“Well, it’s all right,” he shouted, seizing Tom by the hand.  “I feel as if a ton weight were off my mind.”

“Hurrah,” said Tom.  “I knew it would be; but tell us all about it.”

“Well, I just told him all about it.  You can’t think how kind and gentle he was, the great grim man, whom I’ve feared more than anybody on earth.  When I stuck, he lifted me just as if I’d been a little child.  And he seemed to know all I’d felt, and to have gone through it all.  And I burst out crying—­more than I’ve done this five years; and he sat down by me, and stroked my head; and I went blundering on, and told him all—­much worse things than I’ve told you.  And he wasn’t shocked a bit, and didn’t snub me, or tell me I was a fool, and it was all nothing but pride or wickedness, though I dare say it was.  And he didn’t tell me not to follow out my thoughts, and he didn’t give me any cut-and-dried explanation.  But when I’d done he just talked a bit.  I can hardly remember what he said yet; but it seemed to spread round me like healing, and strength, and light, and to bear me up, and plant me on a rock, where I could hold my footing and fight for myself.  I don’t know what to do, I feel so happy.  And it’s all owing to you, dear old boy!” And he seized Tom’s hand again.

“And you’re to come to the Communion?” said Tom.

“Yes, and to be confirmed in the holidays.”

Tom’s delight was as great as his friend’s.  But he hadn’t yet had out all his own talk, and was bent on improving the occasion:  so he proceeded to propound Arthur’s theory about not being sorry for his friends’ deaths, which he had hitherto kept in the background, and by which he was much exercised; for he didn’t feel it honest to take what pleased him, and throw over the rest, and was trying vigorously to persuade himself that he should like all his best friends to die off-hand.

But East’s powers of remaining serious were exhausted, and in five minutes he was saying the most ridiculous things he could think of, till Tom was almost getting angry again.

Despite of himself, however, he couldn’t help laughing and giving it up, when East appealed to him with, “Well, Tom, you ain’t going to punch my head, I hope, because I insist upon being sorry when you got to earth?”

And so their talk finished for that time, and they tried to learn first lesson, with very poor success, as appeared next morning, when they were called up and narrowly escaped being floored, which ill-luck, however, did not sit heavily on either of their souls.

CHAPTER VIII—­TOM BROWN’S LAST MATCH.

     “Heaven grant the manlier heart, that timely ere
     Youth fly, with life’s real tempest would be coping;
     The fruit of dreamy hoping
     Is, waking, blank despair.”—­Clough, Ambarvalia.