O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure, His little sister doth his peril see, All playful as she sate, she grows demure, She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee, She meditates a prayer to set him free.

SHENSTONE.

The setting sun shone into the great west window of the school at Stoneborough, on its bare walls, the masters' desks, the forms polished with use, and the square, inky, hacked and hewed chests, carved with the names of many generations of boys.

About six or eight little boys were clearing away the books or papers that they, or those who owned them as fags, had left astray, and a good deal of talk and laughing was going on among them. "Ha!" exclaimed one, "here has Harrison left his book behind him that he was showing us the gladiators in!" and, standing by the third master's desk, he turned over a page or two of Smith's 'Antiquities', exclaiming, "It is full of pictures--here's an old man blowing the bellows--"

"Let me see!" cried Tom May, precipitating himself across the benches and over the desk, with so little caution, that there was an outcry; and, to his horror, he beheld the ink spilled over Mr. Harrison's book, while, "There, August! you've been and done it!" "You'll catch it!"

resounded on all sides.

"What good will staring with your mouth open do!" exclaimed Edward Anderson, the eldest present. "Here! a bit of blotting-paper this moment!"

Tom, dreadfully frightened, handed a sheet torn from an old paper-case that he had inherited from Harry, saying despairingly, "It won't take it out, will it?"

"No, little stupid head, but don't you see, I'm stopping it from running down the edges, or soaking in. He won't be the wiser till he opens it again at that place."

"When he does, he will," said the bewildered Tom.

"Let him. It won't tell tales."

"He's coming!" cried another boy, "he is close at the door."

Anderson hastily shut the book over the blotting-paper, which he did not venture to retain in his hand, dragged Tom down from the desk, and was apparently entirely occupied with arranging his own box, when Mr.

Harrison came in. Tom crouched behind the raised lid, quaking in every limb, conscious he ought to confess, but destitute of resolution to do so, and, in a perfect agony as the master went to his desk, took up the book, and carried it away, so unconscious, that Larkins, a great wag, only waited till his back was turned, to exclaim, "Ha! old fellow, you don't know what you've got there!"

"Hallo! May junior, will you never leave off staring? you won't see a bit farther for it," said Edward Anderson, shaking him by the ear; "come to your senses, and know your friends."

"He'll open it!" gasped Tom.

"So he will, but I'd bet ninety to one, it is not at that page, or if he does, it won't tell tales, unless, indeed, he happened to see you standing there, crouching and shaking. That's the right way to bring him upon you."

"But suppose he opens it, and knows who was in school?"

"What then? D'ye think we can't stand by each other, and keep our own counsel?"

"But the blotting-paper--suppose he knows that!"

There was a laugh all round at this, "as if Harrison knew everyone's blotting-paper!"

"Yes, but Harry used to write his name all over his--see--and draw Union Jacks on it."

"If he did, the date is not there. Do you think the ink is going to say March 2nd? Why should not July have done it last half?"

"July would have told if he had," said Larkins. "That's no go."

"Ay! That's the way--the Mays are all like girls--can't keep a secret--not one of them. There, I've done more for you than ever one of them would have done--own it--and he strode up to Tom, and grasped his wrists, to force the confession from him."

"But--but he'll ask when he finds it out--"

"Let him. We know nothing about it. Don't be coming the good boy over me like your brothers. That won't do--I know whose eyes are not too short-sighted to read upside down."

Tom shrank and looked abject, clinging to the hope that Mr. Harrison would not open the book for weeks, months, or years.

But the next morning his heart died within him, when he beheld the unfortunate piece of blotting-paper, displayed by Mr. Harrison, with the inquiry whether any one knew to whom it belonged, and what made it worse was, that his sight would not reach far enough to assure him whether Harry's name was on it, and he dreaded that Norman or Hector Ernescliffe should recognise the nautical designs. However, both let it pass, and no one through the whole school attempted to identify it. One danger was past, but the next minute Mr. Harrison opened his Smith's 'Antiquities'

at the page where stood the black witness. Tom gazed round in despair, he could not see his brother's face, but Edward Anderson, from the second form, returned him a glance of contemptuous encouragement.

"This book," said Mr. Harrison, "was left in school for a quarter of an hour yesterday. When I opened it again, it was in this condition. Do any of you know how it happened?" A silence, and he continued, "Who was in school at this time? Anderson junior, can you tell me anything of it?"

"No, sir."

"You know nothing of it?"

"No, sir."

Cold chills crept over Tom, as Mr. Harrison looked round to refresh his memory. "Larkins, do you know how this happened?"

"No, sir," said Larkins boldly, satisfying his conscience because he had not seen the manner of the overthrow.

"Ernescliffe, were you there?"

"No, sir."

Tom's timid heart fluttered in dim hope that he had been overlooked, as Mr. Harrison paused, then said, "Remember, it is concealment that is the evil, not the damage to the book. I shall have a good opinion ever after of a boy honest enough to confess, May junior, I saw you," he added, hopefully and kindly. "Don't be afraid to speak out if you did meet with a mischance."

Tom coloured and turned pale. Anderson and Larkins grimaced at him, to remind him that they had told untruths for his sake, and that he must not betray them. It was the justification he wanted; he was relieved to fancy himself obliged to tell the direct falsehood, for which a long course of petty acted deceits had paved the way, for he was in deadly terror of the effects of truth.

"No, sir." He could hardly believe he had said the words, or that they would be so readily accepted, for Mr. Harrison had only the impression that he knew who the guilty person was, and would not tell, and, therefore, put no more questions to him, but, after a few more vain inquiries, was baffled, and gave up the investigation.

Tom thought he should have been very unhappy; he had always heard that deceit was a heavy burden, and would give continual stings, but he was surprised to find himself very comfortable on the whole, and able to dismiss repentance as well as terror. His many underhand ways with Richard had taken away the tenderness of his conscience, though his knowledge of what was right was clear; and he was quite ready to accept the feeling prevalent at Stoneborough, that truth was not made for schoolboys.

The axiom was prevalent, but not universal, and parties were running high. Norman May, who as head boy had, in play-hours, the responsibility, and almost the authority of a master, had taken higher ground than was usual even with the well-disposed; and felt it his duty to check abuses and malpractices that his predecessors had allowed. His friend, Cheviot, and the right-minded set, maintained his authority with all their might; but Harvey Anderson regarded his interference as vexatious, always took the part of the offenders, and opposed him in every possible way, thus gathering as his adherents not only the idle and mischievous, but the weak and mediocre, and, among this set, there was a positive bitterness of feeling to May, and all whom they considered as belonging to him.

In shielding Tom May and leading him to deceive, the younger Anderson had gained a conquest--in him the Mays had fallen from that pinnacle of truth which was a standing reproach to the average Stoneborough code--and, from that time, he was under the especial patronage of his friend. He was taught the most ingenious arts of saying a lesson without learning it, and of showing up other people's tasks; whispers and signs were directed to him to help him out of difficulties, and he was sought out and put forward whenever a forbidden pleasure was to be enjoyed by stealth. These were his stimulants under a heavy bondage; he was teased and frightened, bullied and tormented, whenever it was the fancy of Ned Anderson and his associates to make his timidity their sport; he was scorned and ill-treated, and driven, by bodily terror, into acts alarming to his conscience, dangerous in their consequences, and painful in the perpetration; and yet, among all his sufferings, the little coward dreaded nothing so much as truth, though it would have set him free at once from this wretched tyranny.

Excepting on holidays, and at hours when the town-boys were allowed to go home, there were strict rules confining all except the sixth form to their bounds, consisting of two large courts, and an extensive field bordered by the river and the road. On the opposite side of the bridge was a turnpike gate, where the keeper exposed stalls of various eatables, very popular among the boys, chiefly because they were not allowed to deal there. Ginger-beer could also be procured, and there were suspicions that the bottles so called contained something contraband.

"August," said Norman, as they were coming home from school one evening, "did I see you coming over the bridge?"

Tom would not answer.

"So you have been at Ballhatchet's gate? I can't think what could take you there. If you want tarts, I am sure poor old Betty's are just as good. What made you go there?"

"Nothing," said Tom.

"Well, mind you don't do it again, or I shall have to take you in hand, which I shall be very sorry to do. That man is a regular bad character, and neither my father nor Dr. Hoxton would have one of us have anything to do with him, as you know."

Tom was in hopes it was over, but Norman went on. "I am afraid you are getting into a bad way. Why won't you mind what I have told you plenty of times before, that no good comes of going after Ned Anderson, and Axworthy, and that set. What were you doing with them to-day?" But, receiving no answer, he went on. "You always sulk when I speak to you.

I suppose you think I have no right to row you, but I do it to save you from worse. You can't never be found out." This startled Tom, but Norman had no suspicion. "If you go on, you will get into some awful scrape, and papa will be grieved. I would not, for all the world, have him put out of heart about you. Think of him, Tom, and try to keep straight."