Four years passed quietly.  James Walsham worked hard when at school, and, during his holidays, spent his time for the most part on board the fishermen’s boats.  Sometimes he went up to the Hall, generally at the invitation of Mr. Wilks.

“Why don’t you come oftener, Jim?” the latter asked him one day.  “Aggie was saying, only yesterday, that you used to be such friends with her, and now you hardly ever come near her.  The squire is as pleased as I am to see you.”

“I don’t know,” Jim replied.  “You see, I am always comfortable with you.  I can chat with you, and tell you about school, and about fishing, and so on.  The squire is very kind, but I know it is only because of that picking Aggie out of the water, and I never seem to know what to talk about with him.  And then, you see, Aggie is growing a young lady, and can’t go rambling about at my heels as she used to do, when she was a little girl.  I like her, you know, Mr. Wilks, just as I used to do; but I can’t carry her on my shoulder now, and make a playfellow of her.”

“I suppose that’s all natural enough, Jim,” Aggie’s grandfather said; “but I do think it is a pity you don’t come up more often.  You know we are all fond of you, and it will give us a pleasure to have you here.”

Jim was, in fact, getting to the awkward age with boys.  When younger, they tyrannize over their little sisters, when older they may again take pleasure in girls’ society; but there is an age, in every boy’s life, when he is inclined to think girls a nuisance, as creatures incapable of joining in games, and as being apt to get in the way.

Still, Jim was very fond of his former playmate, and had she been still living down in Sidmouth with his mother, they would have been as great friends as ever.

At the end of the fourth year, Richard Horton came back, after an absence of five years.  He was now nearly twenty, and had just passed as lieutenant.  He was bronzed with the Eastern sun, and had grown from a good-looking boy into a handsome young man, and was perfectly conscious of his good looks.  Among his comrades, he had gained the nickname of “The Dandy”—­a name which he accepted in good part, although it had not been intended as complimentary, for Richard Horton was by no means a popular member of his mess.

Boys are quick to detect each other’s failings, and several sharp thrashings, when he first joined, had taught Richard that it was very inexpedient to tell a lie on board a ship, if there was any chance of its being detected.  As he had become one of the senior midshipmen, his natural haughtiness made him disliked by the younger lads; while, among those of his own standing, he had not one sincere friend, for there was a general feeling, among them, that although Richard Horton was a pleasant companion, and a very agreeable fellow when he liked, he was not somehow straight, not the sort of fellow to be depended upon in all emergencies.