“If they choose to make asses of themselves they must,” said Jock.  “It will be a bore, but one mustn’t mind things.  I say, Evelyn, suppose we make that promise of Armine’s over again together now.”

“It is only the engagement we made when we were sworn into Christ’s army at our baptism,” said the much more fully instructed Cecil.  “We always were bound by it.”

“Yes, but we knew nothing about it then, and we really mean it now,” said Jock.  “If we do it for ourselves together, it will put us on our honour to each other, and to Christ our Captain, and that’s what we want.  Lay hold of my hand.”

The two boys, with clasped hands, and grave, steadfast eyes, with one voice, repeated together—-

“We, John Lucas Brownlow and Cecil Fitzroy Evelyn, promise with all our hearts manfully to fight under Christ’s banner, and continue His faithful soldiers and servants to our lives’ end.  Amen.”

Then Cecil touched Lucas’s brow with his lips, and said—-

“Fellow-soldiers, Brownlow.”

“Brothers in arms,” responded Jock.

It was one of those accesses of deep enthusiasm, and even of sentiment, which modern cynicism and false shame have not entirely driven out of youth.  Their hearts were full; and Jock, the stronger, abler, and more enterprising had always exercised a fascination over his friend, who was absolutely enchanted to find him become an ally instead of a tempter, and to be no longer pulled two opposite ways.

“Ought we not to say a prayer to make it really firm?  We can’t stand alone, you know,” he said, diffidently.

“If you like; if you know one,” said Jock.

Cecil knelt down and said the Lord’s Prayer and the collect for the Fourth Epiphany Sunday.

“That’s nice,” was Jock’s comment.  “How did you know it?”

“Mother made us learn the collects every Sunday, and she wrote that in my little book.  I always begin the half with it, but afterwards I can’t go on.”

“Then it doesn’t do you much good,” was the not unnatural remark.

“I don’t know,” said Cecil, hesitating; “may be all this-—your getting right, I mean, is the coming round of prayers—-my mother’s, I mean, for if you take this turn, it will be much easier for me!  Poor mother! it’s not for want of her caring and teaching.”

“My mother doesn’t bother about it.”

“I wish she did,” said Cecil.  “If she had gone on like mine, you would have been ever so much better than I.”

“No, I should have been bored and bothered into being regularly good-for-nothing.  You don’t know what she’s really like.  She’s nicer than anyone—-as jolly as any fellow, and yet a lady all over.”

“I know that,” said Cecil; “she was uncommonly jolly to me at Eton, and I know my mother and she will get on like a house on fire.  We’re too old to have a scrimmage about them like disgusting little lower boys,” he added, seeing Jock still bristling in defence of Mother Carey.