I was bitterly hurt and chagrined. I felt that I had done the handsome thing by a boor, and had been meetly rebuffed for my condescension. I came back to Mr. Sant, swelling with indignation. He understood at a glance. “Give him time, Dick,” he said quietly; “give him time.” “He shall have all the time he likes, sir,” I said, “before _I_ meddle with him again.” He did not answer, which was perhaps wise; and we continued our walk. But thenceforth my heart was darkened to my unchivalrous foe, and when we passed in the street I ignored him. My studied indifference had not, however, the effect of making him avoid me. On the contrary, he seemed rather to resume his earlier practice, going out of his way to get in mine, and strutting by whistling to show his unconsciousness of my neighbourhood. Yet all the time, I knew, he was never more in need of a friend. Mr. Sant’s protest, followed by a public rebuke in the school, had put an end to the active bullying; but, to compensate themselves for this deprivation, his companions had, by tacit agreement, sent poor Harry to perpetual Coventry. He was disclaimed and excluded from all games and conversation; isolated in the midst of the others’ merriment. What this meant to the bright fallen little spirit only Lucifer himself, perhaps, could say; and only Lucifer himself, perhaps, so endure with unlowered crest while the iron ate into his soul. But, in justice to myself, I could make no further overtures where my every advance was wilfully misunderstood. So the year went its course without any reconciliation between us; and early in November fell a hard frost, with snow that seemed disposed to stop. Awaking one morning, we saw the whole land locked in white under a stiff leaden canopy, as if sea and sky had changed places. The desolation of this remote coast winter-bound it is impossible to describe. We seemed as cut off from the world as Esquimaux; and Uncle Jenico, who had never conceived such a situation, stood aghast before the prospect of a beach ankle-deep in snow. So we found it. The golden sand was all replaced by dazzling silver, into which the surf, so spotless in summer, thrust tongues of a bilious yellow. The sea, from being sportive with weak stomachs, looked sick unto death itself; and the wind in one’s teeth was like a file sharpening a saw. And all this lifelessness cemented itself day by day, until it seemed that we could never emerge again from the depths of winter into which we had fallen.