Harry Venniker turned on his side and fell asleep; or, if it was not sleep, it was the unconsciousness which anticipates sleep. He was awakened by a sound proceeding from a corner of the room. It was a noise so low that it seemed ashamed of itself. He sat up in the bed. He listened, but the noise was hushed; then it began again. He became convinced that it had some connection with Gerald Eversley. He got out of bed. The light of the moon was streaming through the window, and by the light of it he was aware that the boy, whose face was turned away, was sobbing with a heartbroken passionateness. His first thought, natural to a schoolboy, was, as it had been on the hillside, one of contempt. But again his kindness of heart guided him aright. He went and sat down on his room-fellow’s bed and laid his hand upon his shoulder. He was breaking a rule of the house in getting out of bed after the lights had been extinguished; but it may be that a Higher Authority than Mr. Brandiston would have acquitted him. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said in a whisper. No answer came, unless, indeed, it were a sob; but Harry knew by a sort of instinct that the boy was weeping for very loneliness and strangeness, and was experiencing that most honourable of human sentiments which is called home-sickness. It dawned upon him once more that he was called to be the friend and protector of this strange boy, his equal in years, though, if he had been asked what form his friendship or protection would assume, he could not have told it. After all, in this life, the deepest, holiest feelings are inexpressible. Gerald would not have understood him better, and would, I think, have trusted him less, if he had delivered a consolatory oration than when he put his hand upon his shoulder and kept it there. He said only, ‘Don’t cry any more. I’ll be your friend, I said I would, whatever happens, for ever.’ ‘For ever’ is not a long time in the parlance of schoolboys; it seems longer, perhaps, as we grow older. At last the sobbing became less convulsive; the tears ceased to flow; Gerald laid his head anew upon the pillow, and was at peace. Oh! the sorrows of a young heart, how strong they are and how terrible! penetrating, agonising, possessing themselves of the whole being, and turning the rich, prolific life into a wilderness! We speak of childhood as the time of cloudless joys, of unsullied happiness; but it is also the time when sorrow is most helpless, and the anguish of an hour is as that which endures eternally. Harry Venniker returned to bed and slept. In the morning he made no allusion to the incident of which the pale moon, throned in heaven, was the sole arbitress. Never since has he referred to it in conversation with Gerald Eversley; nor is there anyone who has learnt from him or will learn what took place. CHAPTER II TWO HOMES