‘I think it will be better for him to walk, Horace dear,’ said Mrs Carpole, in her thin, plaintive voice.  ’He can, quite well.  And you know how clumsy you are.  Supposing you were to fall!’

Horace, nevertheless, in pursuance of his programme of being uncle to Sidney, was determined to carry Sidney.  And carry Sidney he did, despite warnings and kickings.  At least he carried him as far as the turn in the steep stairs, at which point he fell, just as his stepmother had feared, and Sidney with him.  The half-brothers arrived on the ground floor in company, but Horace, with his eleven stone two, was on top, and the poor suffering little convalescent lay moveless and insensible.

It took the doctor forty minutes to bring him to, and all the time the odour of grilled herrings, which formed part of the uneaten tea, made itself felt through the house like a Satanic comment on the spectacle of human life.  The scene was dreadful at first.  The agony then passed.  There were no bruises on the boy, not a mark, and in a couple of hours he seemed to be perfectly himself.  Horace breathed again, and thanked Heaven it was no worse.  His gratitude to Heaven was, however, slightly premature, for in the black middle of the night poor Sidney was seized with excruciating pains in the head, and the doctor lost four hours’ sleep.  These pains returned at intervals of a few days, and naturally the child’s convalescence was retarded.  Then Horace said that Airs Carpole should take Sidney to Buxton for a fortnight, and he paid all the expenses of the trip out of his savings.  He was desolated, utterly stricken; he said he should never forgive himself.  Sidney improved, slowly.

II

After several months, during which Horace had given up all his limited spare time to the superintendence of the child’s first steps in knowledge, Sidney was judged to be sufficiently strong to go to school, and it was arranged that he should attend the Endowed School at the Wedgwood Institution.  Horace accompanied him thither on the opening day of the term—­it was an inclement morning in January—­and left the young delicate sprig, apparently joyous and content, to the care of his masters and the mercy of his companions.  But Sidney came home for dinner weeping—­weeping in spite of his new mortar-board cap, his new satchel, his new box of compasses, and his new books.  His mother kept him at home in the afternoon, and by the evening another of those terrible attacks had supervened.  The doctor and Horace and Mrs Carpole once more lost much precious sleep.  The mysterious malady continued.  School was out of the question.

And when Sidney took the air, in charge of his mother, everybody stopped to sympathize with him and to stroke his curls and call him a poor dear, and also to commiserate Mrs Carpole.  As for Horace, Bursley tried to feel sorry for Horace, but it only succeeded in showing Horace that it was hiding a sentiment of indignation against him.  Each friendly face as it passed Horace in the street said, without words, ’There goes the youth who probably ruined his young stepbrother’s life.  And through sheer obstinacy too!  He dropped the little darling in spite of warnings and protests, and then fell on the top of him.  Of course, he didn’t do it on purpose, but—­’