clear, the noise went on. It was a trying moment for the poor little
lonely boy; however, this time he didn't ask Tom what he might or
might not do, but dropped on his knees by his bedside, as he had done
every day from his childhood, to open his heart to Him who heareth the
cry and beareth the sorrows of the tender child, and the strong man in
agony.

Tom was sitting at the bottom of his bed unlacing his boots, so that
his back was toward Arthur, and he didn't see what had happened, and
looked up in wonder at the sudden silence. Then two or three boys
laughed and sneered, and a big brutal fellow, who was standing in the
middle of the room, picked up a slipper, and shied it at the kneeling
boy, calling him a snivelling young shaver. Then Tom saw the whole and
the next moment the boot he had just pulled off flew straight at the
head of the bully, who had just time to throw up his arm and catch it
on his elbow.

"Confound you, Brown, what's that for?" roared he, stamping with pain.

"Never mind what I mean," said Tom, stepping on to the floor, every
drop of blood in his body tingling; "if any fellow wants the other
boot, he knows how to get it."

What would have been the result is doubtful, for at this moment the
sixth-form boy came in, and not another word could be said. Tom and
the rest rushed into bed and finished their unrobing there, and the
old verger, as punctual as the clock, had put out the candle in
another minute, and toddled on to the next room, shutting their door
with his usual "Goodnight, gen'lm'n."

There were many boys in the room by whom that little scene was taken
to heart before they slept. But sleep seemed to have deserted the
pillow of poor Tom. For some time his excitement, and the flood of
memories which chased one another through his brain, kept him from
thinking or resolving. His head throbbed, his heart leaped, and he
could hardly keep himself from springing out of bed and rushing about
the room. Then the thought of his own mother came across him, and the
promise he had made at her knee, years ago, never to forget to kneel
by his bedside, and give himself up to his Father, before he laid his
head on the pillow, from which it might never rise; and he lay down
gently and cried as if his heart would break. He was only fourteen
years old.

It was no light act of courage in those days, my dear boys, for a
little fellow to say his prayers publicly, even at Rugby. A few years
later, when Arno