But as Harry took no notice of these remarks, Egerton solved the difficulty by saying curtly,-- "Campbell, it's your turn to tell a story, so look sharp, and begin." "I haven't got one to tell," answered Harry, as he sat, still undressed, on his bed, unlacing his boots. "Can't help that," said Egerton, "you must make up one. You're a good hand at that, aren't you?" he sneered, brutally. Those few words clenched the feeling of hatred that had been gradually growing in Harry's breast towards Egerton. Then first sprang up within him a great desire of revenge, which in after years increased with Harry's growth--of revenge on one who had thus blasted his reputation, it seemed for ever. It is true, he had but shortly risen from his knees. But do not call his prayers hypocritical, because these angry, revengeful thoughts had taken such root in him so soon. If we had not these passions we should be divine. The only strange thing is, he was so young; for "vengeance" is usually only the cry of those of mature age. But a consideration of the circumstances in which he was placed, and the advanced temperament of his mind, will make the wonder vanish. Harry took no notice of Egerton's speech as far as an answer was concerned. He went on unlacing his boots in silence; but he felt his face burn white with anger. "Now then, Campbell," cried Egerton, "none of your sulks; it won't do. Are you going to tell a story or not?" "No," answered Harry, bluntly and firmly. "But it's your turn, Campbell," expostulated some of the others, wanting the story, but yet not wanting a row. "I'd have tried to, if Egerton hadn't said that," answered Harry to the last speakers, whose tone seemed somewhat consolatory to him. "Hadn't said what?" they asked. "Why, said that I knew how to tell stories. You know what he meant, and it's beastly bullying, it is," went on Harry, impetuously and indignantly, "and he knows he's the liar, and not me," waxing bold from the apparent sympathy the silence of the room seemed to augur. But in that silence the anger of Egerton, and of a number of his special friends, was gathering; and the words were scarcely out of Harry's mouth, when a boot came through the darkness, hitting him on the shoulder, and then another, and another. Harry sat on his bed, boiling with rage. He did not feel in the mood for fighting, and besides, in the dark it was impossible. Then came another ominous silence; and suddenly a scuffle of feet sounded near his bed, and before he knew where he was, his bed was suddenly dragged out into the middle of the room, turned over, and clothes, boots, sponges, wet towels, and pillows heaped upon him.