s power, was now his constant
and unceasing occupation.

They procured a humble lodging in a small farmhouse, surrounded by
meadows where Nicholas had often revelled when a child with a troop of
merry schoolfellows; and here they took up their rest.

At first, Smike was strong enough to walk about, for short distances
at a time, with no other support or aid than that which Nicholas could
afford him. At this time, nothing appeared to interest him so much as
visiting those places which had been most familiar to his friend in
bygone days. Yielding to this fancy, and pleased to find that its
indulgence beguiled the sick boy of many tedious hours, and never failed
to afford him matter for thought and conversation afterwards, Nicholas
made such spots the scenes of their daily rambles: driving him from
place to place in a little pony-chair, and supporting him on his arm
while they walked slowly among these old haunts, or lingered in the
sunlight to take long parting looks of those which were most quiet and
beautiful.

It was on such occasions as these, that Nicholas, yielding almost
unconsciously to the interest of old associations, would point out some
tree that he had climbed, a hundred times, to peep at the young birds in
their nest; and the branch from which he used to shout to little Kate,
who stood below terrified at the height he had gained, and yet urging
him higher still by the intensity of her admiration. There was the
old house too, which they would pass every day, looking up at the tiny
window through which the sun used to stream in and wake him on the
summer mornings--they were all summer mornings then--and climbing up
the garden-wall and looking over, Nicholas could see the very rose-bush
which had come, a present to Kate, from some little lover, and she had
planted with her own hands. There were the hedgerows where the brother
and sister had so often gathered wild flowers together, and the green
fields and shady paths where they had so often strayed. There was not
a lane, or brook, or copse, or cottage near, with which some childish
event was not entwined, and back it came upon the mind--as events of
childhood do--nothing in itself: perhaps a word, a laugh, a look, some
slight distress, a passing thought or fear: and yet more strongly and
distinctly marked, and better remembered, than the hardest trials or
severest sorrows of a year ago.

One of these expeditions led them through the churchyard where was his