"It is not that, Dale. You are very kind always in staying beside me; and I do not wish that you should give up play for my sake half so much as you do. But I was very, very wrong in meaning to tell you that secret. I should have been miserable by this time if I had." "But you promised. You must keep your promise. What would all the boys say, if I told them you had broken your promise?" "If they knew what it was about, they would despise me for ever meaning to tell--not for stopping short in time. That was only accident, however. But my secret is my own still." Dale's curiosity was so strong, that Hugh saw how dangerous it was to have tantalised it. He had to remind his friend of Mr. Tooke's having put all the boys upon honour not to inquire on this subject. This brought Dale to himself; and he promised never again to urge Hugh, or encourage his speaking of the matter at all. They then went to story-telling; but it would not do to-day. Hugh could not attend; and Dale could not invent, while there was no sympathy in his hearer. He was presently released, for it struck Hugh that he should like to write to his mother this very afternoon. His heart was heavy, and he wanted to tell her what was in it. Mr. Crabbe gave him leave to go home; and Dale was in time for plenty more play. Hugh had the great school-room all to himself; and as the window before his desk was open, he had the pleasure of the fresh air, and the smell of the blossoms from the orchard, and the sound of the waving of the tall trees in the wind, and the cawing of the rooks as the trees waved. These things all made him enjoy scribbling away to his mother, as well as finding his mind grow easier as he went on. Besides, he had not to care for the writing; for he had met Mr. Tooke by the church, and had got his leave to send his letter without anybody's looking at it, as he had something very particular to say. He wrote,-- "Dear Mother,--