the delight of all his friends, was now
rarely exhibited, except in the company of Wildney and Graham.

"I'm so wretched, Monty," said Eric at last; "do you think Rose despises
me?"

"I am _sure_ of the contrary. Won't you go to him, Eric, and say all
you feel?"

"Heigh ho! I shall never get right again. Oh, to recover the last two
years!"

"You can redeem them, Eric, by a wiser present. Let the same words
comfort you that have often brought hope to me--`I will restore the
years which the locust hath eaten.'"

They reached the school-door, and Eric went straight to the library.
Mr Rose was there alone. He received him kindly, as usual, and Eric
went up to the fireplace where he was standing. They had often stood by
that library fire on far different terms.

"Forgive me, sir," was all Eric could say, as the tears rushed to his
eyes.

"Freely, my boy," said Mr Rose sadly. "I wish you could feel how fully
I forgive you; but," he added, laying his hand for the last time on
Eric's head, "you have far more, Eric, to forgive yourself. I will not
talk to you, Eric; it would be little good, I fear; but you little know
how much I pity and tremble for you."

While these scenes were being enacted with Eric, a large group was
collected round the fireplace in the boarders' room, and many tongues
were loudly discussing the recent events.

Alas for gratitude! There was not a boy in that group to whom Mr Rose
had not done many an act of kindness; and to most of them far more than
they ever knew. Many a weary hour had he toiled for them in private,
when his weak frame was harassed by suffering; many a sleepless night
had he wrestled for them in prayer, when, for their sakes, his own many
troubles were laid aside. Work on, Walter Rose, and He who seeth in
secret will reward you openly! but expect no gratitude from those for
whose salvation you, like the great tender-hearted apostle, would almost
be ready to wish yourself accursed.

Nearly every one in that noisy group was abusing Mr Rose. It had long
been Brigson's cue to do so; he derided him on every opportunity, and
delighted to represent him as hypocritical and insincere. Even his weak
health was the subject of Brigson's coarse ridicule, and the bad boy
paid in deep hatred the natural tribute which vice must ever accord to
excellence.

"You see how he turns on his pets if they offend him," said Brigson;
"why, even that old beast Gordon isn't as bad."

"Y