going round to the studies of all his acquaintance,
sparring or gossiping in the hall, now jumping the old iron-bound
tables, or carving a bit of his name on them, then joining in some
chorus of merry voices--in fact, blowing off his steam, as we should now
call it.

This process was so congenial to his temper, and Arthur showed himself
so pleased at the arrangement, that it was several weeks before Tom was
ever in their study before supper. One evening, however, he rushed in to
look for an old chisel, or some corks, or other article essential to his
pursuit for the time being, and while rummaging about in the cupboards,
looked up for a moment, and was caught at once by the figure of poor
little Arthur. The boy was sitting with his elbows on the table, and
his head leaning on his hands, and before him an open book, on which his
tears were falling fast. Tom shut the door at once, and sat down on the
sofa by Arthur, putting his arm round his neck.

"Why, young un, what's the matter?" said he kindly; "you ain't unhappy,
are you?"

"Oh no, Brown," said the little boy, looking up with the great tears in
his eyes; "you are so kind to me, I'm very happy."

"Why don't you call me Tom? Lots of boys do that I don't like half so
much as you. What are you reading, then? Hang it! you must come about
with me, and not mope yourself." And Tom cast down his eyes on the book,
and saw it was the Bible. He was silent for a minute, and thought to
himself, "Lesson Number 2, Tom Brown;" and then said gently, "I'm very
glad to see this, Arthur, and ashamed that I don't read the Bible more
myself. Do you read it every night before supper while I'm out?"

"Yes."

"Well, I wish you'd wait till afterwards, and then we'd read together.
But, Arthur, why does it make you cry?"

"Oh, it isn't that I'm unhappy. But at home, while my father was alive,
we always read the lessons after tea; and I love to read them over now,
and try to remember what he said about them. I can't remember all and I
think I scarcely understand a great deal of what I do remember. But
it all comes back to me so fresh that I can't help crying sometimes to
think I shall never read them again with him."

Arthur had never spoken of his home before, and Tom hadn't encouraged
him to do so, as his blundering schoolboy reasoning made him think that
Arthur would be softened and less manly for thinking of home. But now
he was fairly interested, and forgot all about chisels and bo