Smith lay still for some time musing, then he said, "Whatever do they mean by forgiving enemies, Fred?"

Smith didn't often get on these topics, and I was a little nervous as I replied, "What it says, I suppose."

"Does it mean fellows like Hawkesbury?"

"I should say so," said I, almost doubtful, from the way in which he spoke, whether after all I might not be mistaken.

"Queer," was all he replied, musingly.

I tried hard to change the subject.

"Are you awfully sore, Jack?" I said. "Have one of my pillows."

"Oh no, thanks. But I say, Fred, don't you think it's queer?"

"What, about forgiving your enemies? Well, yes it is, rather. But, I say, it's time I cut back. Good-night, old man."

And I crept back to bed, and lay awake half the night listening to him as he turned from side to side in his sleep, and feeling that everything and everybody was queer, especially my friend Smith.

CHAPTER FIVE.

HOW A

CHAPTER OF MISFORTUNES BEFEL MY FRIEND SMITH AND ME.

The summer wore on, and with it the gloom of Stonebridge House sunk deeper and deeper into our spirits. After a week or two even the sense of novelty wore off, and we settled down to our drudges' doom as if we were destined all our lives never to see any place outside the Henniker's domain.

If it hadn't been for Smith I don't know how I should have endured it.

Not that we ever had much chance of enjoying one another's society. In school it was wholly impossible. In the playground (particularly after our recent escapade), we had very little opportunity given us; and at night, when secretly we did contrive to talk, it was with the constant dread of detection hanging over us.

What concerned me most of all, though, was the bad way in which Smith seemed to get on with every one of his schoolfellows except me, and-- perhaps Flanagan. With the bullies, like Philpot and Rathbone, he was at daggers drawn; towards the others he never took the trouble to conceal his dislike, while with Hawkesbury an explosion seemed always, imminent.

I could not understand why he got on so badly, especially with Hawkesbury, who certainly never made himself disagreeable, but, on the contrary, always appeared desirous to be friendly. I sometimes thought Smith was unreasonable to foster his instinctive dislike as he did.

"Jack," said I one night as he was "paying a call" to my bedside--"Jack, I'm half beginning to think Hawkesbury isn't so bad a fellow after all."

"Why?" demanded Smith.

"Oh, I don't know. He's done me one or two good turns lately."

"What sort?"

"Well, he helped me in the Latin the other day, of his own accord, and--"

"Go on," said Smith, impatiently.

"And he gave me a knife to-day. You know I lost mine, and he said he'd got two."

Smith grunted.

"I'd like to catch him doing a good turn to me, that's all," said he.

"_I'd_ cure him of that!"

I didn't like to hear Smith talk like this. For one thing, it sounded as if he must be a great deal less foolish than I was, which n.o.body likes to admit; and for another thing, it seemed wrong and unreasonable, unless for a very good cause, to persist in believing nothing good about anybody else.

So I changed the subject.

"I say," said I, "what are you going to do these holidays?"

"Stay here," said he. "Are you going home?"

"What!" I exclaimed. "Stay here for four weeks with the old Hen? Why ever, Jack?"

"Don't know--but that's what I've got to do. Are you going home?"

"I suppose so," said I, with an inward groan. "But, Jack, what _will_ you do with yourself?"

"Much as usual, I expect. Sha'n't get much practice in talking till you come back!" added he, with a low laugh.

"Jack, why don't you go home?" I exclaimed. "Are you in a row there, or what? You never tell me a word about it."

"Look-out, I hear some one moving!" cried Smith, and next moment he was back in his bed.

I was vexed. For I half guessed this alarm had been only an excuse for not talking about home, and I didn't like being silenced in that way.

Altogether that night I was a good deal put out with Smith, and when presently he whispered across "Good-night," I pretended to be asleep, and did not answer.

But I was not asleep, and could not sleep. I worked myself first into a rage, then into an injured state, and finally into a miserable condition over my friend Smith.

Why should he keep secrets from me, when I kept none from him? No, when I came to think over it, I did not keep a single secret from him! Did he think I was not to be trusted, or was too selfish to care? He might have known me better by this time. It was true I had told him my secrets without his asking for them; in fact, all along he had not seemed nearly as anxious as I had been for this friendship of ours. My conscience stung me at this last reflection; and there came upon me all of a sudden a sense of the utter desolation of this awful place without a single friend! No, I determined it should take more than a little pique to make me cast away my only friend. And with the thought, though it must have been far on in the night, I slipped from my bed and crawled to his.

He was fast asleep, but at the first touch of my hand he started up and said, "What's the row?"

"I'm sorry, Jack; but I was in a temper to-night, and couldn't go to sleep till I made it up."

"A temper! what about?" said he. "I didn't know you were."

"I fancied you wouldn't--that is, that you thought--you didn't trust me, Jack."

"You're the only fellow I do trust, Fred, there," said he, taking my arm. Then, with a sigh, he added, "Why shouldn't I?"

"What a beast I was, Jack!" cried I, quite repentant. "I don't--"

"Hush!" said Jack. Then, whispering very close to my ear, he added, "There are some things, you know, I _can't_ tell even you--about home--"

There was a sound in the room, as of a boy, suddenly aroused, starting up in his bed. Our blood turned cold, and we remained motionless, hardly daring to breathe, straining our ears in the darkness.