to speak for a little fellow, but after the other affair his word goes for nothing, and so it seems does mine. I did think Hoxton would have trusted me. And did not he? exclaimed Dr. May. He did not in so many words accuse me of, of, but he told me he had serious charges brought against me. Mr. Harrison had seeded me at Ball Hatchets, setting an example of disregard to rules, and again Mr. Harrison saw me coming in at a late hour last night. I know he did, I said, and I explained where I had been, and they asked for proofs. I could hardly answer from surprise, and they're not seeming to believe me, but I said, you could answer for my having come in with the flowers for my sister. To be sure I will. I'll go this instant," he was turning. It is of no use, Peppa. Tonight Dr. Hoxton has a dinner party. He's always having parties. I wish you would mind them less, and his business more. You disbelieved! But I'll see just as done, you Norman, the first thing to-morrow. We'll—well, then, I said— Old Bell Hatchet could tell them that I crossed the bridge at the very time they were doing this pretty piece of work, for he was sitting smoking in his porch when I went home, and, would you believe it, the old drascal would not remember who passed that evening. It is all his malice and revenge, nothing else. Why, what have you been doing to him? Norman shortly explained the ginger-beer story, and, adding, Shevyot told me I should get nothing but ill will, and so I have. All those townfellows turn against me now, and though they know as well as possible how it was, they won't say a word to write me, just out of spite, because I have stopped them from all the mischief I could. Well, then, they asked me whether, since I allowed that I had been there at last, I had dispersed the boys. I said no, I had no time. Then they decided to know who was there, and that I had not seen. It was all dark, and there had not been a moment, and if I guessed, it was no affair of mine to say. So they ordered me down, and had up Ned Anderson, and one or two more who were known to have been in the riot, and then they consulted a good while, and sent for me. Mr. Wilmot was for me, I am sure, but Harrison was against me. Dr. Hoxton sat there, and made me one of his addresses. He said he would not enter on a question whether I had been present at the repetition of the outrage, as he called it. But what was quite certain was that I had abused my authority and influence in the school. I had been setting a bad example, and breaking the rules about bullhatchet, and so far from repressing mischief, I had been the foremost in it, making inflammatory harangues, leading them to commit violence the first time, and the next, if not actually taking part in it personally, at any rate not preventing it. In short, he said it was clear I had not wait enough for my post. It was some excuse I had been raised to it so young, but it was necessary to show that proficiency in studies did not compensate for disregard of discipline, and so he turned me down below the first six. So there's another May in disgrace. It shall not last, it shall not last, my boy," said Dr. May, pressing Norman's arm. I'll see you, righted. Dr. Hoxton shall hear the whole story. I am not for fathers interfering in general, but if ever there was a case, this is. Why? It is almost actionable, injuring your whole prospects in life, and all because he will not take the trouble to make an investigation? It is a crying shame. Every fellow in the school knows how it was, said Norman, and plenty of them would be glad to tell if they had only the opportunity, but he asked no one but those two or three worst fellows that were at the fire, and they would not tell, on purpose. The school will go to destruction now, they'll get their way, and all I have been striving for is utterly undone. You setting a bad example? Dr. Hoxton little knows what you've been doing. It is a mockery, as I have always said, to see that old fellow sit wrapped up in his pomposity, eating his good dinners, and knowing no more what goes on among his boys than his umbrella. But he will listen to me, and will make those boys confess the whole, hey, and have our bell hatchet himself to say what your traffic with him was, and we will see what all Hoxton says to you then, Norman. Dr. May and his son felt keenly and spoke strongly. There was so much of sympathy and fellow feeling between them that there was no backwardness on Norman's part in telling his whole trouble, with more confidence than schoolboys often show towards their fathers. And Dr. May entered into the mortification as if he were still at school. They did not go into the house but walked long up and down the garden, working themselves up into, if possible, stronger indignation and concerting the explanation for tomorrow, when Dr. May meant to go at once to the headmaster, and make him attend to the true version of the story, appealing to Harvey Anderson himself, Larkins, and many others for witnesses. They could hardly be a doubt that Norman would be thus exculpated, but if Dr. Hoxton would not see things in their true light, Dr. May was ready to take him away at once, rather than see him suffer injustice. Still, though comforted by his father's entire reliance, Norman was suffering severely under the sense of indignity, and grieved that Dr. Hoxton and the other masters should have believed him guilty, that name of May could never again boast of being without reproach. To be in disgrace, stung him to the quick, even though undeservedly, and he could not bear to go in, meet his sisters, and be pettied. There's no need they should know of it, said he, when the minster-clock, peeling ten, obliged them to go indoors. And his father agreed. They bade each other good-night, with the renewal of the promise that Dr. Hoxton should be forced to hear Norman's vindication the first thing to-morrow. Harvey Anderson beat disappointed what he meanly triumphed in, and Norman be again in his post at the head of the school, in more honour and confidence than ever, putting down evil, and making stone-burrow what it ought to be. As Dr. May lay awake in the summer's morning, meditating on his address to Dr. Hoxton, he heard the unwelcome sound of a ring at the bell, and in a few minutes, a note was brought to him, Tell Adams to get the gig ready, I'll let him know whether he is to go with me, and in a few minutes the doctor opened Norman's door, and found him dressed, and standing by the window reading. What, up already, Norman? I came to tell you that our affairs must wait till the afternoon. It is very provoking, for Hoxton may be gone out, but Mr. Lake's son, at Groveswood, has an attack on the head, and I must go at once. It is a couple of dozen miles off or more. I've hardly ever been there, and it may keep me all day. Shall you go in the gig? Shall I drive you?" said Norman, looking rather blank. That's what I thought of. If you like it, I thought you would sooner be out of the way. Thank you, yes, papa. Shall I come and help you to finish dressing? Yes, do thank you, it will hasten matters. Only, first order in some breakfast. What makes you up so early? Have not you slept? Not much. It has been such a hot night. And you have a headache? Well, we will find a cure for that before the day is over. I have settled what to say to old Hoxton. Before another quarter of an hour had passed, they were driving through the deep lanes, the long grass thickly ladden with morning dew, which beaded the webs of the spiders and rose in clouds of mist under the influence of the sun's rays. There was stillness in the air at first, then the morning sounds, the labour going forth, the world wakening to life, the opening houses, the children coming out to school. In spite of the tumult of feeling, Norman could not but be soothed and refreshed by the new and fair morning scene, and both minds quitted the school politics. As Doctor May talked of past endowments of walks or drives home in early dawn, the more delicious after a sad watch in a sick room, and told of the fair sights he had seen at such unwanted hours. They had far to go, and the heat of the day had come on before they entered the place of their destination. It was a woodland village, built on a nook in the side of the hill, sloping greenly to the river, and shut in by a white gate, which seemed to gather all in one the little old fashioned church, its yard, shaded with trees, and enclosed by long white rails, the parsonage, covered with climbing plants and in the midst of a gay garden, and one or two cottages. The woods cast a cool shadow, and in the meadows by the river rose cocks of new-made hay. There was an air of abiding serenity about the whole place, save that there stood an old man by the gate, evidently watching for the physician's carriage, and where the sun fell on that parsonage house was a bedroom window, wide open, with a curtain drawn. Thank heavens you are come, sir," said the old man. He is fearfully bad. Norman knew Young Lake, who had been a senior boy when he first went to school, was a Randall scholar, and had borne an excellent character, and highly distinguished himself at the university. And now, by all accounts, he seemed to be dying, in the height of honour and general esteem. Dr. May went into the house, the old man took the horse, and Norman lingered under the trees in the churchyard. Watching the white curtain's now and then puffed by the fitful summer breeze, as he lay on the turf in the shade, under the influence of the gentle sadness around resting mind and body, from the tossing to multuous, passionate sensations that had kept him restless and miserable through the hot night. He waited long, one hour, two hours had passed away, but he was not impatient, and hardly knew how long the time had been before his father and Mr. Lake came out of the house together, and after they parted, Dr. May summoned him. He, of course, asked first for the patient, not quite so hopeless as at first, and the reasons for having been kept so long were detailed, with many circumstances of the youth's illness, and the parents' resignation, by which Dr. May was still too deeply touched to have room in his mind for anything besides. They were more than half-way home, and a silence had succeeded the conversation about the Lake family, where Norman spoke, Papa, I've been thinking about it, and I believe it would be better to let it alone, if you please, not apply to Dr. Hoxton, exclaimed his father. Well, I think not, I've been considering it, and it does hardly seem to me the right thing. You see, if I had not you close at hand, this could never be explained, and it seems rather hard upon Anderson, who has no father, and the other fellows, who have their fathers off. Right, Norman, that is what my father before me always said, and the way I have always acted myself, much better let a few trifles go on, not just as one would wish, than be forever interfering. But I think, this is a case for it, and I don't think you ought to let yourself be influenced by the fear of any party spirit. It's not only that, Papa, I've been thinking a good deal today, and there are other reasons. Of course I should wish Dr. Hoxton to know that I spoke the truth about that walk, and I hope you will let him know, as I appeal to you, but on cooler thoughts I don't believe Dr. Hoxton could seriously suspect me of such a thing as that, and it was not on that ground that I am turned down, but that I did not keep up sufficient discipline, and allowed the outrage, as he calls it. Now, you know, that is, after a fashion, true. If I had not gone on like I'd asked the other day, and incited them to pull down the fences, they would not have done it afterwards. And perhaps I ought to have kept on guard longer. It was my fault, and we can't deny it. Dr. May made a restless, reluctant movement. Well, well, I suppose it was, but it was just as much Harvey Anderson's. And is he to get the scholarship, because he has added meanness to the rest? He was not ducks, said Norman with a sigh. It was more shabby than I thought was even in him, but I don't know that the feeling about him is not one reason. There has always been a rivalry and bitterness between us two, and if I were to get the upper hand now, by means not in the usual course such as the fellows would think ill of it, it would be worse than ever, and I should always feel guilty and ashamed to look at him. Over refining, Norman, muttered Dr. May. Besides, don't you remember, when his father died, how glad you and everyone were to get him a nomination, and it was said that if he gained a scholarship, it would be such a relief to poor Mrs. Anderson. Now he has this chance, and it does seem hard to deprive her of it. I should not like to know that I had done so. The doctor gave a considering whistle. You could not make it straight, Papa, without explaining about the dealing with Bell Hatchett, and that would be unfair to them all. Even the old rogue himself, for I promised to say nothing about former practices, as long as he did not renew them. Well, I don't want to compromise you, Norman. You know your own ground best, but I don't like it at all. You don't know the humiliation of disgrace. Those who have thought highly of you, now thinking you changed, I don't know how to bear it for you. I don't mind anything while you trust me, said Norman, eagerly. Not much, I mean, except, Mr. Wilmot. You must judge, Papa, and do as you please. No, you must judge, Norman. Your confidence in me ought not to be a restraint. It has always been an understood thing that what you say at home is as if it had not been said, as regards my dealings with the masters. I know, Papa. Well, I'll tell you what brought me to this. I tumbled about all night in a rage when I thought how they had served me, and of Hoxton's believing it all, and how he might only half given to your representation. And then I gloried in Andersons coming down from his height and being seen in his true colours. So it went on till morning came, and I got up. You know how you gave me my mother's little Thomas a campus? I always read a bit every morning. Today it was a four things that bring much inward peace. And what do you think they were? Be desirous, my son, to do the will of another, rather than thine own. Choose always to have less rather than more. Seek always the lowest place, and to be inferior to everyone. Wish always and pray that the will of God may be wholly fulfilled in thee. I like them the more, because it was just like her last reading with us, and like that letter. Well, then I wondered as I lay on the grass at Groveswood whether she would have thought it best for me to be reinstated, and I found out that I should have been rather afraid of what you might say when she had talked it over with you. Dr. May smiled a little at the simplicity with which this last was said, but his smile ended in one of his heavy sighs. So you took her for your counsellor, my boy. That was the way to find out what was right. Well, there was something in the place, and in watching poor Lake's windows, that made me not able to dwell so much on getting on in having prizes and scholarships. I thought that caring for those had been driven out of me, and you know, I never felt as if it were my right when I was made ducks, but now I find it is all come back, and does not do for me to be first. I have been what she called elated, and been more peremptory than need with the lower boys, and gone on in my old ways with Richard, and so I suppose this disgrace has come to punish me. I wish it were not disgrace, because of our name at school, and because it will vex Harry so much, but since it has come, considering all things, I suppose I ought not to struggle to justify myself at other people's expense. His eyes were so dazzled with tears that he could hardly see to drive, nor did his father speak at first. I can't say anything against it, Norman, but I am sorry, and one thing more you should consider. If Dr. Hoxton should view this absurd business in the way he seems to do, it will stand in your way forever in testimonials, if you try for anything else. Do you think it will interfere with my having a confirmation ticket? Why, no, I should not think. Such a boyish escapade could be no reason for refusing you one. Very well, then. It had better rest. If there should be any difficulty about my being confirmed, of course we will explain it. I wish everyone showed themselves as well prepared, half matter the doctor. Then, after long musing, well, Norman, I give up the scholarship. Poor Mrs. Anderson wants it more than we do, and if the boy is a shabby fellow, the more he wants a decent education. But what do you say to this? I make Hoxton to you full justice, and reinstate you in your proper place, and then I take you away at once, send you to anything till the end of the long vacation. Thank you, said Norman, pausing. I don't know, Papa, I'm very much obliged to you, but I think it would hardly do. You would be uncomfortable at seeming to quarrel with Dr. Hoxton, and it would hardly be creditable for me to go off in anger. You are right, I believe, said Dr. May. You judge wisely, though I should not have ventured to ask it of you. But what is to become of the discipline of the school? Is that all to go to the dogs? I could not do anything with him if I were restored in this way. They would be more set against me. It is bad enough as it is, but even for my own peace I believe it is better to leave it alone. All my comfort in school is over, I know, and he sighed deeply. It is a most untoward business, said the doctor. I am very sorry your school days should be clouded, but it can't be helped, and you will work yourself into a character again. You are full young and can stay for the next randle. Norman felt as if, while his father looked at him as he now did, the rest of the world were nothing to him. But perhaps the driving past the school brought him to a different mind, for he walked into the house slowly and ejectedly. He told his own story to Ethel in the garden, not without much difficulty, so indignant were her exclamations, and it was impossible to make her see that his father's interference would put him in an awkward position among the boys. She would argue vehemently that she could not bear Mr. Wilmot to think ill of him, that it was a great shame of Dr. Hoxton, and that it was dreadful to let such a boy as Harvey Anderson go unpunished. I really do think it is quite wrong of you to give up your chance of doing good, and leave him in his evil ways—that was all the comfort she gave Norman—and she walked in to pour out furious grumbling upon Margaret. Dr. May had been telling the elder ones, and they were in conversation after he had left them, Margaret talking with animation, and Flores sitting over her drawing, uttering reluctant ascents. Has he told you, poor fellow? asked Margaret. Yes, said Ethel. Was there ever such a shame? That is just what I say, observed Flora. I cannot see why the Andersons are to have a triumph over all of us. I used to think Harvey the best of the two, said Ethel. Now I think he is a great deal the worst. Taking advantage of such a mistake as this, how will he ever look Norman in the face? Really, said Margaret, I see no use in aggravating ourselves by talking of the Andersons. I can't think how Papa can consent, preceded Flora. I am sure if I were in his place I should not. Papa is so much pleased with dear Norman's behaviour that it quite makes up for all the disappointment, said Margaret. Besides, he is very much obliged to him in one way. He would not have liked to have to battle the matter with Dr. Hoxton. He spoke of Norman's great good judgment. Yes, Norman can persuade Papa to do anything, said Flora. Yes, I wish Papa had not yielded, said Ethel. It would have been just as noble in dear Norman, and we should not have the apparent disgrace. Perhaps it is best as it is, after all, said Flora. Why, how do you mean, said Ethel? I think very likely things might have come out. Now don't look furious, Ethel. Indeed, I can't help it, but really I don't think it is explicable why Norman should wish to hush it up, unless there was something behind. Flora, cried Ethel, too much shock to bring out another word. If you are unfortunate enough to have such suspicions, said Margaret quietly, I think it would be better to be silent. As if you did not know Norman, stammered Ethel. Well, said Flora, I don't wish to think so. You know I did not hear Norman himself, and when Papa gives his vehement account of things, it always puzzles us of the cooler minded sort. It is a great shame, as ever I heard, cried Ethel, recovering her utterance. Who would you trust if not your own father and brother? Yes, yes, said Flora, not by any means wishing to displease her sisters. If there is such a thing as an excess of generosity, it is sure to be among ourselves. I only know it does not suit me. It will make us all uncomfortable whenever we meet the Andersons or Mr. Wilmot or anyone else, and as to such tenderness to Harvey Anderson, I think it is thrown away—thrown away on the object, perhaps, said Margaret, but not in Norman. To be sure, broke out Ethel, better be than seem. Oh, dear, I am sorry I was vexed with dear old June when he told me I had rather have him now than if he had gained everything and everyone was praising him that I had. Harvey Anderson is welcome to be ducks and Randall Scholar for what I care, while Norman is, while he is just what we thought of the last time we read that Gospel. You know, Margaret? He is that he is, said Margaret, and indeed it is most beautiful to see how what has happened has brought him at once to what she wished, when perhaps otherwise it would have been a work of a long time. Ethel was entirely consoled. Flora thought of the words, tete exalté, and considered herself alone to have sober sense enough to see things in a true light. Not that she went the length of believing that Norman had any underhand motives, but she thought it very discreet in her to think a prudent father would not have been satisfied with such a desire to avoid investigation. Dr. May would not trust himself to enter on the subject with Dr. Hoxton in conversation. He only wrote a note. June 16th. Dear Dr. Hoxton, my son has appealed to me to confirm his account of himself on Thursday evening last. I therefore distinctly state that he came in at half past nine with his hands full of plants from the river, and that he then went out again, by my desire, to look for his little brother. Yours very truly, R. May. A long answer came in return, disclaiming all doubt of Norman's veracity, and explaining Dr. Hoxton's grounds for having degraded him. They had been misconduct in the school, he said, for some time past, and he did not consider that it was any very serious approach to a boy of Norman's age, that he had not had weight enough to keep up his authority, and had been carried away by the general feeling. It had been necessary to make an example for the sake of principle, and though very sorry it should have fallen on one of such high promise and general good conduct, Dr. Hoxton trusted that it would not be any permanent injury to his prospects, as his talents had raised him to his former position in the school so much earlier than usual. The fact was, said Dr. May, that old Hoxton did it in a passion, feeling he must punish somebody, and now, finding there's no uproar about it, he begins to be sorry. I won't answer this note. I'll stop after church tomorrow and shake hands, and that will show we don't bear malice. What Mr. Wilmot might think was felt by all to affect them more nearly. Ethel wanted to hear that he declared his complete conviction of Norman's innocence, and was disappointed to find that he did not once allude to the subject. She was only consoled by Margaret's conjecture that, perhaps, he thought the headmaster had been hasty, and could not venture to say so. He saw into people's characters, and it was notorious that it was just what Dr. Hoxton did not. Tom had spent the chief of that Saturday in reading a novel borrowed from Axworthy, keeping out of sight of everyone. All Sunday he avoided Norman more scrupulously than ever, and again on Monday. That day was a severe trial to Norman. The taking the lower place, and the sense that, excel as much as ever he might in his studies, it would not avail to restore him to his former place, were more unpleasant when it came to the point than he had expected. He saw the cold manner so different from the readiness with which his tasks had always been met, certain as they were of being well done. He found himself among the common herd whom he had passed so triumphantly, and for a little while he had no heart to exert himself. This was conquered by the strong will and self-rebuke for having merely craved for applause. But in the playground he found himself still alone. The other boys who had been erased by his fall, shrank from intercourse with one whom they had injured by their silence, and the Andersons, who were once to say the Maze carried every tale home, and who still almost expected interference from Dr. May, hardly believed their victory secure. And the younger one, at least, talked spitefully and triumphed in the result of Maze meddling in troublesome over-strictness. Such prigs always come to a downfall, was the sentiment. Norman found himself left out of everything, and stood dispirited and wary on the bank of the river, wishing for Harry, wishing for Cheviot, wishing that he had been able to make a friend who would stand by him, thinking it could not be worse if he had let his father reinstate him. And a sensation of loneliness and injustice hung heavy at his heart. His first interruption was a merry voice. I say, June, there's no end of river crayfish under that bank! And Larkin's droll face was looking up at him, from that favourite position, half stooping, his hands on his knees, his expression of fun trying to conceal his real anxiety and sympathy. Norman turned and smiled, and looked for the crayfish, and at the same time became aware of Hector Ernstcliffe, watching for an opportunity to say, I have a letter from Allen. He knew they wanted, as far as little boys ventured to seek after one so much their elder, to show themselves his friends, and he was grateful. He roused himself to hear about Allen's news, and found it was important. His great friend Captain Gordon had got a ship, and hoped to be able to take him, and this might lead to Harry's going with him. Then Norman applied himself to the capture of crayfish, and Larkin's crew so full of fun and drollery that the hours of recreation passed off less gloomily than they had begun. If only his brother would have been his adherent! But he saw almost nothing of Tom. Day after day he missed him. He was off before him in going and returning from school, and when he caught a sight of his face, it looked harassed, pale and miserable, stealing anxious glances after him, yet shrinking from his eye. But at the same time Norman did not see him mingling with his former friends, and could not make out how he disposed of himself. To be thus continually shunned by his own brother, even when the general mass were returning to ordinary terms, became so painful, that Norman was always on the watch to seek for one more conversation with him. He caught him at last in the evening, just as they were going home. Tom, why are you running away? Come with me," said he authoritatively, and Tom obeyed in trembling. Norman led the way to the meads. Tom, said he, do not let this go on. Why do you serve me? Why do you serve me in this way? You surely need not turn against me," he said with pleading melancholy in his voice. It was not needed. Tom had flung himself upon the grass and was in an agony of crying, even before he had finished the words. Tom, Tom, what is the matter? Have they been bullying you again? Look up and tell me, what is it? You know, I can stand by you still if you'll only let me," said Norman, and Norman sat by him on the grass and raised his face by a sort of force. But the kind words only brought more piture sobs. It was a long time before they diminished enough to let him utter a word, but Norman went on patiently consoling and inquiring, sure at least, that here had broken down the sullenness that had always repelled him. At last came the words, Oh, I cannot bear it! It is all my doing. What? How? You don't mean this happening to me? It's not your doing, August. What fancy is this? Oh, yes it is," said Tom, his voice cut short by gasps, the remains of the sobs. They would not hear me. I tried to tell them how you told them not, and sent them home. I tried to tell them about Bull Hatchet, but they wouldn't. They said if it had been Harry, they would have attended, but they would not believe me. Oh, if Harry was but here. I wish he was, said Norman, from the bottom of his heart. But you see, Tom, if this sets you on always telling truth, I shan't think any great harm done. A fresh burst. Oh, they are all so glad they say such things, and the maze were never in disgrace before. Oh, Norman, Norman! Never mind about that, began Norman. But you would mind, broke in the boy passionately. And if you knew what Anderson Jr. and Axworthy say, they say it serves you right, and they were going to send me to Old Bull Hatchet's to get some of his stuff to drink confusion to the mouth of Dune, and all pragmatical mendlers. And when I said I could not go, they vowed if I did not, I should eat the corks for them. And Anderson Jr. called me names, and licked me. Look there! He showed a dark blue and red stripe raised on the palm of his hand. I could not write well for it these three days, and whores gave me double copies. The cowardly fellows, exclaimed Norman indignantly. But you did not go. No, Anderson Sr. stopped them. He said he would not have the Bull Hatchet's business begin again. That is one comfort, said Norman. I say he does not dare not to keep order. But if you'll only stay with me, August, I'll take care they don't hurt you. Oh, Dune, Dune! And he threw himself across his kind, brother. I'm so very sorry. Oh, to see you put down and hear them, and you to lose the scholarship. Oh, dear, oh, dear, and be in disgrace with them all. But, Tom, do cheer up. It is nothing to be in such distress at. Papa knows all about it. And while he does, I don't care half so much. Oh, I wish, I wish. You see, Tom, said Norman, after all, though it is very kind of you to be sorry for not being able to get me out of this scrape, the thing one wants you to be sorry about is your own affair. I wish I had never come to school. I wish Anderson would leave me alone. It is all his fault. A mean-spirited, sculking, bullying. Hush, hush, Tom. He is bad enough. But now you know what he is. You can keep clear of him for the future. Now, listen. You and I will make a fresh start, and try if we can't get the maze to be looked on as they were when Harry was here. Let us mind the rules, and get into no more mischief. You'll keep me from Ned Anderson and Axworthy? whispered Tom. Yes, that I will, and you'll try and speak the truth and be straightforward. I will, I will, said Tom, worn out in spirits by his long bondage and glad to catch it the hope of relief and protection. Then let us come home, and Tom put his hand into his brothers, as a few weeks back would have seen most unworthy of schoolboy dignity. Thenceforth, Tom was devoted to Norman, and kept close to him, sure that the instant he was from under his wing, his former companions would fall on him to revenge his defection, but clinging to him also from real affection and gratitude. Indolence and timidity were the true root of what had, for a time, seemed like a positively bad disposition. Beneath, there was a warm heart and sense of right, which had been almost stifled for the time, in a desire from moment to moment to avoid present trouble or fear. Under Norman's care, his better self had free a scope. He was guarded from immediate terror, and kept from the suggestions of the worst sort of boys, as much as was in his brother's power. And the looks they cast towards him, and the slight torments they attempted to inflict, by no means invited him back to them. The lessons, where he had a long, invertebrate habit of shuffling, came under Norman's eye at the same time. He always prepared them in his presence, instead of in the most secret manner possible, and with all Anderson's expeditious modes of avoiding the making them of any use. Norman sat by, and gave such help as was fair and just, showed him how to learn, and explained difficulties, and the ingenuity hitherto spent an eluding learning being now directed to gaining it, he began to make real progress, and find satisfaction in it. The comfort of being good dawned upon him once more, but still there was much to content with. He had acquired such a habit of provocation that, if by any means taken by surprise, his impulse was to avoid giving a straightforward answer, and when he recollected his sincerity, the truth came with the air of falsehood. Moreover, he was an arrant coward, and provoked tricks by his manifest and unreasonable terrors. It was no slight exercise of patience that Norman underwent, but this was the interest he had made for himself, and the recovery of the boy's attachment, and his improvement, though slow, were a present recompense. Ernst Cliff, Larkins, and others of the boys held fast to him, and after the first excitement was passed, all the rest returned to their former tone. He was decidedly as much respected as ever, and at the same time regarded with more favour than when his strictness was resented. And as for the discipline of the school, that did not suffer. Anderson felt that, for his own credit, he must not allow the rules to be less observed than in May's reign, and he enforced them upon the reluctant and angry boys with whom he had previously been making common cause. Dr. Hoxton boasted to the undermasters that the school had never been in such good order as under Anderson, little guessing that this was but reaping the fruits of a past victory, or that every boy in the whole school gave the highest place in their esteem to the deposed ducks. To Anderson, Norman's cordial manner and ready support were the strangest part of all. I only explained by thinking that he deemed it, as he tried to do himself, merely the fortune of war, and was sensible of no injury. And for Norman himself, when the first shock was over, and he was accustomed to the change, he found the cessation of vigilance a relief, and carried a lighter heart than any time since his mother's death. His sisters could not help observing that there was less sadness in the expression of his eyes, that he carried his head higher, walked with freedom and elasticity of step, tossed and flourished the daisy till she shouted and crowed, while Margaret shrank at such freaks, and though he was not much of a laughter himself, contributed much sport in the way of bright, apposite sayings to the home circle. It was a very unexpected mode of cure for depression of spirits, but there could be no question that it succeeded, and when a few Saturdays after, he drove Dr. May again to Groveswood to see young Mr. Lake, who was recovering. He brought Margaret home a whole pile of botanical curiosities, and drew his father into an animated battle of natural and inane systems, which kept the whole party merry with the pros and cons every evening for a week.