It must not be supposed that Walter was prepared to follow out his brother Amos’s moral courage at once and in everything. He was quite willing to admire this high-toned courage, and was learning to be content that his brother should enjoy the praise for it which was his due. He also fully intended to follow in the same steps some day or other; but then no real and radical change had taken place in his heart and character, nor had he any deliberate desire to give up old habits which were dear to him, and adopt new ones which would involve considerable and sustained self-denial. So he contented himself for the present with being more kind to his brother, and more careful not to wound him by rash and unfeeling remarks.

One thing, however, in Amos’s conduct sadly puzzled and annoyed him. Knowing that his brother was well provided with money of his own, he used not unfrequently to borrow from him when his own allowance ran short, which it very often did. This borrowing from Amos used to be but rarely followed by any repayment; for he had been so fully indulged by his father when younger, that he had no idea, now that he was getting more from under his father’s hand, of denying himself, or going without anything he might happen to fancy. At first he used to tell the trades-people in the neighbouring town, when he made any purchases, to put them down to his father; but to this after a while Mr Huntingdon decidedly objected finding, as he did, that expense was no consideration to Walter in the choice of an article, provided his father had to bear the cost. So Walter was made to understand that he must make the liberal allowance which his father gave him do, and that there must be no more running up of bills in Mr Huntingdon’s name. But such an arrangement was very galling to Walter, who had lived all his early boyhood under the impression that, as being his father’s favourite son, he had only to express a wish, or to ask for or to order a thing, and he would have it as a matter of course. However, the squire stood firm in the matter. Walter, he said, was old enough now to understand something of the value of money, and he must learn to cut his coat according to his cloth. This coat, however, with Walter was usually of such exaggerated dimensions that his ordinary allowance of material would go only a small way towards completing it. Consequently he used to have recourse to Amos, who invariably helped him through with a loan for Walter would never receive help from his brother except as a loan Amos at the same time hinting now and then at the hope of a partial repayment. To this Walter would reply that his brother should have it all back, if he wished it, “one of these fine days;” but when such seasons of exceptionally fine monetary weather were likely to occur, Amos found it difficult to conjecture. A change, however, had now come over the elder brother, much to the annoyance and disgust of Walter. A decided refusal of a loan of money was accompanied by Amos with a remonstrance with his brother on his extravagance.

In a pet, Walter told Amos that he might keep his nasty sovereigns and shillings to buy toffee for dirty little boys and girls. He was much obliged to him for his advice, but he knew his own concerns best; and as for extravagance, it was better to put a little money into the tradesmen’s pockets than hoard it up like a stingy old miser, just to have the pleasure of saying, “See how rich I am.”

To all this Amos made no reply at the time, but afterwards sent his brother a portion of the sum he wished to borrow, with a kind note, in which he said that Walter was welcome to this and to all other sums previously lent, as a free gift, but that for the future he could not lend him money beyond a few shillings occasionally, as he had a use for his own funds which made him unable to do for his brother what he had done for him in times past.

Partly touched at Amos’s generosity, but more vexed at his present purpose respecting future loans, Walter was not disposed to look with a very favourable eye on his brother’s money arrangements. What could he be wanting with so much? What could he be doing with it? There was nothing to show for it. If he had spent it in guns, or horses, or dogs, or travelling, or sight-seeing, Walter could have better acquiesced in the expenditure. But the money seemed to be wanted for something which, as far as he could see, turned out to be nothing. So his curiosity was considerably roused, and he resolved to find out, if he could, where his brother’s spare cash went to.

Things were in this position, when one evening, as the whole family were seated on the lawn under some noble elms, enjoying the shade for the weather had been exceedingly hot a gentleman, well-known throughout the county for the interest he took in plans for doing good and alleviating the sorrows and sufferings of his poorer neighbours, called, and was invited by Mr Huntingdon to join his family on the lawn. “And now, my dear sir,” said the squire, “I know you are out on some errand of benevolence. You are a grand worker yourself, and a grand giver too, so tell us what is your present charitable hobby, and we must try and give you a help, so that you may ride him easily.”

“Thank you, Mr Huntingdon, with all my heart,” said the other; “you are very kind. My hobby this time is a very robust animal, and will want a good deal of feeding if he is to keep up his strength. But to come to plain language, I am collecting subscriptions for a working-men’s coffee-house in Redbury a British Workman they call it. You know, I dare say, that two ruinous old houses of mine in the market-place are being pulled down. Now, I am going to give the ground which one of them stands on for the new coffee-house. It is a capital situation, just in the centre of the town. I shall want funds, however, for the erection of a new and suitable building, and also a few annual subscriptions to keep the establishment going and pay the expenses of management, as I don’t suppose it will be self-supporting, at any rate not at first.”

“Well,” said the squire, “let me look at your subscription list, for I see you have one with you. Ah, good! it is very generous of you to put down your own name for so large a sum to the building fund, besides giving the land. Put me down then for fifty pounds, and an annual subscription of three guineas till the concern is self-supporting.”

“May I look at the list?” asked Miss Huntingdon, when their visitor had expressed his thanks to her brother. Having glanced at it, she also signified her willingness to be a helper in the work, and gave the list to Walter to return to the gentleman.

As her nephew was giving back the subscription list, he paused for a moment to run his eye over the names of the contributors. “Ah!” he said, “I see your own sons down, Mr Johnson, for a guinea a piece. I wish I could afford to follow their example.”

“Perhaps, after all, you can,” said the gentleman, smiling. “I am sure it does young people good to practise a little self-denial in helping on a good cause like this.”

“I don’t doubt that, sir,” replied Walter, “but I am ashamed to say that self-denial of that sort is not much in my line. But, then, I am not a man of independent fortune like my brother Amos here. Ask him, pray. He has, or ought to have, lots of spare cash, and he is always on the look-out to be doing good with it.” There was a tone of sarcasm in his voice which grated very painfully on Miss Huntingdon’s ear. Amos coloured deeply, but made no remark.

“What say you, my young friend?” asked Mr Johnson, in a kindly voice, turning to him. “Your brother encourages me to hope that we may add your name to the list.”

The young man, thus appealed to, looked uneasy and embarrassed, and then, in a few moments, said in an undertone, “I am sorry that just now I am not in a position to add my name, but I shall be glad to do so when I am better able.”

Mr Johnson did not press the matter, but shortly left, having first partaken of a little fruit which had been brought to him by the butler while the conversation about the subscriptions had been going on.

It has already been said that the old man Harry was a privileged servant of long standing, almost a portion of the estate, so that he was allowed little liberties which would not ordinarily have been permitted to one in his place. He had listened with burning cheeks and flashing eyes to Walter’s sneering remarks about his brother’s wealth, and now lingered near the group, as he was removing a little table on which he had placed the fruit for Mr Johnson. There was a restlessness about his manner which Miss Huntingdon noticed and wondered at; but her attention was then drawn to Walter, who, lounging against a bench, said in a rather drawling voice, “I really wonder what some people do with their money. For my part, I don’t see what’s the use of it except to be jolly with it yourself, and to make other people jolly with it. Amos,” he added abruptly, “what’s up with you that you’ve become so very poor all of a sudden?”

To this Amos made no reply, but turned away to hide his vexation.

“My boy,” said Mr Huntingdon, addressing his elder son, “I’m a little surprised myself that you should be at all hard up. I quite expected that you would have followed the example of Mr Johnson’s sons, and have put down your name. I think you could have afforded it.”

Still Amos did not reply, but seemed hesitating what to say. But here Walter broke in again. “I call it downright mean!” he exclaimed bitterly; “but he’s getting meaner and meaner, that he is. What he does with his money nobody knows. I suppose he spends it in religious pocket-handkerchiefs and pious bed-quilts for the little niggers in Africa, or something of the sort. At any rate, he has none to spare for those nearer home.” He was about to say more, but happening to raise his eyes he was astonished to see the old butler, who had been slowly drawing nearer and nearer, raising his right arm, and looking at him almost fiercely, as though he were going to strike him. “What’s up now, Harry?” he cried; “is the black cat dead?”

The old man’s appearance now attracted every one’s attention. He had drawn himself up to his full height, and had turned so as to confront Mr Huntingdon, who was sitting with his sister by his side on a garden bench facing the house. His snow-white hair gave him ordinarily a venerable appearance, and this was now increased by the look of intense earnestness which glowed in his every feature. His back was to Amos, who, noticing that the old man was evidently about to speak under the pressure of some unusual excitement, half rose to his feet, but too late to stop old Harry’s purpose.

“Master,” said the old man, in a voice hoarse with emotion, “hear me; if it’s to be for the last time, you must hear me. I can’t hold in no longer; so it’s no use, come what may.”

Mr Huntingdon, struck with amazement at this speech of the old domestic, could only exclaim, “Well!” while his sister and Walter looked on and listened in mute wonder.

“Master,” continued the old man, “you must hear me this once, if I’m to be turned away this blessed night for what I’m a-going to say. I’ve been hearing Master Amos called by Master Walter mean about his money, and I can’t stand it, for I knows better.”

Here Amos sprang forward, and coming in front of Harry, strove by gesture and whispered remonstrance to stop him; but the other shook his head, and motioned his young master back.

“It’s of no manner of use, Master Amos,” he cried; “I must and will speak the time’s come for it. I know why Master Amos can’t afford to subscribe: ’tain’t because he hasn’t got the will; ’tain’t because he’s been spending it on himself, or sending it to the niggers, though he might be doing worse with it than that. His money goes to keep dear Miss Julia as was bless her little heart! from want; and it goes, too, to keep a home for her little ones, and one on ’em’s a girl, and she’s as like what her blessed mother was at her age as one lamb’s like another. O master, master! if you loved Miss Julia as was as I love her, and as Master Amos loves her, though she has married a vagabond of a husband, and had the door of her home closed agen her for ever for it, and oh, if you’d but a touch still of the dear Saviour’s forgiving love towards your own flesh and blood, you couldn’t blame Master Amos for doing as he’s doing, if you only knew too how he’s been a-sacrificing of himself, and bearing the shame and scorn all the while without a murmur. There, master, I’ve had it out. And now I suppose I must pack up and be off for good; but it don’t matter. I couldn’t keep it in, so there’s an end of it.”

The effect of this speech on all the members of the party was overwhelming, though in different ways.

Mr Huntingdon’s face turned deadly pale, and then flushed fiery red. He half rose from the bench on which he was sitting, and then sank back again and buried his face in his hands. Then he started up, and muttering something hoarsely, rushed into the house, and was not seen again by the family that night. Next morning, before breakfast, his sister received a hasty note from him, merely stating that he was leaving home, and should not return that day, and perhaps not for a few days.

The old butler’s disclosure was also most trying to Miss Huntingdon by its suddenness. Not that she was unprepared for it altogether, for quiet observation of Amos had made her sure that he had some noble and self-denying work in hand, and that probably it might have something to do with the welfare of his sister, whom she knew that he dearly loved. She was grieved, however, that the old butler had blurted out the secret in such an abrupt manner, and at the terrible distress which the unexpected revelation had caused her brother.

As for Amos, he was ready to sink into the earth with dismay and vexation. All he could do was to look up reproachfully at Harry, who, now that the explosion had burst forth, and had driven his master apparently almost out of his senses, looked round him with an utterly crestfallen air, and then, coming up to Amos, said, while the big tears rolled rapidly down his cheeks, “Oh, dear Master Amos, you must forgive me. I didn’t go for to do it with no bad meaning; but I couldn’t bear it no longer. I daresay the master ’ll turn me off for it, so I shall be punished if I’ve done wrong.”

And how felt Walter? He was utterly crushed for a time beneath the old man’s words. All the truth flashed upon him now. And this was the brother whom he had been holding up to ridicule and accusing of meanness. As thoughts of shame and stings of conscience stabbed into his heart with their thousand points, he sank down lower and lower to the ground till he had buried his face in the grass, sobbing convulsively. Then, before Amos could reply to the old butler’s pitiful apology, he sprang up, and flinging his arms round his brother’s neck and hiding his head in his bosom, wept for a time as if his heart would break. At last he looked up at Amos, who had pressed him close to him and had lovingly kissed him, and cried out, “Was there ever such a beastly, ungrateful sneak of a brother as I am? Here have I been calling Amos all sorts of names, and treating him worse than a dog, and he’s been acting like a hundred thousand moral heroes all the time! Can you forgive your cowardly snob of a brother, Amos dear?”

There was no reply to this but another long and close embrace.

As for old Harry, his face calmed down into its usual peacefulness. He no longer waited for any reply from his young master, but turned towards the house with a smile beaming all over his countenance, and saying half out loud, “All’s well as ends well. There’ll be good come out of this here trouble as sure as my name’s Harry.”

When he was fairly gone, both nephews drew close to their aunt, and took each a hand as they sat one on either side of her. Smiling at Walter through happy tears, she said, “I cannot cross my hands, you see, for my dear nephews have each got possession of one.”

“But they ought to be crossed,” said Walter in a low, sad voice.

“Not now, dear boy,” she replied; “I think we may let bygones be bygones, for surely better and brighter days are coming.”

“I hope so, aunt,” said Walter, now more cheerily, “But you must give me the example for all that; for you have one to the purpose, I know.”

“Yes,” was her reply, “I think I have, and I will tell it because it may help to confirm you in keeping on the right side that new leaf which I feel sure you are now turning over.”

“Ah, tell it me then, auntie; if it shames me a hit it will do me no harm.”

“My hero then, this time, did not look much like one at the time when he displayed his heroism. He was a poor schoolboy, a Christ’s Hospital lad.”

“What! one of those who go about without hats, in long coats and yellow stockings?”

“Yes, the same. Charles Lamb, who tells the story, which is a true one, was himself one of these Bluecoat boys. Among his schoolfellows was this boy, my present moral hero. He was dull and taciturn, and no favourite with the other lads; but no one could bring any charge of improper conduct against him. There was one thing, however, about him which none of the other boys could understand. He always lingered behind all the rest after dinner was over, and came out of the dining-hall hiding something under his dress, and looking about him suspiciously. What did it mean? Had he an unnaturally large appetite, so that he was led by it to steal food and eat it by himself after the meal was over? At any rate, if it was so, his extra provision did not improve his personal appearance, for he was still thin and hungry-looking.

“Some questioned him roughly on the subject, but they could get nothing out of him. He stopped for a while the practice which had drawn attention to him, but resumed it again when he thought that curiosity had died out, and that he could follow his old ways unobserved. But there were boys on the watch, and at last it was fairly ascertained that the poor lad used to gather, as far as he had opportunity, scraps of meat, pieces of fat, and fragments of bread and potatoes, which had been left on the boys’ plates. These he collected and carried off. But then, what did he do with them? It was not likely that he ate them. No. Then he must sell them when he went home, for his parents lived in London, and he was a day boy. No doubt he disposed of them to people who were ready to give a few pence for refuse food, and thus the little miser was making money in this mean and underhand way. When this conclusion had been arrived at, the whole school was in a state of boiling indignation against the culprit.

“They might have taken the law into their own hands, and have punished him in their own rough and ready way. But no; his conduct was too shameful for that. It was looked upon as a serious disgrace to the whole school. So the case was duly reported to the masters, and by them to the governors. Witnesses were examined, and the offence proved. And now, what was the defence of the poor lad? He had borne shame, scorn, reproach, reviling; he had borne them all patiently, without murmur, without resentment. What, then, was the reason for his strange conduct? what motive or inducement could make him thus brave the scorn and contempt, the daily jeers, and the cut direct from his schoolfellows? All was soon made plain. This boy’s parents were old and very poor so poor, helpless, and friendless that they were often brought to the verge of starvation. In those days, remember, there was not the same attention paid to the poor of all classes, nor loving provision made for their wants, as there is now. So the noble son for truly noble he was submitted cheerfully to every trouble and shame that could fall upon himself, in order to get food from time to time for his almost famishing parents. They were too respectable to beg, and would have never allowed their boy to beg for them; and yet so destitute were they that they were even glad of those miserable scraps, the after-dinner leavings on the boys’ plates. And these their son gathered for them, indifferent to the consequences which might happen to himself, while at the same time he added a portion of his own daily food to supply the wants of the old people.

“Ah! this was true moral courage, dear Walter; and it was all the greater and nobler because it was exercised in such humble elements, as it were I mean under circumstances where there was everything to degrade and nothing to elevate the poor boy in the eyes of his schoolfellows.”

“I see, aunt,” said Walter, sadly and thoughtfully. “Yes, they called him mean, and shabby, and selfish, and frowned and scowled at him, when all the while he was most nobly denying himself, and bearing all that trouble that he might help those who were dearer to him than his good name with his schoolfellows. Ay, I see it all; and it’s just a case in point. That’s just what I’ve been doing to my own dear noble brother, who has been sacrificing himself that he might help poor Julia and her little ones. And it has been worse in my case, because those Bluecoat boys had perhaps no particular reason to think well of the other chap before they found out what he had been driving at, and so it was natural enough that they should suspect him. But it’s been exactly the reverse with me. I’ve had no reason to suspect Amos of anything but goodness. All the baseness and meanness have been on my own part; and yet here I’ve been judging him, and thinking the worst of him, and behaving myself like a regular African gorilla to him. Dear Amos, can you really forgive me?”

Hands were clasped tightly across Miss Huntingdon’s lap, and then Amos asked, “And what was done to the poor boy?”

“Oh,” replied his aunt, “the governors of course acquitted him of all blame, and not only so, but rewarded him also, and, if I remember rightly, proper provision was made for the poor parents of the noble lad.”

“Bravo! that’s right,” cried Walter with a sigh of relief. “Well, I don’t like making big promises, but I do think I mean it when I say that Amos shall not have an ungenerous or reproachful word from me again.”

“And so,” said Miss Huntingdon with a smile, “good will come out of this evil, and it will turn out one of those `all things’ which `work together for good to those who love God.’”

And Walter strove bravely to keep his word, and in the main succeeded.

Old Harry began, on the day after he had made the unlooked-for disclosure, to pack up his things and make preparations for his departure, feeling fully persuaded that, on his master’s return, he should receive his instant dismissal. However, when Mr Huntingdon came home, two or three days after the explosion, not a word was said about the butler’s leaving; indeed, if anything, his master’s manner was kinder to him than usual, but not the slightest reference was made on either side to what had passed. With Amos, however, it was different. His father would scarcely speak to him beyond the coldest salutations morning and evening. The poor young man felt it keenly, but was not surprised. He could now open his mind fully to his aunt, and did so, and his own convictions and judgment agreed with her loving counsel that he should wait in trust and patience, and all would be well.