“Do you think you could recognise your assailant—the boy who kicked you after you were down?” (a murmur ran round the school as the classes were ordered to defile slowly past Dr. Smith’s desk). Ben Travis walked with head erect—he would have scorned such a deed—and Laurence tried to do the same, but his cruel blue eyes could not meet those of his possible accuser. There was a struggle going on in the heart of Jabez. It was in his power to revenge himself for many taunts and sarcasms, and much previous abuse. He called to mind—for thought is swift—that Shrove Tuesday when Laurence and his friends caught him as he descended Mrs. Clowes’s steps with a penny-worth of humbugs in his hand, and snatching his cap from his head, kicked it about Half Street and the churchyard as a football. And he seemed to feel again the twitch at his dark hair and the dreadful pain in his spine and loins, as they bent him backwards over the coping of the low wall, in order to wrest his sweets from him, and held him there perforce till stout Mrs. Clowes, armed with a rolling-pin, came to his rescue, laying about her vigorously, and kept him in her back parlour until he revived. “Forgive and forget” are words for the angels, and Jabez was not an angel, but a boy with quick beating pulses, and a vivid memory. There was a fight going on in his breast fiercer than either that in Half Street or that in the College Yard. His sore, stiff limbs and smarting brow urged him like voices to “pay him off for all,” and revenge began to have a sweet savour in his mouth. As he hesitated, watching the slow approach of his foe among his nobler mates, a harsh voice behind him called out “Jabez, why do you not answer Dr. Smith?” The emphasis Joshua Brookes had laid upon the “Jabez” recalled the boy’s better self. The oft-repeated text flashed across his mind, “Jabez was an honourable man,” and it shaped his reply. “Well, sir, it was almost dark, and—and”—he was going to add too dark to distinguish features, but he recollected that that would be a falsehood, and lying was no more honourable than malice. “And you could not recognise him, you mean?” suggested Dr. Smith. His lip quivered. “No, sir, I do not mean that. It was very dark, but I think I should know him again. But, oh! if you please, sir, I should not like to turn him out of school. You see, we were all fighting together, and we were all in a passion, and—and—it would be very mean of me to turn him out of school because he hurt me in a fight” (Jabez did not say a fair fight). “Ah!” said Dr. Smith, and, turning to Mr. Terry asked, “Are all the Chetham lads reared on the same principle?” Then there was a low-voiced discussion amongst trustees and masters. Finally, Dr. Smith turned round. His clear eye had detected the culprit as he winced beneath the gaze of Jabez. But the injured boy had forgiven, and it was not for him to condemn.