t out crying--more than I've done this five years; and he sat down
by me, and stroked my head; and I went blundering on, and told him all;
much worse things than I've told you. And he wasn't shocked a bit, and
didn't snub me, or tell me I was a fool, and it was all nothing but
pride or wickedness, though I dare say it was. And he didn't tell me not
to follow out my thoughts, and he didn't give me any cut-and-dried
explanation. But when I'd done he just talked a bit--I can hardly
remember what he said yet; but it seemed to spread round me like
healing, and strength, and light; and to bear me up, and plant me on a
rock, where I could hold my footing, and fight for myself. I don't know
what to do, I feel so happy. And it's all owing to you, dear old boy!"
and he seized Tom's hand again.

"And you're to come to the Communion?" said Tom.

"Yes, and to be confirmed in the holidays."

Tom's delight was as great as his friend's. But he hadn't yet had out
all his own talk, and was bent on improving the occasion: so he
proceeded to propound Arthur's theory about not being sorry for his
friends' deaths, which he had hitherto kept in the background, and by
which he was much exercised; for he didn't feel it honest to take what
pleased him and throw over the rest, and was trying vigorously to
persuade himself that he should like all his best friends to die
off-hand.

But East's powers of remaining serious were exhausted, and in five
minutes he was saying the most ridiculous things he could think of, till
Tom was almost getting angry again.

Despite of himself, however, he couldn't help laughing and giving it up,
when East appealed to him with "Well, Tom, you ain't going to punch my
head, I hope, because I insist upon being sorry when you got to earth?"

And so their talk finished for that time, and they tried to learn first
lesson; with very poor success, as appeared next morning, when they were
called up and narrowly escaped being floored, which ill-luck, however,
did not sit heavily on either of their souls.

CHAPTER VIII.

TOM BROWN'S LAST MATCH.

"Heaven grant the manlier heart, that timely, ere
Youth fly, with life's real tempest would be coping;
The fruit of dreamy hoping
Is, waking, blank despair."
CLOUGH. _Ambarvalia._

THE curtain now rises upon the last act of our little drama--for
hard-hearted publishers wa