"Boys, our doings in this world bear a bias generally to good or to evil, and they bring their consequences with them. Well-doing brings contentment and inward satisfaction; but ill-doing as certainly brings its day of retribution. The present day must be one of retribution to some of you, unless you are so hardened in wickedness as to be callous to conscience. How have----" The dean was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. St. John and Travice Arkell. They took off their hats; and their streaming hatbands swept the ground, as they advanced and stood by the dean. "Boys," he resumed, "how have you treated Henry Arkell? I do not speak to all; I speak to some. Lewis senior, does your conscience prick you for having fastened him in St. James's Church, in the dark and lonely night? Aultane junior, does yours sting you for your insubordination to him on Assize Sunday, when you exposed yourself so disgracefully to two of the judges of the land, and for your malicious accusation of him to Miss Beauclerc, followed by your pitiful complaint to me? Prattleton, have you, as senior of the school, winked at the cabal against him?" The three boys hung their heads and their red ears: to judge by their looks, their consciences were pricking them very sharply. "Lewis junior," resumed the dean, in a sudden manner, "of what does your conscience accuse you?" Lewis junior turned sick, and his hair stood on end. He could not have replied, had it been to save him from hanging. "Do you know that you are the cause of Henry Arkell's death?" continued the dean, in a low but distinct accent, which penetrated the room. "And that you might, in justice, be taken up as a murderer?" Lewis junior burst into a dismal howl, and fell down on his knees and face, burying his forehead on the ground, and sticking up his surpliced back; something after the manner of an ostrich. "It was the fall in the choir on Assize Sunday that killed Henry Arkell," said the dean, looking round the hall; "that is, he has died from the effects of the fall. You gentlemen are aware of it, I believe?" "Certainly they are, Mr. Dean," said the head master, wondering on his own account, and answering the dean because the "gentlemen" did not. "He was thrown down," resumed the dean; "wilfully thrown down. And that is the one who did it," pointing with his finger at Lewis junior. Two or three of the boys had been cognisant of the fact, as might be seen from their scarlet faces; the rest wore a look of timid curiosity; while Mr. Wilberforce's amazed spectacles wandered from the dean's finger to the prostrate and howling Lewis. "Yes," said the dean, answering the various looks, "the author of Henry Arkell's death is Lewis junior. You had better get up, sir." Lewis junior remained where he was, shaking his back as if it had been a feather-bed, and emitting the most extraordinary groans. "Get up," cried the dean, sternly.