‘They always were good children to me,’ said Mrs. King to Mr. Cope, ’but somehow, since Paul has been here, I think they are better than ever!  There’s poor Alfred, though his cough has been so bad of late, has been so thoughtful and so good; he says he’s quite ashamed to find how patient Paul is under so much sharper pain than he ever had, and he’s ready to send anything to Paul that he fancies will do him good—­quite carried out of himself, you see; and there’s Harold, so much steadier; I’ve hardly had to find fault with him since that poor boy made off—­he’s sure to come in in time, and takes care not to disturb his brother, and helps his sister and me all he can.’

Mr. Cope was not at all surprised that the work of mercy was blessed to all the little household, nor that it drew out all the better side of their dispositions.

There was no positive change, nor sudden resolution, to alter Harold; but he had been a good deal startled by Dick’s wickedness, and in him had lost a tempter.  Besides, he considered Paul as his own friend, received for his sake, and therefore felt himself bound to do all he could for him, and though he was no nurse, he could do much to set his mother and Ellen free to attend to their patients.  And Paul’s illness, though so much less dangerous, frightened and subdued Harold much more than the quiet gradual pining away of Alfred, to which he was used.  The severe pain, the raging fever, and the ramblings in talk, were much more fearful things to witness than the low cough, the wearing sore, and the helpless languor, though there was much hope for the one, and scarcely any for the other.  While to Harold’s apprehension, Alfred was always just the same, only worsening visibly from month to month; Paul was better or worse every time he came in, and when fresh from hearing his breath gasp with sharp pain, or receiving his feeble thanks for some slight service, it was not in Harold to go out and get into thoughtless mischief.

Moreover, there were helpful things to do at home, such as Harold liked.  He was fond of chopping wood, so he was very obliging about the oven, and what he liked best of all was helping his mother in certain evening cookeries of sweet-meats, by receipts from Mrs. Crabbe.  On the day of the expedition from Ragglesford, the young gentlemen had found out that Mrs. King’s bottles contained what they called ‘the real article and no mistake,’ much better than what the old woman at the turnpike sold; and so they were, for Mrs. King made them herself, and, like an honest woman, without a morsel of sham in them.  She was not going to break the Eighth Commandment by cheating in a comfit any more than by stealing a purse; and the children of Friarswood had long known that, and bought all the ‘lollies’ that they were not naughty enough to buy on Sundays, when, as may be supposed, her shutters were not shut only for a decent show.