“Of course, if you like,” said Tom, staring.  “You’ll have to go down for more water if you use it all.”  On went the talk and laughter.  Arthur finished his undressing, and looked round more nervously than ever.  The light burned clear, the noise went on.  This time, however, he did not ask Tom what he might or might not do, but dropped on his knees by his bedside to open his heart to Him who heareth the cry of the tender child, or the strong man.

Tom was unlacing his boots with his back towards Arthur, and looked up in wonder at the sudden silence.  Then two or three boys laughed, and one big, brutal fellow picked up a slipper and shied it at the kneeling boy.  The next moment the boot Tom had just taken off flew straight at the head of the bully.

“If any other fellow wants the other boot,” said Tom, stepping on to the floor, “he knows how to get it!”

At this moment the Sixth Form boy came in, and not another word could be said.  Tom and the rest rushed into bed, and finished unrobing there.  Sleep seemed to have deserted the pillow of poor Tom.  The thought of his promise to his mother came over him, never to forget to kneel at his bedside and give himself up to his Father before he laid his head on the pillow from which it might never rise; and he lay down gently, and cried as if his heart would break.  He was only fourteen years old.

Next morning he was up and washed and dressed just as the ten-minutes bell began, and then in the face of the whole room knelt down to pray.  Not five words could he say; he was listening for every whisper in the room.  What were they all thinking of him?  At last, as it were from his inmost heart, a still, small voice seemed to breathe:  “God be merciful to me, a sinner.”  He repeated the words over and over again, and rose from his knees comforted and humbled, and ready to face the whole school.  It was not needed; two other boys had already followed his example.  Before either Tom or Arthur left the Schoolhouse there was no room in which it had not become the regular custom.

IV.—­Tom Brown’s Last Match

The curtain now rises on the last act of our little drama.  Eight years have passed, and it is the end of the summer half-year at Rugby.  The boys have scattered to the four winds, except the Eleven, and a few enthusiasts who are permitted to stay to see the result of the cricket matches.  For this year the return matches are being played at Rugby, and to-day the great event of the year, the Marylebone match, is being played.  I wish I had space to describe the whole match; but I haven’t, so you must fancy it all, and let me beg to call your attention to a group of three eagerly watching the match.  The first, evidently a clergyman, is carelessly dressed, and looks rather used up, but is bent on enjoying life as he spreads himself out in the evening sun.  By his side, in white flannel shirt and trousers, and the captain’s belt, sits a strapping