"Ask Evans, sir; he sat on the other side of me," said Egerton.

Evans was sent for.

"No, he never saw Egerton using the book. He sat close to him, and couldn't have helped seeing if he was cribbing."

Egerton again positively and solemnly declaring he knew nothing whatever of the matter, and Evans' evidence so far bearing him out, Dr Palmer dismissed them both, and then turned to Harry.

"Campbell, you have now had every chance. You have been detected in a most dishonourable act, and you have added to your fault by telling a lie. Bend down," he concluded, taking his cane.

In vain Harry protested his innocence. In vain he begged Dr Palmer to believe him. Twenty times the strong arm rose, twenty times the cane whished through the air, and twenty times Harry felt the sting. By the time it was all over, he was perfectly numbed and stiff with pain. But the bodily suffering was nothing when compared with the mental agony he felt at thus being punished when innocent. His whole frame was convulsed with sobs, and Dr Palmer was giving him a few words of concluding rebuke, when a hasty knock came at the door; and William, without waiting for the customary "Come in," hurried into the room, and said in his blunt way:

"Campbell's wanted home. His mother's bad."

Doctor Palmer's sternness and severity vanished in a moment. So it was always with him. Strict as he was, severe as he was, directly the punishment had been duly administered, he was kind-hearted and genial to the culprit long before _he_ had recovered the effects of his punishment.

"Campbell, your mother is ill." He knew nothing more than that Mrs Campbell was a confirmed invalid. "Go and get your cap; I will come with you. Perhaps I can be of some use."

But Harry's heart was too stricken to accept those well-meant words; and the sudden change in the Doctor made Harry say what at another time he would never have dared to say.

"No," he sobbed. "I'll go alone. She doesn't want you. She believes me, and you don't. She won't speak to _you_." And he rushed from the room, leaving the doctor far too affected and moved to attempt to stop him or call him back.

CHAPTER X.

SUNLIGHT.

Ministering friends--Watching--Past all tears--Taken home--The dark valley.

The summer sunlight lay thick about the room where Mrs Campbell was dying. There was a square of deep blue sky, edged by the window frame, glistening before her eyes--eyes that now were lighted up with the fervour of a holy death--eyes that glowed in sweet antic.i.p.ation of that pure light which shines forever on the hills of heaven.

The silence of the room was only broken now and then by the few soothing words the doctor's wife would say or read. Mrs Valentine sat on the farther side of the bed, her eyes red with weeping; and, from time to time, tried to get some nourishment into the poor weak lips, though she knew well the while that all these tender ministerings were in vain. It was a lonely death for the dying one, even though she had these two good friends with her. He who had loved, and loved her still, so well, could not be there to hear her last words on earth.

She must lay her head in other arms than his, and give up her soul to G.o.d, without a farewell word from him, without one prayer together uttered, that G.o.d would hasten the time of their meeting in that land where partings are unknown. No! She must die without the presence of her nearest, dearest one on earth, while he was beating out upon the great waters of the ocean.

In the morning after Harry had started for school, Mrs Campbell, in a violent fit of coughing, had broken a blood-vessel. In her present state this meant speedy and certain death. And Dr Bromley, when he returned home, after having seen her, had told his wife that Mrs Campbell could not last more than two or three hours. So, sending at once to the Grammar-School to request Doctor Palmer to allow Harry to go home immediately, the tender-hearted Mrs Bromley started for the farm.

And there she sat reading and speaking words of comfort to the dying wife, watching and fearing each moment would be the last. She was Mrs Campbell's only friend save Mrs Valentine. It is true the vicar had been to visit her several times, but under such painful circ.u.mstances the absence of one so near and dear as her husband made her almost inconsolable. Her parents had both been dead some years, and she was their only child. And as it often happens, while so many people have relations in numbers almost too abundant, she had none. Her only great friends were in Malta, friends whom she had known in the dear old days, when all seemed so bright and hopeful before her. It was therefore but natural that she should cling to the doctor's good wife; and thus their friendship, born as it was of a time of sorrow and suffering, was one of pure and holy comfort to them both.

And the morning crept on, with words of heaven softly uttered by the living, and drunk in with eager ears by the dying; and outside the birds sang, and the green trees whispered, stretching out their tiny leaf-hands to the caressant breezes, and all was summery there without,--all was sunshine and gladness. And through the heedless village ran Harry, heart-broken and afraid, and entered, from the brightness, his mother's peaceful room of death. He was past all crying now. The tears seemed dried up in one great burning spot within his brain. He stood quietly by the bed, longing to hear that well-known voice, but not daring to speak; she lay so still he scarcely knew whether she were alive or really dead.

"Here is Harry, dear Mrs Campbell," said the doctor's wife; "he has come from school. Don't you know him? Here he is."

She turned her large grey eyes upon her boy for some time without recognising him. Then, at last, opening her arms, said:

"Harry, darling, is that you? I'm going away now--going to heaven.

You'll always be a good boy, won't you?"

"Mamma, mamma, you _do_ believe I'm innocent, don't you?" said Harry.

He could not let her die without hearing once more from own lips her trustful confidence in him.

"Yes, darling boy, I know you have spoken the truth. Kiss me now," she whispered, her voice growing weaker. "Good-bye, darling Harry; G.o.d bless you! Good-bye, dear Mrs Bromley. Good-bye, Mrs Valentine. G.o.d will reward you!" And then her voice was hardly audible as she murmured to herself, "Buried at Wilton, and Alan will come and see my grave. Alan, darling Alan, G.o.d is taking me home." And then as a heavenly light shone through her eyes, her voice regained its strength.

"Into thy hand, O Lord I commend my spirit!" and so she died.

Harry's face was pressed close to hers, and his burning tears now fell thick upon the lifeless cheek.

"Oh! mamma, mamma," he sobbed, "what shall I do? what shall I do?"

And, sinking on the floor, he wept as though his heart would break.

Mrs Bromley and the farmer's wife were too much wrapt in their own grief to stir to comfort him. So the three wept there together, in the quiet little farm beside old Wilton church; while she, for whom they wept, now henceforth knew no more sorrow, no more pain, nor any tears; and still outside the birds sang on unwitting, and, from without, the summer brightness mocked the darkness that was within--the darkness of the valley of the shadow of death.

CHAPTER XI.

MOVING HOME.

School again--Leaving the farm--Like father, like son--Tea for two--The doctor retires--Miss Parker's oration.

Clouds and sunshine, sunshine and clouds. So runs the world away.

Equally necessary, sorrow and gladness are as the rains and sunbeams for the fruits of the earth. Were it all sadness the world would grow morose and torpid; were it all gladness men would be selfish and hard-hearted.

Four days had now elapsed since Mrs Campbell died; and it was the evening of the funeral-day, a sad, rainy evening, and Harry was waiting while Mrs Valentine packed his things, for that night he was to go to the Grammar-School to sleep; to be there as a boarder, at any rate till his father returned. He scarcely spoke a word, and what he did say seemed to choke him. His mother dead; his father away at sea; himself sent back to the school he had left but a few days since, smarting with the pain of his undeserved punishment and accusation; his plight was indeed a sad one. Mrs Valentine tried to cheer him as well as she might, but she felt the blow that left Harry motherless too bitterly herself to be of much comfort to him.

At half-past seven William appeared with a light cart of Dr Palmer's, to take Harry and his luggage to school. Perhaps the bluntness of the old butler was more opportune now than ever. It prevented the lengthening of a parting that could not be otherwise than utterly sad and wretched to Harry. There was the good kind Mrs Valentine to leave; and the dear old farm, where he had spent so many joyous days in happy ignorance of the blow which now had stricken him. And there was the churchyard to say good-bye to, which now he could see but seldom, and when he was near her grave, his mother did not seem to him to be so far away.

But William was not unkindly blunt. Yet the sight of him brought back to Harry's mind the recollection of all that had occurred at school on the last occasion he had seen William's obese person. The crib found in his desk, the fight, the caning, and then--then, back came the recollection that he was indeed alone.

"Good-bye, my dear, good-bye," said Mrs Valentine; "be sure you come and see me when you can. Papa'll be home soon, maybe," though she feared she was but holding out false hopes in this.

"There, that'll do, missis," said William, interrupting the moist embraces of the good farmer's wife; and he flicked the fat pony across his sleek shoulder; and, with Harry and his boxes, was soon away down the lane, Mrs Valentine gazing after them, her long print ap.r.o.n at her eyes.

"Just like his father, dear boy, as brave and composed like. But 'tis harder a'most for all that." And who would say that her moralising was wrong?

As a special favour, and "in consideration of his late deplorable affliction," as Miss Parker, the matron, phrased it, Harry was to have his tea in Doctor Palmer's study that night, a favour Harry by no means saw in the light intended. He would far rather have had his tea with the rest; though, for the matter of that, he didn't want any tea at all. He was too miserable to eat. But his face was quiet and composed when he reached Doctor Palmer's hall, and was ushered into the study.

The tea was all ready,--two cups, two saucers, two plates,--so Harry was prepared for a _tete-a-tete_ with the Doctor. Everything looked very nice and tempting, at least, it would have looked so on any other occasion; but now there was that numerical horror staring him in the face; those two cups, those two saucers, those two plates! It must be for Doctor Palmer and himself that all the preparations were made. But he was not left long in doubt, for, at that moment, the Doctor entered.

He greeted Harry most kindly, and told him to take a seat at the table, which Harry did in silence; and then the Doctor poured out a cup of tea for him, and helped him to some cold meat. Harry watching every motion the while; and then, taking a cup for himself, drank it standing.

Harry hated all this kindness. He would almost have preferred angry words; but he ate what he had, and enjoyed it, though he said nothing more than "yes," or "no, thank you," or "please," to the Doctor's various remarks.

It was becoming unbearable, and he longed for the distant etiquette which school-life sets between boys and masters. He was in no mood for a master to try to play the parent, especially when now the contrast seemed so great, and lying, as he was, under false imputations.

But he was soon relieved, for Doctor Palmer said:

"I have to go out now, Campbell. Don't hurry over your tea, but when you have quite finished you can go to bed. You need not wait up for prayers."