ow as she might.

They stopped at a cottage-door, and the schoolmaster knocked softly at
it with his hand. It was opened without loss of time. They entered a
room where a little group of women were gathered about one, older than
the rest, who was crying very bitterly, and sat wringing her hands and
rocking herself to and fro.

'Oh, dame!' said the schoolmaster, drawing near her chair, 'is it so
bad as this?'

'He's going fast,' cried the old woman; 'my grandson's dying. It's all
along of you. You shouldn't see him now, but for his being so earnest
on it. This is what his learning has brought him to. Oh dear, dear,
dear, what can I do!'

'Do not say that I am in any fault,' urged the gentle school-master.
'I am not hurt, dame. No, no. You are in great distress of mind, and
don't mean what you say. I am sure you don't.'

'I do,' returned the old woman. 'I mean it all. If he hadn't been
poring over his books out of fear of you, he would have been well and
merry now, I know he would.'

The schoolmaster looked round upon the other women as if to entreat
some one among them to say a kind word for him, but they shook their
heads, and murmured to each other that they never thought there was
much good in learning, and that this convinced them. Without saying a
word in reply, or giving them a look of reproach, he followed the old
woman who had summoned him (and who had now rejoined them) into another
room, where his infant friend, half-dressed, lay stretched upon a bed.

He was a very young boy; quite a little child. His hair still hung in
curls about his face, and his eyes were very bright; but their light
was of Heaven, not earth. The schoolmaster took a seat beside him, and
stooping over the pillow, whispered his name. The boy sprung up,
stroked his face with his hand, and threw his wasted arms round his
neck, crying out that he was his dear kind friend.

'I hope I always was. I meant to be, God knows,' said the poor
schoolmaster.

'Who is that?' said the boy, seeing Nell. 'I am afraid to kiss her,
lest I should make her ill. Ask her to shake hands with me.' The
sobbing child came closer up, and took the little languid hand in hers.
Releasing his again after a time, the sick boy laid him gently down.

'You remember the garden, Harry,' whispered the schoolmaster, anxious
to rouse him, for a dulness seemed gathering upon the child, 'and how
pleasant it used to be in the evening time? You must make