"No, no!" interposed Blanche knowingly--"he is going to be married.

I heard nurse wish her brother success when he was going to marry the washerwoman with a red face."

"No," said Mary, "people never are married till they are twenty."

"But I tell you," persisted Blanche, "people always write like this, in a great book in church, when they are married. I know, for we always go into church with Lucy and nurse when there is a wedding."

"Well, Norman, I wish you success with the bride you are to court," said Dr. May, much diverted with the young ladies' conjectures.

"But is it really?" said Mary, making her eyes as round as full moons.

"Is it really?" repeated Blanche. "Oh, dear! is Norman going to be married? I wish it was to be Meta Rivers, for then I could always ride her dear little white pony."

"Tell them," whispered Norman, a good deal out of countenance, as he leaned over Ethel, and quitted the room.

Ethel cried, "Now then!" and looked at her father, while Blanche and Mary reiterated inquiries--marriage, and going to sea, being the only events that, in their imagination, the world could furnish. Going to try for a Balliol scholarship! It was a sad falling off, even if they understood what it meant. The doctor's explanations to Margaret had a tone of apology for having kept her in ignorance, and Flora said few words, but felt herself injured; she had nearly gone to Mrs. Hoxton that afternoon, and how strange it would have been if anything had been said to her of her own brother's projects, when she was in ignorance.

Ethel slipped away to her brother, who was in his own room, surrounded with books, flushed and anxious, and trying to glance over each subject on which he felt himself weak.

"I shall fail! I know I shall!" was his exclamation. "I wish I had never thought of it!"

"What? did Dr. Hoxton think you not likely to succeed?" cried Ethel, in consternation.

"Oh! he said I was certain, but what is that? We Stoneborough men only compare ourselves with each other. I shall break down to a certainty, and my father will be disappointed."

"You will do your best?"

"I don't know that. My best will all go away when it comes to the point."

"Surely not. It did not go away last time you were examined, and why should it now?"

"I tell you, Ethel, you know nothing about it. I have not got up half what I meant to have done. Here, do take this book--try me whether I know this properly."

So they went on, Ethel doing her best to help and encourage, and Norman in an excited state of restless despair, which drove away half his senses and recollection, and his ideas of the superior powers of public schoolboys magnifying every moment. They were summoned downstairs to prayers, but went up again at once, and more than an hour subsequently, when their father paid one of his domiciliary visits, there they still were, with their Latin and Greek spread out, Norman trying to strengthen all doubtful points, but in a desperate desultory manner, that only confused him more and more, till he was obliged to lay his head down on the table, shut his eyes, and run his fingers through his hair, before he could recollect the simplest matter; his renderings alternated with groans, and, cold as was the room, his cheeks and brow were flushed and burning.

The doctor checked all this, by saying, gravely and sternly, "This is not right, Norman. Where are all your resolutions?"

"I shall never do it. I ought never to have thought of it! I shall never succeed!"

"What if you do not?" said Dr. May, laying his hand on his shoulder.

"What? why, Tom's chance lost--you will all be mortified," said Norman, hesitating in some confusion.

"I will take care of Tom," said Dr. May.

"And he will have been foiled!" said Ethel

"If he is?"

The boy and girl were both silent.

"Are you striving for mere victory's sake, Norman?" continued his father.

"I thought not," murmured Norman.

"Successful or not, you will have done your utmost for us. You would not lose one jot of affection or esteem, and Tom shall not suffer. Is it worth this agony?"

"No, it is foolish," said Norman, with trembling voice, almost as if he could have burst into tears. He was quite unnerved by the anxiety and toil with which he had overtasked himself, beyond his father's knowledge.

"Oh, papa!" pleaded Ethel, who could not bear to see him pained.

"It is foolish," continued Dr. May, who felt it was the moment for bracing severity. "It is rendering you unmanly. It is wrong."

Again Ethel made an exclamation of entreaty.

"It is wrong, I know," repeated Norman; "but you don't know what it is to get into the spirit of the thing."

"Do you think I do not?" said the doctor; "I can tell exactly what you feel now. If I had not been an idle dog, I should have gone through it all many more times."

"What shall I do?" asked Norman, in a worn-out voice.

"Put all this out of your mind, sleep quietly, and don't open another book."

Norman moved his head, as if sleep were beyond his power.

"I will read you something to calm your tone," said Dr. May, and he took up a Prayer-book. "'Know ye not, that they which run in a race, run all, but one receiveth the prize? So run that ye may obtain. And every man that striveth for the mastery is temperate in all things. Now they do it to obtain a corruptible crown, but we an incorruptible.' And, Norman, that is not the struggle where the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong; nor the contest, where the conqueror only wins vanity and vexation of spirit."

Norman had cast down his eyes, and hardly made answer, but the words had evidently taken effect. The doctor only further bade him good-night, with a whispered blessing, and, taking Ethel by the hand, drew her away.

When they met the next morning, the excitement had passed from Norman's manner, but he looked dejected and resigned. He had made up his mind to lose, and was not grateful for good wishes; he ought never to have thought, he said, of competing with men from public schools, and he knew his return of love of vain-glory deserved that he should fail. However, he was now calm enough not to be likely to do himself injustice by nervousness, and Margaret hid hopes that Richard's steady equable mind would have a salutary influence. So, commending Tom's lessons to Ethel, and hearing, but not marking, countless messages to Richard, he set forth upon his emprise, while his anxiety seemed to remain as a legacy for those at home.

Poor Dr. May confessed that his practice by no means agreed with his precept, for he could think of nothing else, and was almost as bad as Norman, in his certainty that the boy would fail from mere nervousness.

Margaret was the better companion for him now, attaching less intensity of interest to Norman's success than did Ethel; she was the more able to compose him, and cheer his hopes.

CHAPTER XXX.

Weary soul, and burdened sore, Labouring with thy secret load, Fear not all thy griefs to pour In this heart, love's true abode.

Lyra Innocentium.

Tea had just been brought in on the eighth evening from Norman's departure, when there was a ring at the bell. There was a start, and look of expectation. "Only a patient," said the doctor; but it surely was not for that reason that he rose with so much alacrity and opened the door, nor was "Well, old fellow?" the greeting for his patients--so everybody sprang after him, and beheld something tall taking off a coat, while a voice said, "I have got it."

The mass of children rushed back to Margaret, screaming, "He has got it!" and then Aubrey trotted out into the hall again to see what Norman had got.

"A happy face at least," said Margaret, as he came to her. And that was not peculiar to Norman. The radiance had shone out upon every one in that moment, and it was one buzz of happy exclamation, query, and answer--the only tone of regret when Mary spoke of Harry, and all at once took up the strain--how glad poor Harry would be. As to the examination, that had been much less difficult than Norman had expected; in fact, he said, it was lucky for him that the very subjects had been chosen in which he was most up--luck which, as the doctor could not help observing, generally did attend Norman. And Norman had been so happy with Richard; the kind, wise elder brother had done exactly what was best for him in soothing his anxiety, and had fully shared his feelings, and exulted in his success. Margaret had a most triumphant letter, dwelling on the abilities of the candidates whom Norman had outstripped, and the idea that every one had conceived of his talent. "Indeed," wrote Richard, "I fancy the men had never believed that I could have a clever brother. I am glad they have seen what Norman can do."