Paul had just found his way down the ladder in the morning, with thoughts going through his mind that to him this would be the coming of the Comforter, and he was sure he wanted comfort; and that for some hours of this day at least, he should be at peace from rude words and blows, when he heard a great confusion of merry voices and suppressed laughing, and saw the heads of some of the lads bobbing about near Mrs. King’s garden.

Was it time already to set off, he wondered, looking up to the sun; but then those boys seemed to be in an uproarious state such as did not suit his present mood, nor did he think Mr. Cope would consider it befitting.  He would have let them go by, feeling himself such a scare-crow as they might think a blot upon them; but he remembered that Charles Hayward had his ticket, and as he looked at himself, he doubted whether he should be let into a strange church.

‘Paul!  Paul Blackthorn!’ called Harold, with a voice all aglee.

‘Well!’ said Paul, ‘what do you want of me?’

‘Come on, and you’ll see.’

’I don’t want a row.  Is Charlie Hayward there?  Just ask him for my card, and don’t make a work.’

‘He’ll give it you if you’ll come for it,’ said Harold; and seeing there was no other chance, Paul slowly came.  Harold led him to the stable, where just within the door stood a knot of stout hearty boys, snorting with fun, hiding their heads on each other’s shoulders, and bending their buskined knees with merriment.

‘Now then!’ cried Charles Hayward, and he had got hold of the only button that held Paul’s coat together.

Paul was bursting out with something, but George Grant’s arms were round his waist, and his hands were fumbling at his fastenings.  They were each one much stronger than he was now, and they drowned his voice with shouts of laughter, while as fast as one garment was pulled off, another was put on.

‘Mind, you needn’t make such a work, it bain’t presents,’ said George Grant, ’only we won’t have them asking up at Elbury if we’ve saved the guy to bring in.’

‘It is a present, though, old Betty Bushel’s shirt,’ said Charles Hayward.  ’She said she’d throw it at his head if he brought it back again; but the frock’s mine.’

‘And the corduroys is mine,’ said George Grant.  ’My! they be a sight too big in the band!  Run in, Harold, and see if your mother can lend us a pin.’

‘And the waistcoat is my summer one,’ said Fred Bunting.  ’He’s too big too; why, Paul, you’re no better than a natomy!’

‘Never mind, my white frock will hide it all,’ said Charles, ’and here’s Ned’s cap for you.  Oh! and it’s poor Alfred’s boots.’

Paul could not make up his mind to walk all the way in the boots, but to satisfy the boys he engaged to put them on as soon as they were getting to Elbury.

‘My! he looks quite respectable,’ cried Charles, running back a little way to look at him.