After the above conversation, East came a good deal to their study, and took notice of Arthur, and soon allowed to Tom that he was a thorough little gentleman, and would get over his shyness all in good time; which much comforted our hero.  He felt every day, too, the value of having an object in his life—­something that drew him out of himself; and it being the dull time of the year, and no games going about for which he much cared, was happier than he had ever yet been at school, which was saying a great deal.

The time which Tom allowed himself away from his charge was from locking-up till supper-time.  During this hour or hour and a half he used to take his fling, going round to the studies of all his acquaintance, sparring or gossiping in the hall, now jumping the old iron-bound tables, or carving a bit of his name on them, then joining in some chorus of merry voices—­in fact, blowing off his steam, as we should now call it.

This process was so congenial to his temper, and Arthur showed himself so pleased at the arrangement, that it was several weeks before Tom was ever in their study before supper.  One evening, however, he rushed in to look for an old chisel, or some corks, or other article essential to his pursuit for the time being, and while rummaging about in the cupboards, looked up for a moment, and was caught at once by the figure of poor little Arthur.  The boy was sitting with his elbows on the table, and his head leaning on his hands, and before him an open book, on which his tears were falling fast.  Tom shut the door at once, and sat down on the sofa by Arthur, putting his arm round his neck.

“Why, young un, what’s the matter?” said he kindly; “you ain’t unhappy, are you?”

“Oh no, Brown,” said the little boy, looking up with the great tears in his eyes; “you are so kind to me, I’m very happy.”

“Why don’t you call me Tom?  Lots of boys do that I don’t like half so much as you.  What are you reading, then?  Hang it! you must come about with me, and not mope yourself.”  And Tom cast down his eyes on the book, and saw it was the Bible.  He was silent for a minute, and thought to himself, “Lesson Number 2, Tom Brown;” and then said gently, “I’m very glad to see this, Arthur, and ashamed that I don’t read the Bible more myself.  Do you read it every night before supper while I’m out?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I wish you’d wait till afterwards, and then we’d read together.  But, Arthur, why does it make you cry?”

“Oh, it isn’t that I’m unhappy.  But at home, while my father was alive, we always read the lessons after tea; and I love to read them over now, and try to remember what he said about them.  I can’t remember all and I think I scarcely understand a great deal of what I do remember.  But it all comes back to me so fresh that I can’t help crying sometimes to think I shall never read them again with him.”

Arthur had never spoken of his home before, and Tom hadn’t encouraged him to do so, as his blundering schoolboy reasoning made him think that Arthur would be softened and less manly for thinking of home.  But now he was fairly interested, and forgot all about chisels and bottled beer; while with very little encouragement Arthur launched into his home history, and the prayer-bell put them both out sadly when it rang to call them to the hall.