There was a moment's lingering; either in surprise at the command, for it was completely out of routine, or for some other purpose. Could it be that the boys were deliberating, each in his heart, whether then to declare their feud against Paradyne? If so, nothing came of it. Bertie Loftus led the way through the room, and the rest followed him, including Paradyne. Mr. Baker was waiting for them. Mr. Baker was an irascible sort of gentleman who might have settled any dispute, any incipient rebellion, by caning around him indiscriminately. The room was large too, the table spacious, the diagrams on the walls were plentiful, and there was no chance of shutting out George Paradyne from a seat here. So the class had to bottle up its resentment for the present. Trace had not outwardly joined in the movement by word or look. Not in obedience to the advice given by his father the previous evening, but in accordance with his usual policy. Mr. Trace had casually remarked, "I'd not interfere with young Paradyne, Raymond, to oppress him. What passed was no fault of his, you know." Advice which Mr. Raymond had not the slightest intention of following. Some inward speculation was arising in his mind, touching the cause of Mr. Henry's absence, as just announced. Had he been dismissed? Had the boast—that the Head Master knew who he really was—been a false one, and had Mr. Henry, in consequence of the discovery, forced himself to declare his deceit, and been met by an abrupt dismissal? Trace would have given his two ears—as they say in France—for the knowledge, but did not see his way clear to get at it. As if to gratify him, Mr. Baker suddenly inquired of the class generally, if they knew why Mr. Henry was absent. George Paradyne, who was standing before one of the slates, following out its diagrams, turned round to answer. "Mr. Henry is gone out, sir. I went round this morning to borrow Ollendorf's key from him, and found him away. Mother Butter thought he had gone off somewhere by train." "I feared he might be ill," remarked Mr. Baker. "He has looked ill lately." "His wicked conscience smited him, He lost his stomach daily," sang Whitby in an undertone, quoting the lines from a once popular song that Mr. Lamb carolled on occasion for private benefit at bedroom festivals, and protested it had been composed by Tennyson. "Mr. Henry had another of those fainting-fits last night when I was reading with him," said George, in answer. "Mother Butter came in, and asked him what he meant by not getting advice for himself." "Attend to your business," roared out Mr. Baker by way of acknowledging the information. And they did it, one and all; bottling up their private grievances, as previously remarked, for a more auspicious opportunity. Which did not arrive until the close of morning school, so cross-grained and inconvenient a turn did the order of studies take that morning.