Hugh, meantime, was counting the hours till Saturday.  Perhaps, if the truth were known, so was Phil, though he was too old to acknowledge such a longing.  But the climbing about the mill, ­the play encouraged there by his uncle and the men, ­his uncle’s stories within doors, his aunt’s good dinners, ­the fire-side, the picture-books, the talk of home, altogether made up the greatest treat of the half-year.  Phil had plenty of ways of passing the time.  Hugh began a long letter home, ­the very last letter, except the short formal one which should declare when the Christmas vacation should commence.  Hugh meant to write half the letter before Saturday, and then fill it up with an account of his visit to his uncle’s.

The days were passed, however, when Hugh had the command of his leisure time, as on his arrival, when his hours were apt to hang heavy.  He had long since become too valuable in the playground to be left to follow his own devices.  As the youngest boy, he was looked upon as a sort of servant to the rest, when once it was found that he was quick and clever.  Either as scout, messenger, or in some such capacity, he was continually wanted; and often at times inconvenient to himself.  He then usually remembered what Mr. Tooke had told him of his boy, when Tooke was the youngest, ­how he bore things ­not only being put on the high wall, but being well worked in the service of the older boys.  Usually Hugh was obliging, but he could and did feel cross at times.  He was cross on this Friday, ­the day when he was so anxious to write his letter before going to his uncle’s.  On Saturday there would be no time.  The early mornings were dark now; and after school he should have to wash and dress, and be off to his uncle’s.  On Friday then, his paper was ruled, and he had only to run across the playground to borrow Firth’s penknife, and then nothing should delay his letter.

In that run across the playground he was stopped.  He was wanted to collect clean snow for the boys who were bent on finishing their snow-man while it would bind.  He should be let off when he had brought snow enough.  But he knew that by that time his fingers would be too stiff to hold his pen; and he said he did not choose to stop now.  Upon this Lamb launched a snow-ball in his face.  Hugh grew angry, ­or, as his school-fellows said, insolent.  Some stood between him and the house, to prevent his getting home, while others promised to roll him in the snow till he yielded full submission.  Instead of yielding, Hugh made for the orchard wall, scrambled up it, and stood for the moment out of the reach of his enemies.  He kicked down such a quantity of snow upon any one who came near, that he held all at bay for some little time.  At last, however, he had disposed of all the snow within his reach, and they were pelting him thickly with snow-balls.  It was not at any time very easy to stand upright, for long together, upon this wall, as the stones which capped it were rounded.  Now, when the coping-stones were slippery after the frost, and Hugh nearly blinded with the shower of snow-balls, he could not keep his footing, and was obliged to sit astride upon the wall.  This brought one foot within reach from below; and though Hugh kicked, and drew up his foot as far and as often as he could, so as not to lose his balance, it was snatched at by many hands.  At last, one hand kept its hold, and plenty more then fastened upon his leg.  They pulled:  he clung.  In another moment, down he came, and the large heavy coping-stone, loosened by the frost, came after him, and fell upon his left foot as he lay.

It was a dreadful shriek that he gave.  Mrs. Watson heard it in her store-room, and Mr. Tooke in his study.  Some labourers felling a tree in a wood, a quarter of a mile off, heard it, and came running to see what could be the matter.  The whole school was in a cluster round the poor boy in a few seconds.  During this time, while several were engaged in lifting away the stone, Tooke stooped over him, and said, with his lips as white as paper,

“Who was it that pulled you, ­that got the first hold of you?  Was it I?  O! say it was not I.”

“It was you,” said Hugh.  “But never mind!  You did not mean it.” ­He saw that Tooke’s pain was worse than his own, and he added, in a faint whisper,

“Don’t you tell, and then nobody will know.  Mind you don’t!”

One boy after another turned away from the sight of his foot, when the stone was removed.  Tooke fainted, but, then, so did another boy who had nothing to do with the matter.  Everybody who came up asked who did it; and nobody could answer.  Tooke did not hear; and so many felt themselves concerned, that no one wished that any answer should be given.

“Who did it, my dear boy?” asked Firth, bending over him.

“Never mind!” was all Hugh could say.  He groaned in terrible pain.

He must not lie there; but who could touch him?  Firth did; and he was the right person, as he was one of the strongest.  He made two boys pass their handkerchiefs under the leg, and sling it, without touching it; and he lifted Hugh, and carried him across his arms towards the house.  They met Mr. Tooke, and every person belonging to the household, before they reached the door.

“To my bed!” said the master, when he saw:  and in an instant the gardener had his orders to saddle Mr. Tooke’s horse, and ride to London for an eminent surgeon:  stopping by the way to beg Mr. and Mrs. Shaw to come, and bring with them the surgeon who was their neighbour, Mr. Annanby.

“Who did it?” “Who pulled him down?” passed from mouth to mouth of the household.

“He wont tell, ­noble fellow,” cried Firth.  “Don’t ask him.  Never ask him who pulled him down.”

“You will never repent it, my dear boy,” whispered Firth.

Hugh tried to smile, but he could not help groaning again.  There was a suppressed groan from some one else.  It was from Mr. Tooke.  Hugh was sadly afraid he had, by some means, found out who did the mischief.  But it was not so.  Mr. Tooke was quite wretched enough without that.

Everybody was very kind, and did the best that could be done.  Hugh was held up on the side of Mr. Tooke’s bed, while Mrs. Watson took off his clothes, cutting the left side of his trousers to pieces, without any hesitation.  The master held the leg firmly while the undressing went on; and then poor Hugh was laid back, and covered up warm, while the foot was placed on a pillow, with only a light handkerchief thrown over it.

It was terrible to witness his pain; but Mr. Tooke never left him all day.  He chafed his hands, he gave him drink; he told him he had no doubt his mother would arrive soon; he encouraged him to say or do anything that he thought would give him ease.

“Cry my dear,” he said, “if you want to cry.  Do not hide tears from me.”

“I can’t help crying,” sobbed Hugh:  “but it is not the pain, ­not only the pain; it is because you are so kind!”

“Where is Phil?” he said at last.

“He is so very unhappy, that we think he had better not see you till this pain is over.  When you are asleep, perhaps.”

“Oh! when will that be?” and poor Hugh rolled his head on the pillow.

“George rides fast; he is far on his way by this time,” said Mr. Tooke.  “And one or other of the surgeons will soon be here; and they will tell us what to do, and what to expect.”

“Do tell Phil so, ­will you?”

Mr. Tooke rang the bell; and the message was sent to Phil, with Hugh’s love.

“Will the surgeon hurt me much, do you think?” Hugh asked.  “I will bear it.  I only want to know.”

“I should think you hardly could be in more pain than you are now,” replied Mr. Tooke.  “I trust they will relieve you of this pain.  I should not wonder if you are asleep to-night as quietly as any of us; and then you will not mind what they may have done to you.”

Hugh thought he should mind nothing, if he could ever be asleep again.

He was soon asked if he would like to see his uncle and aunt, who were come.  He wished to see his uncle; and Mr. Shaw came up, with the surgeon.  Mr. Annanby did scarcely anything to the foot at present.  He soon covered it up again, and said he would return in time to meet the surgeon who was expected from London.  Then Hugh and his uncle were alone.

Mr. Shaw told him how sorry the boys all were, and how they had come in from the playground at once, and put themselves under Firth, to be kept quiet; and that very little dinner had been eaten; and that, when the writing-master arrived, he was quite astonished to find everything so still, and the boys so spiritless:  but that nobody told him till he observed how two or three were crying, so that he was sure something was the matter.

“Which?  Who?  Who is crying?” asked Hugh.

“Poor Phil, and I do not know who else, ­not being acquainted with the rest.”

“How glad I am that Dale had nothing to do with it!” said Hugh.  “He was quite on the other side of the playground.”

“They tell me below that I must not ask you how it happened.”

“Oh yes! you may.  Everything except just who it was that pulled me down.  So many got hold of me that nobody knows exactly who gave the pull, except myself and one other.  He did not mean it; and I was cross about playing with them; and the stone on the wall was loose, or it would not have happened.  O dear!  O dear!  Uncle, do you think it a bad accident?”

“Yes, my boy, a very bad accident.”

“Do you think I shall die?  I never thought of that,” said Hugh.  And he raised himself a little, but was obliged to lie back again.

“No; I do not think you will die.”

“Will they think so at home?  Was that the reason they were sent to?”

“No:  I have no doubt your mother will come to nurse you, and to comfort you:  but-

“To comfort me?  Why, Mr. Tooke said the pain would soon be over, he thought, and I should be asleep to-night.”

“Yes; but, though the pain may be over, it may leave you lame.  That will be a misfortune; and you will be glad of your mother to comfort you.”

“Lame!” said the boy.  Then, as he looked wistfully in his uncle’s face, he saw the truth.

“Oh! uncle, they are going to cut off my leg.”

“Not your leg, I hope, Hugh.  You will not be quite so lame as that:  but I am afraid you must lose your foot.”

“Was that what Mr. Tooke meant by the surgeon’s relieving me of my pain?”

“Yes; it was.”

“Then it will be before night.  Is it quite certain, uncle?”

“Mr. Annanby thinks so.  Your foot is too much hurt ever to be cured.  Do you think you can bear it, Hugh?”

“Why, yes, I suppose so.  So many people have.  It is less than some of the savages bear.  What horrid things they do to their captives, ­and even to some of their own boys!  And they bear it.”

“Yes; but you are not a savage.”

“But one may be as brave, without being a savage.  Think of the martyrs that were burnt, and some that were worse than burnt!  And they bore it.”

Mr. Shaw perceived that Hugh was either in much less pain now, or that he forgot everything in a subject which always interested him extremely.  He told his uncle what he had read of the tortures inflicted by savages, till his uncle, already a good deal agitated, was quite sick:  but he let him go on, hoping that the boy might think lightly in comparison of what he himself had to undergo.  This could not last long, however.  The wringing pain soon came back; and as Hugh cried, he said he bore it so very badly, he did not know what his mother would say if she saw him.  She had trusted him not to fail; but really he could not bear this much longer.

His uncle told him that nobody had thought of his having such pain as this to bear:  that he had often shown himself a brave little fellow; and he did not doubt that, when this terrible day was over, he would keep up his spirits through all the rest.

Hugh would have his uncle go down to tea.  Then he saw a gown and shawl through the curtain, and started up; but it was not his mother yet.  It was only Mrs. Watson come to sit with him while his uncle had his tea.

Tea was over, and the younger boys had all gone up to bed, and the older ones were just going, when there was a ring at the gate.  It was Mrs. Proctor; and with her the surgeon from London.

“Mother!  Never mind, mother!” Hugh was beginning to say; but he stopped when he saw her face, ­it was so very pale and grave.  At least, he thought so; but he saw her only by fire-light; for the candle had been shaded from his eyes, because he could not bear it.  She kissed him with a long, long kiss; but she did not speak.

“I wish the surgeon had come first,” he whispered, “and then they would have had my foot off before you came.  When will he come?”

“He is here, ­they are both here.”

“Oh, then, do make them make haste.  Mr. Tooke says I shall go to sleep afterwards.  You think so?  Then we will both go to sleep, and have our talk in the morning.  Do not stay now, ­this pain is so bad, ­I can’t bear it well at all.  Do go, now, and bid them make haste, will you?”

His mother whispered that she heard he had been a brave boy, and she knew he would be so still.  Then the surgeons came up, and Mr. Shaw.  There was some bustle in the room, and Mr. Shaw took his sister down stairs, and came up again, with Mr. Tooke.

“Don’t let mother come,” said Hugh.

“No, my boy, I will stay with you,” said his uncle.

The surgeons took off his foot.  As he sat in a chair, and his uncle stood behind him, and held his hands, and pressed his head against him, Hugh felt how his uncle’s breast was heaving, ­and was sure he was crying.  In the very middle of it all, Hugh looked up in his uncle’s face, and said,

“Never mind, uncle!  I can bear it.”

He did bear it finely.  It was far more terrible than he had fancied; and he felt that he could not have gone on a minute longer.  When it was over, he muttered something, and Mr. Tooke bent down to hear what it was.  It was ­

“I can’t think how the Red Indians bear things so.”

His uncle lifted him gently into bed, and told him that he would soon feel easy now.

“Have you told mother?” asked Hugh.

“Yes; we sent to her directly.”

“How long did it take?” asked Hugh.

“You have been out of bed only a few minutes ­seven or eight, perhaps.”

“Oh, uncle, you don’t mean really?”

“Really:  but we know they seemed like hours to you.  Now, your mother will bring you some tea.  When you have had that, you will go to sleep:  so I shall wish you good night now.”

“When will you come again?”

“Very often, till you come to me.  Not a word more now.  Good-night.”

Hugh was half asleep when his tea came up, and quite so directly after he had drunk it.  Though he slept a great deal in the course of the night, he woke often, ­such odd feelings disturbed him!  Every time he opened his eyes, he saw his mother sitting by the fire-side; and every time he moved in the least, she came softly to look.  She would not let him talk at all till near morning, when she found that he could not sleep any more, and that he seemed a little confused about where he was, ­what room it was, and how she came to be there by fire-light.  Then she lighted a candle, and allowed him to talk about his friend Dale, and several school affairs; and this brought back gradually the recollection of all that had happened.

“I don’t know what I have been about, I declare,” said he, half laughing.  But he was soon as serious as ever he was in his life, as he said, “But oh! mother, tell me, ­do tell me if I have let out who pulled me off the wall.”

“You have not, ­you have not indeed,” replied she.  “I shall never ask.  I do not wish to know.  I am glad you have not told; for it would do no good.  It was altogether an accident.”

“So it was,” said Hugh; “and it would make the boy so unhappy to be pointed at!  Do promise me, if I should let it out in my sleep, that you will never, never tell anybody.”

“I promise you.  And I shall be the only person beside you while you are asleep, till you get well.  So you need not be afraid. ­Now, lie still again.”

She put out the light, and he did lie still for some time; but then he was struck with a sudden thought which made him cry out.

“O, mother, if I am so lame, I can never be a soldier or a sailor. ­I can never go round the world!”

And Hugh burst into tears, now more really afflicted than he had been yet.  His mother sat on the bed beside him, and wiped away his tears as they flowed, while he told her, as well as his sobs would let him, how long and how much he had reckoned on going round the world, and how little he cared for anything else in the future; and now this was just the very thing he should never be able to do!  He had practised climbing ever since he could remember; ­and now that was of no use; ­he had practised marching, and now he should never march again.  When he had finished his complaint, there was a pause, and his mother said,

“Hugh, do you remember Richard Grant?”

“What, ­the cabinet-maker?  The man who carved so beautifully?”

“Yes.  Do you remember-No, you could hardly have known:  but I will tell you.  He had planned a most beautiful set of carvings in wood for a chapel belonging to a nobleman’s mansion.  He was to be well paid, ­his work was so superior; and he would be able to make his parents comfortable, as well as his wife and children.  But the thing he most cared for was the honour of producing a noble work which would outlive him.  Well, at the very beginning of his task, his chisel flew up against his wrist:  and the narrow cut that it made, ­not more than half an inch wide, ­made his right hand entirely useless for life.  He could never again hold a tool; ­his work was gone, ­his business in life seemed over, ­the support of the whole family was taken away, ­and the only strong wish Richard Grant had in the world was disappointed.”

Hugh hid his face with his handkerchief, and his mother went on: 

“You have heard of Huber.”

“The man who found out so much about bees.  Miss Harold read that account to us.”

“Bees and ants.  When Huber had discovered more than had ever been known before about bees and ants, and when he was sure he could learn more still, and was more and more anxious to peep and pry into their tiny homes, and their curious ways, Huber became blind.”

Hugh sighed, and his mother went on: 

“Did you ever hear of Beethoven?  He was one of the greatest musical composers that ever lived.  His great, his sole delight was in music.  It was the passion of his life.  When all his time and all his mind were given to music, he became deaf ­perfectly deaf; so that he never more heard one single note from the loudest orchestra.  While crowds were moved and delighted with his compositions, it was all silence to him.”

Hugh said nothing.

“Now, do you think,” asked his mother, ­and Hugh saw by the grey light that began to shine in, that she smiled ­“do you think that these people were without a heavenly Parent?”

“O no!  But were they all patient?”

“Yes, in their different ways and degrees.  Would you say that they were hardly treated?  Or would you rather suppose that their Father gave them something more and better to do than they had planned for themselves?”

“He must know best, of course:  but it does seem hard that that very thing should happen to them.  Huber would not have so much minded being deaf, perhaps; or that musical man being blind; or Richard Grant losing his foot, instead of his hand:  for he did not want to go round the world.”

“No doubt their hearts often swelled within them at their disappointments:  but I fully believe that they found very soon that God’s will was wiser than their wishes.  They found, if they bore their trial well, that there was work for their hearts to do, far nobler than any work that the head can do through the eye, and the ear, and the hand.  And they soon felt a new and delicious pleasure, which none but the bitterly disappointed can feel.”

“What is that?”

“The pleasure of rousing their souls to bear pain, and of agreeing with God silently, when nobody knows what is in their hearts.  There is a great pleasure in the exercise of the body, ­in making the heart beat, and the limbs glow, in a run by the sea-side, or a game in the playground; but this is nothing to the pleasure there is in exercising one’s soul in bearing pain, ­in finding one’s heart glow with the hope that one is pleasing God.”

“Shall I feel that pleasure?”

“Often and often, I have no doubt, ­every time that you can willingly give up your wish to be a soldier or a sailor, ­or anything else that you have set your mind upon, if you can smile to yourself, and say that you will be content at home. ­Well, I don’t expect it of you yet.  I dare say it was long a bitter thing to Beethoven to see hundreds of people in raptures with his music, when he could not hear a note of it.  And Huber-

“But did Beethoven get to smile?”

“If he did, he was happier than all the fine music in the world could have made him.”

“I wonder ­O!  I wonder if I ever shall feel so.”

“We will pray to God that you may.  Shall we ask him now?”

Hugh clasped his hands.  His mother kneeled beside the bed, and, in a very few words, prayed that Hugh might be able to bear his misfortune well, and that his friends might give him such help and comfort as God should approve.

“Now, my dear, you will sleep again,” she said, as she arose.

“If you will lie down too, instead of sitting by the fire.  Do, mother.”

She did so; and they were soon both asleep.