eing summoned to supper he had regaled himself in one of the
bright little boxes of the Peacock coffee-room on the beef-steak and
unlimited oyster-sauce and brown stout (tasted then for the first
time--a day to be marked for ever by Tom with a white stone); had at
first attended to the excellent advice which his father was bestowing on
him from over his glass of steaming brandy and water, and then begun
nodding from the united effects of the stout, the fire, and the lecture.
Till the Squire observing Tom's state, and remembering that it was
nearly nine o'clock, and that the Tally-ho left at three, sent the
little fellow off to the chambermaid, with a shake of the hand (Tom
having stipulated in the morning before starting, that kissing should
now cease between them,) and a few parting words.

"And now, Tom, my boy," said the Squire, "remember you are going, at
your own earnest request, to be chucked into this great school, like a
young bear with all your troubles before you--earlier than we should
have sent you perhaps. If schools are what they were in my time, you'll
see a great many cruel blackguard things done, and hear a deal of foul
bad talk. But never fear. You tell the truth, keep a brave and kind
heart, and never listen to or say anything you wouldn't have your mother
and sister hear, and you'll never feel ashamed to come home, or we to
see you."

The allusion to his mother made Tom feel rather chokey, and he would
have liked to have hugged his father well, if it hadn't been for the
recent stipulation.

As it was, he only squeezed his father's hand, and looked bravely up and
said, "I'll try, father."

"I know you will, my boy. Is your money all safe?"

"Yes," said Tom, diving into one pocket to make sure.

"And your keys?" said the Squire.

"All right," said Tom, diving into the other pocket.

"Well then, good night. God bless you! I'll tell Boots to call you, and
be up to see you off."

Tom was carried off by the chambermaid in a brown study, from which he
was roused in a clean little attic by that buxom person calling him a
little darling, and kissing him as she left the room, which indignity he
was too much surprised to resent. And still thinking of his father's
last words, and the look with which they were spoken, he knelt down and
prayed, that, come what might, he might never bring shame or sorrow on
the dear folk at home.

Indeed, the Squire's last words deserved to have their effect, for they