So Doctor Palmer wrote at last to H.M.S. "Fervid," telling Chief-engineer Campbell, honestly and openly, the whole proceeding; concluding his letter with some kind and tender words of sympathy for him in his sorrow. Egerton was promptly packed off to his guardian, a stern, sour-faced London lawyer (his parents were both dead), with an explicit account of his conduct, and his consequent expulsion. In a very short time things went on much as usual at the school, to all external appearances. The excitement had died the usual death. It is not, however, to be wondered that both Doctor Palmer and Mr Prichard felt very uneasy at the total failure of the attempts to discover Harry's whereabouts. Mrs Valentine's distress could know no bounds, and both she and Mrs Bromley were full of indignation, woman-like, with everybody at the school. Boys and masters alike came in for blame from them. But it was all of no avail. Each day Harry was getting farther away from Wilton; more lost than ever; settling down deeper and deeper into that strange and motley mass of wanderers on the face of the earth, whose individuality nobody recognises, or cares to recognise. He had plenty to do. And work is the one grand thing that keeps us from too near communion with any sorrow it may be our lot to bear. Yet often and often, as they halted at different towns, Harry's heart would grow very heavy, as he saw among the spectators, numerous boys of his own age, well-dressed and cared-for, with happy faces full of astonishment and wondering admiration. And he thought of what might have been his lot, had it not been--for whom?--had it not been for Egerton, he might, like them, have been in his proper place, instead of the outcast that he was; and the old feeling of revenge grew firmer and stronger with his growing years. He must, he would, meet Egerton some day, and then, then he would settle the account that was between them. So time flew on, and Harry had been two years with Mr and Mrs Blewcome; and these years of "roughing it" had physically done him good. He had grown fast, and happily proportionally strong with his height; and you would not have recognised the Harry of fifteen in his common clothes, as being the same fragile boy of thirteen whom you saw that night in June weeping over his mother's grave in the moonlight. Still, in spite of his dress, you could see he was a gentleman, every inch his father's son. For it is not to be supposed, as some might hastily and ignorantly suppose, that Alan Campbell was not a gentleman, because he was an engineer.