However, the Doctor’s victory was complete from that moment over Tom Brown at any rate.  He gave way at all points, and the enemy marched right over him—­cavalry, infantry, and artillery, and the land transport corps, and the camp followers.  It had taken eight long years to do it; but now it was done thoroughly, and there wasn’t a corner of him left which didn’t believe in the Doctor.  Had he returned to School again, and the Doctor begun the half-year by abolishing fagging, and football, and the Saturday half-holiday, or all or any of the most cherished School institutions, Tom would have supported him with the blindest faith.  And so, after a half confession of his previous shortcomings, and sorrowful adieus to his tutor, from whom he received two beautifully-bound volumes of the Doctor’s sermons, as a parting present, he marched down to the Schoolhouse, a hero-worshipper, who would have satisfied the soul of Thomas Carlyle himself.

There he found the eleven at high jinks after supper, Jack Raggles shouting comic songs and performing feats of strength, and was greeted by a chorus of mingled remonstrance at his desertion and joy at his reappearance.  And falling in with the humour of the evening, he was soon as great a boy as all the rest; and at ten o’clock was chaired round the quadrangle, on one of the hall benches, borne aloft by the eleven, shouting in chorus, “For he’s a jolly good fellow,” while old Thomas, in a melting mood, and the other School-house servants, stood looking on.

And the next morning after breakfast he squared up all the cricketing accounts, went round to his tradesmen and other acquaintance, and said his hearty good-byes; and by twelve o’clock was in the train, and away for London, no longer a school-boy, and divided in his thoughts between hero-worship, honest regrets over the long stage of his life which was now slipping out of sight behind him, and hopes and resolves for the next stage upon which he was entering with all the confidence of a young traveller.

CHAPTER IX—­FINIS.

     “Strange friend, past, present, and to be;
     Loved deeplier, darklier understood;
     Behold I dream a dream of good,
     And mingle all the world with thee.”—­Tennyson.

In the summer of 1842, our hero stopped once again at the well-known station; and leaving his bag and fishing-rod with a porter, walked slowly and sadly up towards the town.  It was now July.  He had rushed away from Oxford the moment that term was over, for a fishing ramble in Scotland with two college friends, and had been for three weeks living on oatcake, mutton-hams, and whisky, in the wildest parts of Skye.  They had descended one sultry evening on the little inn at Kyle Rhea ferry; and while Tom and another of the party put their tackle together and began exploring the stream for a sea-trout for supper, the third strolled into the house to arrange for their entertainment.