This intimacy had not been interrupted by Tom’s guardianship of Arthur.

East had often, as has been said, joined them in reading the Bible; but their discussions had almost always turned upon the characters of the men and women of whom they read, and not become personal to themselves.  In fact, the two had shrunk from personal religious discussion, not knowing how it might end, and fearful of risking a friendship very dear to both, and which they felt somehow, without quite knowing why, would never be the same, but either tenfold stronger or sapped at its foundation, after such a communing together.

What a bother all this explaining is!  I wish we could get on without it.  But we can’t.  However, you’ll all find, if you haven’t found it out already, that a time comes in every human friendship when you must go down into the depths of yourself, and lay bare what is there to your friend, and wait in fear for his answer.  A few moments may do it; and it may be (most likely will be, as you are English boys) that you will never do it but once.  But done it must be, if the friendship is to be worth the name.  You must find what is there, at the very root and bottom of one another’s hearts; and if you are at one there, nothing on earth can or at least ought to sunder you.

East had remained lying down until Tom finished speaking, as if fearing to interrupt him; he now sat up at the table, and leant his head on one hand, taking up a pencil with the other, and working little holes with it in the table-cover.  After a bit he looked up, stopped the pencil, and said, “Thank you very much, old fellow.  There’s no other boy in the house would have done it for me but you or Arthur.  I can see well enough,” he went on, after a pause, “all the best big fellows look on me with suspicion; they think I’m a devil-may-care, reckless young scamp.  So I am—­eleven hours out of twelve, but not the twelfth.  Then all of our contemporaries worth knowing follow suit, of course:  we’re very good friends at games and all that, but not a soul of them but you and Arthur ever tried to break through the crust, and see whether there was anything at the bottom of me; and then the bad ones I won’t stand and they know that.”

“Don’t you think that’s half fancy, Harry?”

“Not a bit of it,” said East bitterly, pegging away with his pencil.  “I see it all plain enough.  Bless you, you think everybody’s as straightforward and kindhearted as you are.”

“Well, but what’s the reason of it?  There must be a reason.  You can play all the games as well as any one and sing the best song, and are the best company in the house.  You fancy you’re not liked, Harry.  It’s all fancy.”

“I only wish it was, Tom.  I know I could be popular enough with all the bad ones, but that I won’t have, and the good ones won’t have me.”

“Why not?” persisted Tom; “you don’t drink or swear, or get out at night; you never bully, or cheat at lessons.  If you only showed you liked it, you’d have all the best fellows in the house running after you.”