Alas for gratitude! there was not a boy in that group to whom Mr. Rose had not done many an act of kindness; and to most of them far more than they ever knew. Many a weary hour had he toiled for them in private, when his weak frame was harassed by suffering; many a sleepless night had he wrestled for them in prayer, when, for their sakes, his own many troubles were laid aside. Work on, Walter Rose, and He who seeth in secret will reward you openly! but expect no gratitude from those for whose salvation you, like the great tenderhearted apostle, would almost be ready to wish yourself accursed. Nearly every one in that noisy group was abusing Mr. Rose. It had long been Brigson’s cue to do so; he derided him on every opportunity, and delighted to represent him as hypocritical and insincere. Even his weak health was the subject of Brigson’s coarse ridicule, and the bad boy paid, in deep hatred, the natural tribute which vice must ever accord to excellence. “You see how he turns on his pets if they offend him,” said Brigson; “why, even that old beast Gordon isn’t as bad.” “Yes; while poor Eric was reading, Rose reminded me of Milton’s serpent,” drawled Bull; “Hope elevates and joy brightens his crest.” “He-e-ar! He-e-ar!” said Pietrie; “_vide_ the last fifth form Rep.” “I expect Eric won’t see everything so much _couleur de Rose_ now, as the French frog hath it,” remarked Graham. “It was too bad to stand by and triumph, certainly,” observed Wildney. “I say, you fellows,” remonstrated Wright, who, with Vernon, was sitting reading a book at one of the desks, “all that isn’t fair. I’m sure you all saw how really sorry Rose looked about it; and he said, you know, that it was merely for the sake of school discipline that he put the matter in Rowlands’ hands.” “Discipline be hanged,” shouted Brigson; “we’ll have our revenge on him yet, discipline or no.” “I hope you won’t, though,” said Vernon; “I know Eric will be sorry if you do.” “The more muff he. We shall do as we like.” “Well, I shall tell him; and I’m sure he’ll ask you not. You know how he tries to stick up for Rose.” “If you say a word more,” said Brigson, unaccustomed to being opposed among his knot of courtiers, “I’ll kick you out of the room; you and that wretched little fool there with you.” “You may do as you like,” answered Wright, quietly, “but you won’t go on like this long, I can tell you.” Brigson tried to seize him, but failing, contented himself with flinging a big coal at him as he ran out of the room, which narrowly missed his head. “I have it!” said Brigson; “that little donkey’s given me an idea. We’ll _crust_ Rose to-night.” “To crust,” gentle reader, means to pelt an obnoxious person with crusts. “Capital!” said some of the worst boys present; “we will.” “Well, who’ll take part?” No one offered. “What! are we all turning sneaks and cowards? Here, Wildney, won’t you? you were abusing Rose just now.”