In his fever he was constantly delirious.  No one was allowed to see him, though many of the boys tried to do so, and many were the earnest inquiries for him day by day.  It then became more fully apparent than ever, that, although Edwin was among them without being of them, no boy in the school was more deeply honored and fondly loved than he.  Even the elastic spirits of boyhood could not quite throw off the shadow of gloom which his illness cast over the school.

Very tenderly they nursed him.  All that human kindness could do was done for him by the stranger hands.  And yet not all; poor Edwin had no father, no mother, hardly any relatives.  His only aunt, Mrs. Upton, would have come to nurse him, but she was an invalid, and he was often left alone in his delirium and agony.

Alone, yet not alone.  There was One with him—­always in his thoughts, always leading, guiding, blessing him unseen—­not deserting the hurt lamb of his flock; one who was once a boy himself, and who, when he was a boy, did his Father’s business, and was subject unto his parents in the obscure home of the despised village.  Alone! nay, to them whose eyes were opened, the room of sickness and pain was thronged and beautiful with angelic presences.

Often did Eric, and Upton, and Montagu, talk of their loved friend.  Eric’s life seemed absorbed in the thought of him, and in passionate, unspeakable longings for his recovery.  Now he valued more than ever the sweet remembered hours spent with him; their games, and communnings, and walks, and Russell’s gentle influence, and brave, kindly rebukes.  Yet he must not even see him, must not whisper one word of soothing to him in his anguish; he could only pray for him, and that he did with a depth of hope.

At last Upton, in virtue of his relationship, was allowed to visit him.  His delirium had become more infrequent, but he could not yet even recognise his cousin, and the visits to his sick-room were so sad and useless, that Upton forbore.  “And yet you should hear him talk in his delirium,” he said to Eric; “not one evil word, or bad thought, or wicked thing, ever escapes him.  I’m afraid, Eric, it would hardly be so with you or me.”

“No” said Eric, in a low and humble tone; and guilty conscience brought the deep color, wave after wave, of crimson into his cheeks.

“And he talks with such affection of you, Eric.  He speaks sometimes of all of us very gently; but you seem to be always in his thoughts, and every now and then he prays for you quite unconsciously.”

Eric turned his head to brush away a tear.  “When do you think I shall be allowed too see him?”

“Not just yet, I fear.”

After a week or two of most anxious suspense, Russell’s mind ceased to wander, but the state of his sprain gave more cause for alarm.  Fresh advice was called in, and it was decided that the leg must be amputated.

When Eric was told of this, he burst into passionate complaints.  “Only think, Monty, isn’t it hard, isn’t it cruel?  When we see our brave, bright Edwin again, he will be a cripple.”  Eric hardly understood that he was railing at the providence of a merciful God.