After Mr. Proctor had come and was gone, and Mrs. Proctor was gone with him, Hugh began to wonder why Tooke had never paid the visit he had promised.  Several boys had called; some to thank Hugh for balls that he had quilted; some to see how he got on; and some to bring him Crofton news.  Mr. Tooke had fastened his horse up at the door, in passing, and stepped in for a few minutes, two or three times a week:  but it was now within six days of the holidays, and the one Hugh most wished to see had not appeared.  His uncle observed his wistful look when the door-bell rang, and drew his conclusions.  He said, on the Wednesday before the breaking-up, that he was going to drive past the Crofton school; that it was such a fine day that he thought Hugh might go with him, and perhaps they might persuade some one to come home to dinner with them.

Hugh had never enjoyed the open air more than during this drive.  He had yet much to learn about the country, and it was all as beautiful as it was new.  His uncle pointed out to him the fieldfares wheeling in flocks over the fallows; and the rabbits in the warren, scampering away with their little white tails turned up; and the robin hopping in the frosty pathway; and the wild-ducks splashing among the reeds in the marshes.  They saw the cottagers’ children trying to collect snow enough from the small remains of the drifts to make snow-balls, and obliged to throw away the dirty snow that would melt, and would not bind.  As they left the road, and turned through a copse, because Mr. Shaw had business with Mr. Sullivan’s gamekeeper, a pheasant flew out, whirring, from some ferns and brambles, and showed its long tail-feathers before it disappeared over the hedge.  All these sights were new to Hugh:  and all, after pain and confinement, looked beautiful and gay.

Mr. Shaw could not stop for Hugh to get out at Crofton; so, when his arrival was seen, the boys were allowed to go out of bounds, as far as the gig, to speak to their school-fellow.  Mr. Shaw asked Tooke to mount, and go home with them for the day; and Tooke was so pleased, ­so agreeably surprised to see Hugh look quite well and merry, that he willingly ran off to ask leave, and to wash his face, and change his jacket.  When he had jumped in, and Hugh had bidden the rest good-bye, a sudden shyness came over his poor conscious visitor:  and it was not lessened by Mr. Shaw telling Tooke that he did not do credit to Crofton air, ­so puny as he seemed:  and that he looked at that moment more like one that had had a bad accident than Hugh did.  When Mr. Shaw perceived how the boy’s eyes filled with tears in an instant, he probably thought within himself that Tooke was sadly weak-spirited, and altogether more delicate than he had been aware of.

Hugh was full of questions about Crofton matters, however; and long before they reached Mr. Shaw’s, they were chattering as busily as possible.  But then it was all spoiled to Tooke again by seeing Hugh lifted out, and his crutches brought to him, and Agnes ready to take his hat and cloak, instead of his being able to run about, doing everything for himself.

The sofa had been left in Hugh’s room, and there was a fire there every afternoon, for him and Agnes, that their aunt might have the parlour to herself till tea-time.  The three young people went therefore to this room after dinner.  Agnes felt a little uncomfortable, as she always did when any Crofton boys came.  They had so much to say to each other of things that she did not understand, and so very little to say to her, that she continually felt as if she was in the way.  When she proposed, as usual, that Hugh should go through his exercises in walking and running (for she was indefatigable in helping him to learn to walk well, and superintended his practice every afternoon), he refused hastily and rather rudely.  Of course, she could not know that he had a reason for wishing not to show off his lameness before Tooke; and she thought him unkind.  He might indeed have remembered to ask her before to say nothing this afternoon about his exercises.  She took out her work, and sat down at some distance from the boys; but they did not get on.  It was very awkward.  At last, the boys’ eyes met, and they saw that they should like to talk freely, if they could.

“Agnes,” said Hugh, “cannot you go somewhere, and leave us alone?”

“I hardly know where I can go,” replied Agnes.  “I must not disturb aunt; and there is no fire anywhere else.”

“O, I am sure aunt wont mind, for this one afternoon.  You can be as still as a mouse; and she can doze away, as if nobody was there.”

“I can be as still as a mouse here,” observed Agnes.  “I can take my work to that farthest window; and if you whisper, I shall not hear a word you say.  Or, if I do hear a word, I will tell you directly.  And you will let me come, now and then, and warm myself, if I find I cannot hold my needle any longer.”

“No, no; that wont do.  We can’t talk so.  Do just go, and see whether aunt cannot let you be there for this one afternoon.”

Agnes did not like to refuse anything to Hugh:  but she hesitated to take such a bold step as this.  In his eagerness, Hugh requested the same favour of Tooke; but Tooke, more anxious than even Agnes to oblige, had not courage for such an errand.  Hugh snatched his crutches, and declared he would go himself.  But now Agnes gave way.  She gathered up her work, and left the room.  Hugh little imagined where she went, this cold, darkening December afternoon.  She went to her own room, put on her cloak, and walked up and down till tea was ready, without fire or candle, and not very happy in her mind.

Meanwhile the boys basked before a glowing fire.  Tooke began directly to open his full heart.

“Was that true that your sister said at dinner, about your always longing so to come to Crofton?”

“Yes.”

“How sorry you must be that you came!  How you must wish you had never seen me!”

“I knew there would be things to bear, whenever I came; and particularly while I was the youngest.  Your father told me that:  and one of the things that made me want to come more than ever was his telling me how you bore things when you were the youngest ­being set on the top of that wall, and so on.”

“Indeed, indeed, I never meant to hurt you when I pulled your foot. ­I suppose you are quite sure that it was I that gave the first pull?  Are you?”

“Why, yes; I am sure of that; and so are you:  but I know very well that you meant no harm; and that is the reason I would not tell.  After what you did about the sponge, I could not think you meant any harm to me.”

Tooke could not remember anything about a sponge; and when he was told, he thought nothing of it.  He went on ­

“Do you think you shall never tell anybody, as long as you live, who pulled you first?”

“Never,” said Hugh, “unless I tell it in my sleep; and that is not likely, for I never think about it in the daytime, ­or scarcely ever; and when I can run about again, I dare say I shall never think of it at all.”

“But will you ever run about?”

“O yes! finely, you will see.  I shall begin first with a little stick-leg, very light.  Mother is going to send some for me to try.  When I am a man, I shall have one that will look like a real foot; but that will not be so light as the one you will see me with after the holidays.  But you do not half know what I can do now, with my crutches.  Here, I will show you.”

As he flourished about, and played antics, Agnes heard the pit-pat of his crutches, and she thought she might as well have been there, if they had told all their secrets, and had got to play.  But the noise did not last long, for Hugh’s performances did not make Tooke very merry; and the boys sat down quietly again.

“Now, I’ll tell you what,” said Tooke.  “I am a bigger and stronger boy than you, without considering this accident.  I’ll take care of you all the time you are at Crofton:  and always afterwards, if I can.  Mind you that.  If anybody teases you, you call me, ­that’s all.  Say you will.”

“Why,” said Hugh, “I had rather take care of myself.  I had rather make no difference between you and everybody else.”

“There now!  You don’t forgive me, after all.”

“I do, ­upon my word, I do.  But why should I make any difference between you and the rest, when you did not mean me any harm, ­any more than they?  Besides, it might make people suspect.”

“Well, let them.  Sometimes I wish,” continued Tooke, twisting himself about in the uneasiness of his mind, “sometimes I wish that everybody knew now.  They say murderers cannot keep their secret.  They are sure to tell, when they cannot bear it any longer.”

“That is because of their consciences,” said Hugh.  “But you are not guilty of anything, you know.  I am sure I can keep a secret easily enough, when I am not to blame in it.”

“Yes? you have shown that.  But-

“Come! don’t let us talk any more about that. ­Only just this.  Has anybody accused you?  Because I must know, ­I must be on my guard.”

“Nobody has said a word, because my father put us all upon honour never to mention it:  but I always feel as if all their eyes were upon me all day, ­and sometimes in the night.”

“Nonsense!  I don’t believe anybody has pitched on you particularly.  And when school opens again, all their eyes will be on me, to see how I manage.  But I don’t mean to mind that.  Anybody may stare that likes.”

Hugh sighed, however, after saying this; and Tooke was silent.  At length he declared, ­

“Whatever you say against it, I shall always take your part:  and you have only to ask me, and I will always run anywhere, and do anything for you.  Mind you that.”

“Thank you,” said Hugh.  “Now tell me about the new usher; for I dare say you know more than the other boys do.  Holt and I shall be under him altogether, I suppose.”

“Yes:  and you will be well off, by what I hear.  He is as little like Mr. Carnaby as need be.”

All the rest of the afternoon was taken up with stories of Mr. Carnaby and other ushers, so that the boys were surprised when the maid came to tell them that tea was ready.

Agnes was making tea.  Hugh was so eager to repeat to his uncle some of the good stories that he had just heard, that he did not observe, as his aunt did, how red his sister’s fingers were, and how she shivered still.

“My dear,” said Mrs. Shaw, “you have let these boys keep you away from the fire.”

“Yes, aunt.  Never mind!  I shall be warm enough presently.”

“But you should not allow it, Agnes.  How are they ever to learn manners, if they are not made to give way to young ladies while they are young?  Boys are sure to be rude enough, at any rate.  Their sisters should know better than to spoil them.”

While poor Agnes’ hardships were ending with a lecture, Hugh was chattering away, not at all aware that he had treated his sister much as Phil had treated him on his going to Crofton.  If any one had told him that he was tyrannical, he would have been as much surprised as he had been at Phil’s tyranny over him.  He did not know indeed that his sister had been in the cold and in the dark; but he might have felt that he had used her with a roughness which is more painful to a loving heart than cold and darkness are to the body.