“Poor little fellow,” she said, almost in a whisper.  “His father’s dead, and his mamma—­such a sweet, kind lady—­almost broke her heart at leaving him.  She said one of his sisters was like to die of a decline——­ "

“Well, well,” burst in Tom, “I suppose I must give up East.  Come along, young ’un!  What’s your name?  We’ll go and have supper, and then I’ll show you our study.”

“His name’s George Arthur,” said the matron.  “I’ve had his books and things put into the study, which his mamma has had new papered, and the sofa covered, and new curtains.  And Mrs. Arnold told me to say she’d like you both to come up to tea with her.”

Here was an announcement for Master Tom!  He was to go up to tea the first night, just as if he were of importance in the school world instead of the most reckless young scapegrace among the fags.  He felt himself lifted on to a higher moral platform at once; and marched off with his young charge in tow in monstrous good humour with himself and all the world.  His cup was full when Dr. Arnold, with a warm shake of the hand, seemingly oblivious of all the scrapes he had been getting into, said, “Ah, Brown, you here!  I hope you left all well at home.  And this is the little fellow who is to share your study?  Well, he doesn’t look as we should like to see him.  You must take him some good long walks, and show him what little pretty country we have about here.”

The tea went merrily off, and everybody felt that he, young as he was, was of some use in the school world, and had a work to do there.  When Tom was recognised coming out of the private door which led from the doctor’s house, there was a great shout of greeting, and Hall at once began to question Arthur.

“What a queer chum for Tom Brown,” was the general comment.  And it must be confessed that so thought Tom himself as he lighted the candle in their study, and surveyed the new curtains with much satisfaction.

“I say, Arthur, what a brick your mother is to make us so cosy!  But look here now, you must answer straight up when the fellows speak to you.  If you’re afraid, you’ll get bullied.  And don’t you ever talk about home or your mother or sisters.”

Poor little Arthur looked ready to cry.

“But please, mayn’t I talk about home to you?”

“Oh, yes, I like it.  But not to boys you don’t know.  What a jolly desk!”

And soon Tom was deep in Arthur’s goods and chattels, and hardly thought of his friends outside till the prayer-bell rang.

He thought of his own first night there when he was leading poor little Arthur up to No. 4, and showing him his bed.  The idea of sleeping in a room with strange boys had clearly never crossed his mind before.  He could hardly bare to take his jacket off.  However, presently off it came, and he paused and looked at Tom, who was sitting on his bed, talking and laughing.

“Please, Brown,” he whispered, “may I wash my face and hands?”