Owen and Montagu were walking by Silverburn, and talking over the affairs of the school.  During their walk they saw Wright and Vernon Williams in front of them.

“I am so glad to see those two together,” said Montagu; “I really think Wright is one of the best little fellows in the school, and he’ll be the saving of Vernon.  He’s already persuaded him to leave off smoking and other bad things, and has got him to work a little harder, and turn over a new leaf altogether.”

“Yes,” answered Owen; “I’ve seen a marvellous improvement in little Williams lately.  I think that Duncan gave him a rough lesson the other night which did him good, and dear old Rose too has been leading him by the hand; but the best thing is that, through Wright, he sees less of Eric’s friend, that young scapegrace Wildney.”

“Yes; that little wretch has a good deal to answer for.  What a pity that Eric spoils him so, or rather suffers himself to be spoilt by him.  I’m glad Vernon’s escaped his influence now; he’s too fine a boy to be made as bad as the general run of them.  What a brilliant little fellow he is; just like his brother.”

“Just like what his brother was,” said Owen; “his face, like his mind, has suffered lately.”

“Too true,” answered Montagu, with a sigh; “and yet, cool as we now are in our outward intercourse, he little knows how I love him, and yearn for the Eric I once knew.  Would to God poor Russell had lived, and then I believe that Williams wouldn’t have gone so for wrong.”

“Well, I think there’s another chance for him now that—­that—­what name is bad enough, for that Brigson?—­is gone.”

“I hope so.  But”—­he added after a pause—­“his works do follow him.  Look there!” He took a large stone and threw it into the Silverburn stream; there was a great splash, and then ever-widening circles of blue ripple broke the surface of the water, dying away one by one in the sedges on the bank.  “There,” he said, “see how long those ripples last, and how numerous they are.”

Owen understood him.  “Poor Williams!  What a gleam of new hope there was in him after Russell’s death!”

“Yes, for a time,” said Montagu; “heigh ho!  I fear we shall never be warm friends again.  We can’t be while he goes on as he is doing.  And yet I love him.”

A sudden turn of the stream brought them to the place called Riverbend.

“If you want a practical comment on what we’ve been talking about, you’ll see it there,” said Montagu.

He pointed to a party of boys, four or five, all lying on a pleasant grass bank, smoking pipes.  Prominent among them was Eric, stretched at ease, and looking up at the clouds, towards which curled the puffed fumes of his meerschaum—­a gift of Wildney’s.  That worthy was beside him similarly employed.

The two sixth-form boys hoped to pass by unobserved, as they did not wish for a rencontre with our hero under such circumstances.  But they saw Wildney pointing to them, and, from the fits of laughter which followed his remarks, they had little doubt that they were the subject of the young gentleman’s wit.  This is never a pleasant sensation; but they observed that Eric made a point of not looking their way, and went on in silence.