And Paul looking curious, Alfred told all about the going out for holly, and the dining at the Grange, and the snap-dragon over the pudding, till he grew so eager and animated that he lost breath, and his painful cough came on, so that he could just whisper, ‘What did you do?’

‘Oh! I don’t know. We had prayers, and there was roast beef for dinner, but they gave it to me where it was raw, and I couldn’t eat it. Those that had friends went out; but ‘twasn’t much unlike other days.’

‘Poor Paul!’ sighed Alfred.

‘It won’t be like that again, though,’ said Paul, ‘even if I was in a Union. I know—what I know now.’

‘And, Paul,’ said Alfred, after a pause, ‘there’s one thing I should like if I was you. You know our Blessed Saviour had no house over Him, but was left out of the inn, and nobody cared for Him.’

Paul did not make any answer; and Alfred blushed all over.

Presently Alfred said, ‘Harold will run in soon. I say, Paul, would you mind reading me what they will say after the Holy Sacrament—what the Angels sang is the beginning.’

Paul found it, and felt as if he must stand to read such praise.

‘Thank you,’ said Alfred. ‘I’m glad Mother and Ellen are there. They’ll remember us, you know. Did you hear what Mr. Cope promised me?’

Paul had not heard; and Alfred told him, adding, ‘It will be the Ember-week in Lent. You’ll be one with me then, Paul?’

‘I’d like to promise,’ said Paul fervently; ‘but you see, when I’m well—’

‘Oh, you won’t go away for good. My Lady, or Mr. Cope, will get you work; and I want you to be Mother’s good son instead of me; and a brother to Harold and Ellen.’

‘I’d never go if I could help it,’ said Paul; ‘I sometimes wish I’d never got better! I wish I could change with you, Alfred; nobody would care if ’twas me; nor I’m sure I shouldn’t.’

‘I should like to get well!’ said Alfred slowly, and sighing. ‘But then you’ve been a much better lad than I was.’

‘I don’t know why you should say that,’ said Paul, with his hand under his chin, rather moodily. ‘But if I thought I could be good and go on well, I would not mind so much. I say, Alfred, when people round go on being—like Tom Boldre, you know—do you think one can always feel that about God being one’s Father, and church home, and all the rest?’

‘I can’t say—I never tried,’ said Alfred. ‘But you know you can always go to church—and then the Psalms and Lessons tell you those things. Well, and you can go to the Holy Sacrament—I say, Paul, if you take it the first time with me, you’ll always remember me again every time after.’

‘I must be very odd ever to forget you!’ said Paul, not far from crying. ‘Ha!’ he exclaimed, ‘they are coming out of church!’

‘I want to say one thing more, while I’ve got it in my head,’ said Alfred. ‘Mr. Cope said all this sickness was a cross to me, and I’d got to take it up for our Saviour’s sake. Well, and then mayn’t yours be being plagued and bullied, without any friends? I’m sure something like it happened to our Lord; and He never said one word against them. Isn’t that the way you may be to follow Him?’

Illness and thought had made such things fully plain to Alfred, and his words sank deep into Paul’s mind; but there was not time for any answer, for Harold was heard unlocking the door, and striding up three steps at a time, sending his voice before him. ‘Well, old chaps, have you quarrelled yet? Have you been jolly together? I say, Mrs. Crabbe told Ellen that the pudding was put into the boiler at eight o’clock last night; and my Lady and Miss Jane went in to give it a stir! I’m to bring you home a slice, you know; and Paul will know what a real pudding is like.’

The two boys spent a happy quiet afternoon with Mrs. King; and Charles Hayward brought all the singing boys down, that they might hear the carols outside the window. Paul, much tired, was in his bed by that time; but his last thought was that ‘Good-will to Men’ had come home to him at last.

CHAPTER XI—BETTER DAYS FOR PAUL

Paul’s reading was a great prize to Alfred, for he soon grew tired himself; his sister could not spare time to read to him, and if she did, she went mumbling on like a bee in a bottle. Her mother did much the same, and Harold used to stumble and gabble, so that it was horrible to hear him. Such reading as Paul’s was a new light to them all, and was a treat to Ellen as she worked as much as to Alfred; and Paul, with hands as clean as Alfred’s, was only too happy to get hold of a book, and infinitely enjoyed the constant supply kept up by Miss Selby, to make up for her not coming herself.

Then came the making out the accounts, a matter dreaded by all the family. Ellen and Alfred both used to do the sums; but as they never made them the same, Mrs. King always went by some reckoning of her own by pencil dots on her thumb-nail, which took an enormous time, but never went wrong. So the slate and the books came up after tea, one night, and Ellen set to work with her mother to pick out every one’s bill. There might be about eight customers who had Christmas bills; but many an accountant in a London shop would think eight hundred a less tough business than did the King family these eight; especially as there was a debtor and creditor account with four, and coals, butcher’s meat, and shoes for man and horse, had to be set against bread, tea, candles, and the like.

One pound of tea, 3s. 6d., that was all very well; but an ounce and a half of the same made Ellen groan, and look wildly at the corner over Alfred’s bed, as if in hopes she should there see how to set it down, so as to work it.

‘Fourpence, all but—’ said a voice from the arm-chair by the fire.

Ellen did not take any particular heed, but announced the fact that three shillings were thirty-six pence, and six was forty-two. Also that sixteen ounces were one pound, and sixteen drams one ounce; but there she got stuck, and began making figures and rubbing them out, as if in hopes that would clear up her mind. Mrs. King pecked on for ten minutes on her nail.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘Paul’s right; it is fourpence.’

‘However did you do it?’ asked Ellen.

‘As 16 to 1.5, so 42,’ quoth Paul quickly. ‘Three halves into 42; 21 and 42 is 63; 63 by 16, gives 3 and fifteen-sixteenths. You can’t deduct a sixteenth of a penny, so call it fourpence.’

Ellen and Alfred were as wise as to the working as they were before.

Next question—Paul’s answer came like the next line in the book—Mrs. King proved him right, and so on till she was quite tired of the proofs, and began to trust him. Alfred asked how he could possibly do such things, which seemed to him a perfect riddle.

‘I should have had my ears pretty nigh pulled off if I took five minutes to work that in my head,’ said Paul. ‘But I’ve forgotten things now; I could do it faster once.’

‘I’m sure you hadn’t need,’ said Mrs. King; ‘it’s enough to distract one’s senses to count so fast. All in your poor head too!’

‘And I’ve got to write them all out to-morrow,’ said Ellen dismally; ‘I must wait till dark, or I shan’t set a stitch of work. I wish people would pay ready money, and then one wouldn’t have to set down their bills. Here’s Mr. Cope, bread—bread—bread, as long as my arm!’

‘If you didn’t mind, maybe I could save you the trouble, Miss Ellen,’ said Paul.

‘Did you ever make out a bill?’ asked Mrs. King.

‘Never a real one; but every Thursday I used to do sham ones. Once I did a jeweller’s bill for twelve thousand pounds and odd! It is so long since I touched a pen, that may be I can’t write; but I should like to try.’

Ellen brought a pen, and the cover of a letter; and hobbling up to the table, he took the pen, cleared it of a hair that was sticking in it, made a scratch or two weakly and ineffectually, then wrote in a neat clear hand, without running up or down, ‘Friarswood, Christmas.’

‘A pretty hand as ever I saw!’ said Mrs. King. ‘Well, if you can write like that, and can be trusted to make no mistakes, you might write out our bills; and we’d be obliged to you most kindly.’

And so Paul did, so neatly, that when the next evening Mr. Cope walked in with the money, he said, looking at Harold, ‘Ah! my ancient Saxon, I must make my compliments to you: I did not think you could write letters as well as you can carry them.’

‘’Twas Paul did it, Sir,’ said Harold.

‘Yes, Sir; ’twas Paul,’ said Mrs. King. ‘The lad is a wonderful scholar: he told off all the sums as if they was in print; and to hear him read—’tis like nothing I ever heard since poor Mrs. Selby, Miss Jane’s mother.’

‘I saw he had been very well instructed—in acquaintance with the Bible, and the like.’

‘And, Sir, before I got to know him for a boy that would not give a false account of himself, I used to wonder whether he could have run away from some school, and have friends above the common. If you observe, Sir, he speaks so remarkably well.’

Mr. Cope had observed it. Paul spoke much better English than did even the Kings; though Ellen was by way of being very particular, and sometimes a little mincing.

‘You are quite sure it is not so?’ he said, a little startled at Mrs. King’s surmise.

‘Quite sure now, Sir. I don’t believe he would tell a falsehood on no account; and besides, poor lad!’ and she smiled as the tears came into her eyes, ‘he’s so taken to me, he wouldn’t keep nothing back from me, no more than my own boys.’

‘I’m sure he ought not, Mrs. King,’ said the Curate, ‘such a mother to him as you have been. I should like to examine him a little. With so much education, he might do something better for himself than field-labour.’

‘A very good thing it would be, Sir,’ said Mrs. King, looking much cheered; ‘for I misdoubt me sometimes if he’ll ever be strong enough to gain his bread that way—at least, not to be a good workman. There! he’s not nigh so tall as Harold; and so slight and skinny as he is, going about all bent and slouching, even before his illness! Why, he says what made him stay so long in the Union was that he looked so small and young, that none of the farmers at Upperscote would take him from it; and so at last he had to go on the tramp.’

Mr. Cope went up-stairs, and found Ellen, as usual, at her needle, and Paul in the arm-chair close by Alfred, both busied in choosing and cutting out pictures from Matilda’s ‘Illustrated News,’ with which Harold ornamented the wall of the stair-case and landing. Mr. Cope sat down, and made them laugh with something droll about the figures that were lying spread on Alfred.

‘So, Paul,’ he said, ‘I find Mrs. King has engaged you for her accountant.’

‘I wish I could do anything to be of any use,’ said Paul.

‘I’ve half a mind to ask you some questions in arithmetic,’ said Mr. Cope, with his merry eyes upon the boy, and his mouth looking grave; ‘only I’m afraid you might puzzle me.’

‘I can’t do as I used, Sir,’ said Paul, rather nervously; ‘I’ve forgotten ever so much; and my head swims.’

The slate was lying near; Mr. Cope pushed it towards him, and said, ‘Well, will you mind letting me see how you can write from dictation?’

And taking up one of the papers, he read slowly several sentences from a description of a great fire, with some tolerably long-winded newspaper words in them. When he paused, and asked for the slate, there it all stood, perfectly spelt, well written, and with all the stops and capitals in the right places.

‘Famously done, Paul! Well, and do you know where this place was?’ naming the town.

Paul turned his eyes about for a moment, and then gave the name of a county.

‘That’ll do, Paul. Which part of England?’

‘Midland.’

And so on, Mr. Cope got him out of his depth by asking about the rivers, and made him frown and look teased by a question about a battle fought in that county. If he had ever known, he had forgotten, and he was weak and easily confused; but Mr. Cope saw that he had read some history and learnt some geography, and was not like some of the village boys, who used to think Harold had been called after Herod—a nice namesake, truly!

‘Who taught you all this, Paul?’ he said. ‘You must have had a cleverer master than is common in Unions. Who was he?’

‘He was a Mr. Alcock, Sir. He was a clever man. They said in the House that he had been a bit of a gentleman, a lawyer, or a clerk, or something, but that he could never keep from the bottle.’

‘What! and so they keep him for a school-master?’

‘He was brought in, Sir; he’d got that mad fit that comes of drink, Sir, and was fresh out of gaol for debt. And when he came to, he said he’d keep the school for less than our master that was gone. He couldn’t do anything else, you see.’

‘And how did he teach you?’

‘He knocked us about,’ said Paul, drawing his shoulders together with an unpleasant recollection; ‘he wasn’t so bad to me, because I liked getting my tasks, and when he was in a good humour, he’d say I was a credit to him, and order me in to read to him in the evening.’

‘And when he was not?’

‘That was when he’d been out. They said he’d been at the gin-shop; but he used to be downright savage,’ said Paul. ‘At last he never thought it worth while to teach any lessons but mine, and I used to hear the other classes; but the inspector came all on a sudden, and found it out one day when he’d hit a little lad so that his nose was bleeding, and so he was sent off.’

‘How long ago was this?’

‘Going on for a year,’ said Paul.

‘Didn’t the inspector want you to go to a training-school?’ said Alfred.

‘Yes; but the Guardians wouldn’t hear of it.’

‘Did you wish it?’ asked Mr. Cope.

‘I liked my liberty, Sir,’ was the answer; and Paul looked down.

‘Well, and what you do think now you’ve tried your liberty?’

Paul didn’t make any answer, but finding that good-humoured face still waiting, he said slowly, ‘Why, Sir, it was well-nigh the worst of all to find I was getting as stupid as the cows.’

Mr. Cope laughed, but not so as to vex him; and added, ‘So that was the way you learnt to be a reader, Paul. Can you tell me what books you used to read to this master?’

Paul paused; and Alfred said, ‘“Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” Sir; he told us the story of that.’

‘Yes,’ said Paul; ‘but that wasn’t all: there was a book about Paris, and all the people in the back lanes there; and a German prince who came, and was kind.’

‘You must not tell them stories out of that book, Paul,’ said Mr. Cope quickly, for he knew it was a very bad one.

‘No, Sir,’ said Paul; ‘but most times it was books he called philosophy, that I couldn’t make anything of—no story, and all dull; but he was very savage if I got to sleep over them, till I hated the sight of them.’

‘I’m glad you did, my poor boy,’ said Mr. Cope. ‘But one thing more. Tell me how, with such a man as this, you could have learnt about the Bible and Catechism, as you have done.’

‘Oh,’ said Paul, ‘we had only the Bible and Testament to read in the school, because they were the cheapest; and the chaplain asked us about the Catechism every Sunday.’

‘What was the chaplain’s name?’

Paul was able, with some recollection, to answer; but he knew little about the clergyman, who was much overworked, and seldom able to give any time to the paupers.

Three days after, Mr. Cope again came into the post-office.

‘Well, Mrs. King, I suppose you don’t need to be told that our friend Paul has spoken nothing but truth. The chaplain sends me his baptismal registry, for which I asked. Just seventeen he must be—a foundling, picked up at about three weeks old, January 25th, 1836. They fancy he was left by some tramping musicians, but never were able to trace them—at least, so the chaplain hears from some of the people who remember it. Being so stunted, and looking younger than he is, no farmer would take him from the House, and the school-master made him useful, so he was kept on till the grand exposure that he told us of.’

‘Ah! Sir,’ said Mrs. King,’ I’m afraid that master was a bad man. I only wonder the poor lad learnt no more harm from him!’

‘One trembles to think of the danger,’ said Mr. Cope; ‘but you see there’s often a guard over those who don’t seek the temptation, and perhaps this poor fellow’s utter ignorance of anything beyond the Union walls helped him to let the mischief pass by his understanding, better than if he had had any experience of the world.’

‘I doubt if he’ll ever have that, Sir,’ said Mrs. King, her sensible face lighting up rather drolly; ‘there’s Harold always laughing at him for being so innocent, and yet so clever at his book.’

‘So much the better for him,’ said Mr. Cope. ‘The Son of Sirach never said a wiser word than that “the knowledge of wickedness is not wisdom.” Why, Mrs. King, what have I said? you look as if you had a great mind to laugh at me.’

‘I beg your pardon, Sir,’ said Mrs. King, much disconcerted at what seemed to her as if it might have been disrespect, though that was only Mr. Cope’s droll way of putting it, ‘I never meant—’

‘Well, but what were you thinking of?’

‘Why, Sir, I beg your pardon, but I was thinking it wouldn’t have been amiss if he had had sense enough to keep himself clean and tidy.’

‘I agree with you,’ said Mr. Cope, laughing, and seeing she used ‘innocent’ in a slightly different sense from what he did; ‘but perhaps Union cleanliness was not inviting, and he’d not had you to bring him up to fresh cheeks like Harold’s. Besides, I believe it was half depression and want of heart to exert himself, when there was no one to care for him; and he certainly had not been taught either self-respect, or to think cleanliness next to godliness.’

‘Poor lad—no,’ said Mrs. King; ‘nor I don’t think he’d do it again, and I trust he’ll never be so lost again.’

‘Lost, and found,’ said Mr. Cope gravely. ‘Another thing I was going to say was, that this irreverent economy of the Guardians, in allowing no lesson-books but the Bible, seems to have, after all, been blest to him in his knowledge of it, like an antidote to the evil the master poured in.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ said Mrs. King, ‘just so; only he says, that though he liked it, because, poor lad, there was nothing else that seemed to him to speak kind or soft, he never knew how much it was meant for him, nor it didn’t seem to touch him home till he came to you, Sir.’

Mr. Cope half turned away. His bright eyes had something very like a tear in them, for hardly anything could have been said to make the young clergyman so happy, as to tell him that any work of his should be blessed; but he went on talking quickly, to say that the chaplain gave a still worse account of Alcock than Paul’s had been, saying that some gentlemen who had newly become Guardians at the time of the inspector’s visit, had taken up the matter, and had been perfectly shocked at the discoveries they had made about the man to whom the poor children had been entrusted.

On his dismissal, some of the old set, who were all for cheapness, had talked of letting young Blackthorn act as school-master; but as he was so very young, and had been brought up by this wretched man, the gentlemen would not hear of it; and as they could not afford to accept the inspector’s offer of recommending him to a government school, he had been sent out in quest of employment, as being old enough to provide for himself. Things had since, the chaplain said, been put on a much better footing, and he himself had much more time to attend to the inmates. As to Paul, he was glad to hear that he was in good hands; he said he had always perceived him to be a very clever boy, and knew no harm of him but that he was a favourite with Alcock, which he owned had made him very glad to get him out of the House, lest he should carry on the mischief.

Mr. Cope and Mrs. King were both of one mind, that this was hard measure. So it was. Man’s measure always is either over hard or over soft, because he cannot see all sides at once. Now they saw Paul’s side, his simplicity, and his suffering; the chaplain had only seen the chances of his conveying the seeds of ungodly teaching to the workhouse children; he could not tell that the pitch which Paul had not touched by his own will, had not stuck by him—probably owing to that very simplicity which had made him so helpless in common life.

Having learnt all this, Mr. Cope proposed to Paul to use the time of his recovery in learning as much as he could, so as to be ready in case any opportunity should offer for gaining his livelihood by his head rather than by his hands.

Paul’s face glowed. He liked nothing better than to be at a book, and with Mr. Cope to help him by bright encouragements and good-natured explanations instead of tweaks of the ears and raps on the knuckles, what could be pleasanter? So Mr. Cope lent him books, set him questions, and gave him pen, ink, and copy-book, and he toiled away with them till his senses grew dazed, and his back ached beyond bearing; so that ‘Mother,’ as he called her now, caught him up, and made him lie on his bed to rest, threatening to tell Mr. Cope not to set him anything so hard; while Ellen watched in wonder at any one being so clever, and was proud of whatever Mr. Cope said he did well; and Harold looked on him as a more extraordinary creature than the pie-bald horse in the show, who wore a hat and stood on his hind legs, since he really was vexed when book and slate were taken out of his hands.

He would have over-tasked himself in his weakness much more, if it had not been for his lovingness to Alfred. To please Alfred was always his first thought; and even if a difficult sum were just on the point of proving itself, he would leave off at the first moment of seeing Alfred look as if he wanted to be read to, and would miss all his calculations, to answer some question—who was going down the village, or what that noise could be.

Alfred tried to be considerate, and was sorry when he saw by a furrow on Paul’s brow that he was trying to win up again all that some trifling saying had made him lose. But Alfred was not scholar enough to perceive the teasing of such interruptions, and even had he been aware of it, he was not in a state when he could lie quite still long together without disturbing any one; he could amuse himself much less than formerly, and often had most distressing restless fits, when one or other of them had to give him their whole attention; and it was all his most earnest efforts could do to keep from the old habit of fretfulness and murmuring. And he grieved so much over the least want of temper, and begged pardon so earnestly for the least impatient word—even if there had been real provocation for it—that it was a change indeed since the time when he thought grumbling and complaint his privilege and relief. Nothing helped him more than Paul’s reading Psalms to him—the 121st was his favourite—or saying over hymns to him in that very sweet voice so full of meaning. Sometimes Ellen and Paul would sing together, as she sat at her work, and it almost always soothed him to hear the Psalm tunes, that were like an echo from the church, about which he had cared so little when he had been able to go there in health and strength, but for which he now had such a longing! He came to be so used to depend on their singing the Evening Hymn to him, that one of the times when it was most hard for him to be patient, was one cold evening, when Ellen was so hoarse that she could not speak, and an unlucky draught in from the shop door had so knit Paul up again, that he was lying in his bed, much nearer screaming than singing.

Most of all, however, was Alfred helped by Mr. Cope’s visits, and the looking forward to the promised Feast, with more earnestness as the time drew on, and he felt his own weakness more longing for the support and blessing of uniting his suffering with that of his Lord. ‘In all our afflictions He was afflicted,’ was a sound that came most cheeringly to him, and seemed to give him greater strength and good-will to bear his load of weakness.

There was a book which young Mrs. Selby had given his mother, which was often lying on his bed, and had marks in it at all the favourite places. Some he liked to look at himself, some for Paul to read to him. They were such sentences as these:

‘My son, I descended from Heaven for thy salvation; I took upon Me thy miseries; not necessity, but charity, drawing Me thereto, that thou thyself mightest learn patience, and bear temporal miseries without grudging.’

‘For from the hour of My Birth, even until My Death on the Cross, I was not without suffering and grief.’

And then again:

‘Offer up thyself unto Me, and give thyself wholly for God, and thy offering shall be acceptable.’

‘Behold, I offered up Myself wholly unto My Father for thee, and gave My whole Body and Blood for thy food, that I might be wholly thine, and that thou mightest continue Mine unto the end.’

So he might think of all that he went through as capable of being made a free offering, which God would accept for the sake of the One Great Offering, ‘consuming and burning away’ (as the book said) ‘all his sins with the fire of Christ’s love, and cleansing his conscience from all offences.’ It was what he now felt in the words, ‘Thy Will be done,’ which he tried to say in full earnest; but he thought he should be very happy when he should go along with the offering ourselves, our souls, and bodies, to be a ‘reasonable, holy, and lively sacrifice.’

Each of Mr. Cope’s readings brought out or confirmed these refreshing hopes; and Paul likewise dwelt on such thoughts. Hardship had been a training to him, like sickness for Alfred; he knew what it was to be weary and heavy laden, and to want rest, and was ready to draw closer to the only Home and Father that he could claim. His gentle unresisting spirit was one that so readily forgot ill-will, that positively Harold cherished more dislike to the Shepherds than he did; and there was no struggle to forgive, no lack of charity for all men, so that hope and trust were free.

These two boys were a great deal to the young deacon. Perhaps he reckoned on his first ministration as a priest by Alfred’s bedside, as much or even more than did the lad, for to him the whole household were as near and like-minded friends, though neither he nor they ever departed from the fitting manners of their respective stations. He was one who liked to share with others what was near his heart, and he had shewn Alfred the Service for the Ordination of Priests, and the Prayers for Grace that would be offered, and the holy vows that he would take upon him, and the words with which those great Powers would be conferred—those Powers that our Chief Shepherd left in trust for the pastors who feed His flock.

And once he had bent down and whispered to Alfred to pray that help might be given to him to use those powers faithfully.

So wore on the early spring; and the morning had come when he was to set out for the cathedral town, when Harold rode up to the parsonage door, and something in his looks as he passed the window made Mr. Cope hasten to the door to meet him.

‘O Sir!’ said Harold, bursting out crying as he began to speak, ‘poor Alfred is took so bad; and Mother told me to tell you, Sir—if he’s not better—he’ll never live out the day!’

Poor Harold, who had never seemed to heed his brother’s illness, was quite overwhelmed now. It had come upon him all at once.

‘What is it? Has the doctor been?’

‘No, Sir; I went in at six o’clock this morning to ask him to come out, and he said he’d come—and sent him a blister—but Alf was worse by the time I got back, Sir,—he can’t breathe—and don’t seem to notice.’

And without another word, nor waiting for comfort, Harold dug his heels into Peggy, passed his elbow over his eyes, and cantered on with the tears drying on his face in the brisk March wind.

There was no finishing breakfast for the Curate; he thrust his letters into his pocket, caught up his hat, and walked off with long strides for the post-office.

It shewed how different things were from usual, that Paul, who had hardly yet been four times down-stairs, his thin pointed face all in a flush, was the only person in the shop, trying with a very shaky hand to cut out some cheese for a great stout farm maid-servant, who evidently did not understand what was the matter, and stared doubly when the clergyman put his strong hand so as to steady Paul’s trembling one, and gave his help to fold up the parcel.

‘How is he, Paul?’

Paul was very near crying as he answered, ‘Much worse, Sir. Mother has been up all night with him. O Sir! he did so want to live till you came home.’

‘May I go up?’ asked Mr. Cope.

Paul was sure that he might, and crept up after him. It was bad enough, but not quite so bad as Harold, in his fright, had made Mr. Cope believe. Poor boy! it had all come upon him now; and seeing his brother unable to speak and much oppressed, he fancied he did not know him, whereas Alfred was fully sensible, though too ill to do more than lift his eyes, and put out his weak fingers as Mr. Cope came into the room, where he was lying raised on his pillows, with his mother and sister doing all they could for him.

A terrible pain in the side had come on in the night, making every breath painful, every cough agonizing, and his whole face and brow were crimson with the effort of gasping.

Paul looked a moment but could not bear it, and went, and sat down on the top of the stairs; while Mr. Cope kindly held Alfred’s hot hand, and Mrs. King, in her low patient tone, told how the attack had begun.

She was in the midst, when Mr. Blunt’s gig was seen at the gate. His having thus hastened his coming was more than they had dared to hope; and while Mrs. King felt grateful for the kindness, Ellen feared that it shewed that he thought very badly of the case.

Mr. Cope was much hurried, but he could not bear to go till he had heard Mr. Blunt’s opinion; so he went down to the kitchen, tried to console Paul by talking kindly to him, wrote a note, and read his letters.