Citation
The cherry-stones, or, Charlton School

Material Information

Title:
The cherry-stones, or, Charlton School a tale for youth
Portion of title:
Charlton School
Alternate title:
Cherry stones a tale
Creator:
Adams, William, 1814-1848
Adams, H. C. (Henry Cadwallader), 1817-1899
Francis & John Rivington ( Publisher )
Gilbert & Rivington ( Printer )
Edmonds & Remnants ( Binder )
Place of Publication:
London
Publisher:
Francis & John Rivington
Manufacturer:
Gilbert & Rivington
Publication Date:
Language:
English
Edition:
2nd ed.
Physical Description:
viii, 143 p., <1> leaf of plates : ill. ; 17 cm.

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Boys -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Moral development -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
School children -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Publishers' advertisements -- 1852 ( rbgenr )
School stories -- 1852 ( local )
Remnant &amp; Edmonds -- Embossed cloth bindings (Binding) -- 1852 ( rbbin )
Remnant &amp; Edmonds -- Binders' tickets (Binding) -- 1852 ( rbbin )
Bldn -- 1852
Genre:
Publishers' advertisements ( rbgenr )
School stories ( local )
Embossed cloth bindings (Binding) ( rbbin )
Binders' tickets (Binding) ( rbbin )
novel ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage:
England -- London
Target Audience:
juvenile ( marctarget )

Notes

General Note:
"Works by the same author": verso of half-title.
Statement of Responsibility:
partly from the mss. of the Rev. William Adams ... ; edited by the Rev. H. C. Adams.

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
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University of Florida
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This item is presumed to be in the public domain. The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions may require permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact The Department of Special and Area Studies Collections (special@uflib.ufl.edu) with any additional information they can provide.
Resource Identifier:
026559405 ( ALEPH )
45816367 ( OCLC )
ALG1149 ( NOTIS )

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Full Text
ine tt
i.

rat aES





THE CHERRY-STONKES :

A Cale.





Works hp the same Author.

THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. An Allegory.
2s. Gd. bound in cloth.

Il.

THE DISTANT HILLS. An Allegory. (Printed
uniformly with the above.) 2s. 6d.

Itt.

THE OLD MAN’S HOME. A Tale. (Printed uni-
Sormly with the above.) 2s. Gd.

*,* A cheaper Edition of the above three Works may be had,
price 1s. each.

IV.

THE KING'S MESSENGERS. An Allegorical Tale.
(Printed uniformly with the above.) 2s. 6d.

v.
A COLLECTED EDITION of these FOUR ALLE-
GORIES, eleganily printed in one Volume, with a

Memoir and Portrait of the Author. Second Edition.
10s. 6d.

VI.

THE FALL OF CRESUS ; a Story from Herodotus,
designed to connect the Study of History with the Doc-
trine of a superintending Providence. 3s. 6d.

Vu.

THE WARNINGS OF THE HOLY WEEK, &c.;
being a Course of Parocuia, Lecruners for the Week
BEFORE Easter, and the Easter Festivats. Third
Edition. 5s.



"He cautiously raised himself an the Bough, and peeped over theWall a

~23.



: : Low Wo
London, Published by 1





THE CHERRY-STONES ;

oR,

CHARLTON SCHOOL. —

Cale for Pauth.

PARTLY FROM THE MSS. OF THE

REV. WILLIAM ADAMS,

AUTHOR OF “ THE SHADOW OF THE cRoss,” &e.

EDITED BY TRE

REV. H. C. ADAMS.

Seconds Edition.

LONDON:

FRANCIS & JOHN RIVINGTON,
ST, PAUL’S CHURCH YARD, AND WATERLOO PLACE,

1852.







LONDON
GILBERT & RIVINGTON, PRINTERS,

ST, JOHN’S SQUARE.





TO

JOHN W. ADAMS

AND

EMILY E. C. ADAMS

Chis little Balnme is Susrribed

THEIR AFFECTIONATE UNCLE

H.C. A.







PREFACE.

Many years have passed away since my lamented
brother first delighted a party of children, assem-
bled at a Christmas entertainment, with the simple
outline of this Tale. It was repeated by him on

other occasions of a similar kind; and he was often |

urgently entreated by his youthful audiences to
publish the Story. During the summer of 1842,

| after the first attack of the fatal disorder which

ultimately removed him from us, and before his
departure for Madeira in the autumn of that year,
he occupied himself in committing to writing the
larger portion of the Story, with the view of its
ultimate adaptation for the Press. The little Tale
was then laid aside, and the higher and more im-
portant publications, which afterwards occupied his
time, prevented its resumption, although the idea
was never wholly abandoned by him.

After his death, many friends, who remembered
the delight with which the Story had been listened
to, were desirous that it should be given to the





viii PREFACE.

world, and it was placed in my hands with that
intention.

I found it could not be published in its then
state. It was little more than » rough draft, with
marginal notes, and some portions not written at
all.

Notwithstanding this difficulty, we were anxious
for its publication. The Story not only contains
a practical and valuable Moral, but it is calculated
to influence that time of life which it is in general
peculiarly difficult to reach by such means. I
have, therefore, ventured to rewrite the Book,
retaining as far as possible the original MSS., and
supplying a continuation and conclusion in keeping
with it. That the Story must, under such circum-
stances, lose much of the beauty and interest
which it would have possessed if it had been com-
pleted by the mind by which it was originally con-
ceived, is sufficiently obvious; but I trust enough

remains to justify the publication, and to render |

the Work interesting as well as valuable to its

youthful Readers, for whose perusal it is principally ;

designed.
H.C. A.
WINCHESTER,
May 1, 1851.





CHAPTER I.

THE SLIGHT ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE.

“How tiresome!” exclaimed Charles Warbeck ;

! “how very tiresome, Harry! This is the third -

done it on purpose.”
“Tt is too bad!” “It is very ill-natured!” “It
is just like him!” was echoed from various parts

|

i

'

|

time you have knocked it over. You must have
| of the playground.

“How could I help it?” expostulated Henry |
Mertoun, the head boy of the school, a fine Jad in
his thirteenth year. ‘How could I help it, when ;

he would give me nothing but full pitches ?”
“Nonsense, Harry, you know very well you
might have blocked them if you had chosen.”
“Block them indeed,” rejoined Mertoun, in-
dignantly striking the ground with his bat as he
spoke; “a nice thing to be blocking full pitches—
| a nice way to be out, I think—and to be blocking,
| B



"way of preventing yourself or any onc else from being
- out, by putting a stop to the game altogether.”

2 THE CHERRY-STONES.





too, when we have twenty runs to get, and nobody
but Tommy Brook to go in!”

“Well, at any rate, you have taken an effectual

Such were the discontented exclamations that

. proceeded from the playground of Charlton School,
- on the afternoon of the 18th of June, 184—. A —

few words will explain what had caused the tem- :
porary unpopularity of Henry Mertoun. It was a
half-holiday, and the boys had been the whole |
afternoon engaged in the grand cricket. match of .
the half year. It had proved a most interesting
contest, Warbeck’s side had at one time deci-
dedly the advantage; but, in his second innings,
Mertoun had batted with such spirit and success, |
as bade fair to change the fortune of the day; and
as the game approached its conclusion, its issue ap-
peared so very doubtful, as to excite the utmost
anxiety both among the spectators and the com-
batants. Unluckily, however, there was a draw-
back peculiar to the ground on which they played.
Tt was bounded on one side by a brick wall, about :
nine feet high, and it occasionally happened that .
their matches were interrupted by the ball being —

- struck over this barrier into an adjoining orchard. '

Now, whether it was owing to Warbeck’s bad ©

|



THE SLIGHT ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE. 3



bowling, as Mertoun had affirmed, or to Mertoun’s
own impetuosity, as the popular voice had declared,
T cannot take upon myself to say ; but, within one
half-hour, he had three times struck the ball into
the forbidden territory. Dr. Young, their master,
had twice allowed them to go round to his neigh-
bour, Squire Ellison, to whom the orchard belonged,

' with a request to his gardener to throw their ball
' back again into the playground: but he had warned
' them at the same time that, if the accident again

occurred, he could not permit them to trouble Mr.
Ellison’s servant a third time. All the boys, young
and old, knew that there was no chance of Dr.
Young’s departing from his word. No one, indeed,

thought it worth while to make the attempt, so that _

it is not surprising that they thought it “too bad”
and “very ill-natured,” and declared that it was
“done on purpose,” and the like ; and were withal
very much disposed to be out of humour; whether
reasonably or unreasonably, with the cause of the
disaster, as it is the wont of boys and men to be,
when any thing occurs to mar their enjoyment.

The cricketers wandered listlessly up and down |

: the playground; for, after the excitement of the |

match, it was impossible to take interest in any

fresh game. There was a cloud on every face.
_ Some argued hotly on the probable result of the un- —

B2



| 4 THE CHERRY-STONES. |

~ finished match: each party maintaining that there

could be no doubt but that their side had had the |
advantage, and must have won if it had been con-
cluded. Others vented their spleen in murmurs

against every thing which seemed in any way con- -
nected with the mishap; and Mertoun’s batting, »
Warbeck’s bowling, Dr. Young, Squire Ellison, his .

~ orchard, his gardener, and, lastly, the wall of the
. playground—each came in for its share of censure. .
_ The wall in particular was the object of universal

disfavour. Never, probably, was any composition of —
brick and mortar subjected to such severe criticism, _
as the ill-starred wall in question. “It ought to

. have had palings on the top;”—“It ought to be

. nothing but palings ;’

—“Tt ought to be a great
deal lower ;”—“ It ought not to be there at all ;’—
“Tt ought to be there, and to be twice as high;”— .
were all urged and ali admitted ; it not making, ap-
parently, the slightest difference in the unanimity —
of the party, that no two agreed together in the

: fault they found. None of the party was more

thoroughly out of temper than Mertoun himself.!
He was vexed at the interruption of his imnings: |
he was vexed because he had ceased to be the object
of gencral admiration; above all, he was vexed be-
cause he felt that it was chiefly his carelessness that
had caused the accident. Discontent and idleness _



| THE SLIGHT ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE. 5

present occasion.

first class boys, who had been very loud in his ex-
pressions of disappointment. “What a pity that

or a foot or two lower!”

generally lead to mischief, and so it proved on the -

“ What a pity!” exclaimed Seymour, one of the

abominable wall was not built a foot or two higher, :

“A foot or two higher or lower,” said West; -

; “well, I do not see what good we should get if it |

: was a foot or two lower. We should only lose our
ball twice as often.”

“Tf,” replied Seymour, “it were a foot or two
' higher, there would be much less chance of the ball
' being knocked over; and if it were a foot or two

lower, we might manage to get over, and bring it
: back.”
“And why should we not get over as it is,”

suddenly exclaimed Mertoun, looking eagerly up at
the wall, “it would not be so very difficult ?”
“Oh, dear, no!’ remarked Seymour, ironically,

you had better perform this particularly easy feat,
and get it back again.”

This taunt, and the general laugh that followed
it, only stimulated Mertoun to make the attempt.

But it was an easier thing to resolve on than to



| « particularly easy, I declare; and I really think, ,

Harry, that as it was you who lost our ball, that .





6 THE CHERRY-STONES.

~ execute. The height, to be sure, was not very for-
midable; and the boy was well known as a bold and
active climber; but his performances had hitherto
been confined to trees, and how was he to com-
mence operations on a smooth surface of brickwork,
that offered neither trunk to swarm, nor branches
to cling to? If the wall had been decayed ever so
"little, or if even a single brick had been removed, the
‘ ease would have been different. But our hero (for
such Harry Mertoun may be styled) was not in a
humour to be easily discouraged. He took a care-
ful survey of the whole line of building, and his eye
soon rested on the only point which offered a pos-
sibility of success. Towards the further end of the
- wall, and at a short distance from the corner, there
was a buttress rising about five feet from the ground,
the top of which had been slightly worn away, so as
to afford a resting-place of about half an inch in
' breadth. It was a favourite amusement with the
younger boys to pitch their marbles so as to make
- them rest on this slight ledge; but it was so very
' narrow, that they but seldom succeeded in their
attempts.
“Tf” said Mertoun, as standing upon tip-toe he

tried with a‘large stone to knock away more of the -

brickwork from the top of the buttress, to the mex- |

pressible delight of his little brother, Walter, who



THE SLIGHT ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE. 7:

had passed a great part of the afternoon in vain ,

endeavours to make a favourite alley rest on the
ledge, “if I could only get my foot up there, I
could manage the rest easily enough.”

“ We will give youa lift,” shouted several voices.
“You can stand on me,” said West, leaning, as he
spoke, against the buttress, so as to offer his shoul-

_ der as a step.

“No, no,” eried Warbeck, who had hitherto

' taken no part in the proceedings, “it is impossible,

and he may break a limb; besides,’ he continued,

. Ina lower tone, “ what would Dr. Young say ?”

“ Never mind Dr. Young,” replied Mertoun,

~ recklessly ; “ it will be his own fault for not giving

‘ us leave to go round for the ball;

ta

more words, availing himself of the hands and

‘ shoulders of his companions, he made a vigorous

effort to reach the top of the buttress. Twice the
attempt failed, and the second time he tore his

and without .

trowsers against the sharp surface of the buttress; -

but the third trial was attended with more success. —

His spring succeeded, and for a moment he paused,

with his foot supported by the narrow ridge, and ©
the top of the wall grasped with both his hands. -

Still the work was only half accomplished.
“And now you have got your foot there, what
next ?” inquired Seymour, with a provoking laugh.



1

8 THE CHERRY-STONES.

Harry made no reply, but throwing all his strength |

into his arms, he slowly raised his body, until he

was able to get his knee on a level with his hands, |

and in an instant afterwards, waving his cap above

' his head, he stood triumphantly on the summit of
' the wall.

Once on the top, all the rest was easy. He

walked cautiously along, till he arrived at a point .
_ where a large branch of one of the trees rested —
: against the brickwork. Holding fast by this, he

, gtadually let himself down on the opposite side.

There was a moment of breathless expectation while |

he was hidden from the eyes of his schoolfellows ;
and then the cricket ball came bounding into the

playground, and announced the successful issue of |

the expedition.
“ Hush, hush!” cried several voices, as a general

shout was raised; “we shall have Dr. Young, or |

one of the ushers, out directly, to know what is the
matter, and then Harry will get into a nice scrape.
Make haste, Mertoun, there’s no time to lose.”

Our hero appeared to be perfectly aware of this

fact, without being reminded of it. To climb the
tree, and regain the top of the wall, was the work
of a moment; and then, without returning to the
point at which he had ascended, he let himself

' down as far as he could by his hands, and, assisted



THE SLIGHT ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE. 9

| by his companions, dropped quietly and safely to !

; the ground.

It will readily be believed, that this successful feat

|
|

. produced a complete revolution in the sentiments ,
of the little world of Charlton School. Mertoun’s ;
unpopularity passed away in amoment. He had ©

~ achieved what no one hitherto had even ventured |

. to attempt. There was, indeed, a legend still ex- .

tant, of some daring adventurer in the heroic ages

(there is always an heroic age in the traditions of

every school, in which the boys are related to have ©
been greater in size, and more venturous in spirit,)

who had scaled one of the walls of the playground,
and brought back with him a moss-covered brick,
as a memorial of his expedition, which might still
' be seen half-buried under the great buttress. But

' the boys in general held the tradition to be my- —

thical, nay, to have been altogether devised, in

order to account for the presence of the aforesaid —

moss-covered brick: and Harry was regarded quite |

as a hero by his companions. “ Bravo, Harry!

q29 :

- “Well done, Harry!’ “I should not have believed |
| it possible ;” “There is not another boy that would .
have ventured to attempt it;’ and the like, was |

. heard on all sides: whilst others, anxious to claim

any share, however trifling, in so glorious an under-
taking, disputed warmly as to who it was that



10 THE CHERRY-STONES.

guided his foot to the ledge of the buttress, and

. who gave him the last push which enabled him to
- get his hand to the top of the wall.

Poor Harry! he did, indeed, run a great risk of

- being spoiled. First, there had been his unusual

" guecess at cricket, and the proud thoughts to

which it had given rise; then a temporary reverse,
which, instead of subduing him, had only awakened

_ angry and rebellious feelings; then these had led

him on to commit an act of disobedience; and

; lastly, his disobedience had been attended with suc-

: cess, and the admiration of his schoolfellows. He

was more than ever full of proud thoughts. Thisday |

might, indeed, well prove the beginning of trouble.
_ “Well,” at length observed Seymour, after about
half an hour had been wasted in various expressions
of surprise and admiration, “I do not precisely see
what use it is having our ball back again, if we are

not to go on with the match.” Now it would seem ;
not a little strange that this obvious fact had not !
occurred either to Mertoun or his friends. There |
_ was no doubt that the interruption of the game
' had been regarded as a great hardship, and was the

cause of Iarry’s dangerous exploit. But no sooner

had the difficulty been removed, than they almost
' forgot to continue it. So much has imagination to

do with our worst misfortunes.





THE SLIGHT ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE. 11

Seymour’s hint, however, was no sooner heard.
than it was acted upon; but the long contested
game was not, after all, destined to be concluded.
Too much time had been lost. The wickets were
scarcely pitched again, before the bell rang for
supper, and the boys left the playground, convers-

ing as they straggled in, upon the various occur- |

rences of the eventful afternoon, which had just
come to a conclusion.

“Harry, Harry!” said little Walter Mertoun,
drawing his brother back from the crowd; “I am
so much obliged to you; only see what you have
done for me.”

“What are you worrying about ?” said Mertoun,
who had received too much flattery from his older
schoolfellows to wish to be detained by the praises
of a child of six years old.

“Only see how beautifully my alley balances on

| the place you made for it.”

“ T made for it,” said Harry, impatiently ; “ what
are you talking about ?”

“Why,” said Walter, innocently, “did not you
knock away the bricks with a stone for me ?”

“Well,” replied Harry, after a moment’s reflec-
tion, “if I did, you had better hold your tongue
about it ;” and he turned to follow his companions.

“But, Harry, please tell me one thing. Do



12 TNE CHERRY-STONES.

‘ you think it will be sate if I leave it there all
‘ night ?”
“eave what?” said Mertoun, again turning |

round—“ the buttress ?”

“No, no! the alley. Now you are laughing at
me, brother Harry.”

“Well, Walter, I do not think the alley will
walk away of its own accord.”

“Then you think it will be safe?” said Walter,
doubtfully.

“Oh, ay! quite safe—don’t tease,” hastily re- |

plied Mertoun, as he ran off to join his companions _
atthe supper table. Walter shook his head gravely, _
- as though he thought a matter of such importance
, ought not to be so lightly dealt with; and then,
_ giving one parting look at his favourite, he slowly

followed his brother’s steps.

Tt would have been well for Mertoun if the

events of the evening had ended with this conver-

‘ gation; and his exploit had led to no consequences

more serious than the balancing of his little bro-
ther’s marble on the ledge of the buttress. But an-
other question was asked in the supper-room by an
older boy, the results of which were very different.

“Mertoun,” whispered a voice in his ear, as he
tcok his seat at the table, “did the fruit in the

~ crehaid look very tempting ?”



THE SLIGHT ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE. 13

Harry started as he heard the words. He had
not observed who his neighbour on the left hand
was; and on turning round to reconnoitre him, he
was not particularly pleased to find himself seated
next to Edward Sharpe, a boy in the first class not
much younger than himself, but: who had only lately
come to the school, where he was already notorious
for suggesting schemes of mischief which he had
not courage to execute himself.

“ Really,” replied Harry, “I had no time to
look ; but I do remember,” he continued, after a
moment’s recollection, “that there was a most

splendid cherry-tree, covered with fruit, at the foot

of which I found he ball.”

“Ah! then,” said the other slily, “let me go

halves with you in the cherries you gathered.”
“The cherries I gathered!” exclaimed Harry, in

great surprise, “I did not go into the orchard to

gather cherries, I went to look for the ball.”

“But when you were there, you know it did not |
much matter what you went for. So you were '

under a ripe cherry-tree, and let the cherries off!
Are you certain you gathered none?”

“Indeed, I did not; I had something else to .

' think of. Besides, Edward, surely it would have
been stealing Squire Ellison’s cherries.”
“Stealing, indeed! as if Squire Ellison would



14 THE CHERRY-STONES.

mind a few cherries out of that large orchard! And
if he did, it would serve him right for not sending
the boys some fruit.”
“But he did send us some last year, and perhaps
he will do so again.”
“ Perhaps he may,” rejoined Sharpe, “and perhaps
he may not; and ‘ perhaps’s’ may be good things
as well as cherries; but if my foot had once got
into his orchard, there would have been no ‘ per-
haps’s’ for me.”

The conversation, which had been carried on in
a low whisper, was here interrupted by a summons
to prayers. But it had lasted long enough to give a
new turn to the thoughts of Harry Mertoun. It
was perfectly true, as he had said, that while in the

orchard the idea of taking the fruit had never ,
occurred tohim. But he began now more than half -

to repent of his own honesty. It was, he reasoned,
overstrained to call picking a few cherries off a large
tree robbery. And such splendid cherries too.

“Well, however,” thought he, “the opportunity is

gone by, and after all I am not sorry that I did not
think of picking them, while I was there.”

Notwithstanding this conclusion, however, his :

mind ran upon the subject during the whole of the .

prayer-time that evening; nor did he make any |

decided effort to shake it off. There was one very



THE SLIGHT ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE. 15



sad consequence arising from this. He retired to ©
rest without having implored forgiveness for his
fretfulness and disobedience during the day; and .
without having asked for protection during the
dangers of the night. No one can tell how much
misery might have been spared him, if this evening _
he had but once thought seriously on the words
“lead us not into temptation” which his lips
repeated.



CHAPTER II.

THE GRAVE ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE.

Ir was remarked that evening by the boys who

slept in the same room with Mertoun, that he was ~
- unusually silent. Though generally disposed to be —

' talkative, especially when any thing interesting had

occurred, he this evening scarcely joined in the |

conversation, notwithstanding that it turned en- :
, tirely on the stirring incidents of the day, in which |

he had borne so conspicuous a part. The boys,
however, were much tired, and the conversation
soon dropped from its first animated flow to a few
scattered observations at longer and longer in-

tervals; until at last the most profound silence |

pervaded the apartment.
But Mertoun could not compose himself to rest.

: We have seen that he had retired to bed without

having really offered a single prayer for protection
during the dangers of the night. We cannot,





|

THE GRAVE ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE. 17

therefore, wonder that the evil thoughts of the

day should continue to haunt him. Long after —

the heavy breathing of the boys around him had
announced that he was the only one awake, he was

tossing restlessly upon his pillow. He thought .
| again and again over the events of the day: his

success at cricket; his clamber over the wall; the
admiration which his skill and boldness had ob-
tained. Still he was restiess and dissatisfied. The
evil desires, which Sharpe’s conversation at the
supper table had raised in his mind, gained strength

the more he dwelt on them. He could not drive |

the provoking cherry-tree, with its ripe and beauti-
ful fruit, from his thoughts: and the more he in-

dulged his longings, the more clear and distinct |

the recollection of all he had seen grew in his

imagination. More than once, as he was dropping |

off to sleep, he was roused by finding himself |

stretching out his hand to catch at the imaginary
fruit. Eleven, twelve, one, two o’clock struck.
At length, without any settled purpose, he stole
out of bed, and crept cautiously to the window.

It was a fine moonlight night; and every part of

the playground, and orchard beyond, was distinctly

visible in the clear white light. The wall, seen

from the height at which he stood, seemed a very ;

slight separation between them,—and there, just





18 THE CHERRY-STONES.

{

where his imagination had placed it, stood the ~

tempting cherry-tree. Up to this night it had

never occurred to Harry, or to any other of the —

boys, that the orchard, which they saw from their
bed-room window, was within their reach: but now
that he had actually surmounted the obstacle that

lay between them, he had exposed himself to a —
- temptation hitherto unknown to him. As he looked
| eagerly on the scene of his afternoon’s adventure,

the thought suddenly rushed into his mind, why
should he not go down stairs now: again climb the
wall of the playground, and possess himself of
some of the delicious fruit. For a moment he
repelled the thought, but the next it returned with

' redoubled force. The temptation, indeed, assailed

him in more than one weak point. He was naturally
fond of sweet things; and if he had not been
carefully brought up, might have become a greedy
boy. And, on the present occasion, he had thought
upon the cherries for such a length of time, that he

| felt an extraordinary desire to obtain them. But
another point in his character exposed him still more |
| to danger. He was remarkable for a strong love of
| the romantic and adventurous ; as, indeed, is com-

monly the case with boys of a warm and eager

temper. Tales of wild and perilous exploits would -
at all times arrest and rivet his attention, often to |





THE GRAVE ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE. 19 ;

_ the neglect of serious duties: and he was apt to lose -

all recollection of the folly and criminality of some '
‘ of his heroes, in his admiration of their unbounded ;
; and desperate courage. And as he now thought of
the daring and romance of going alone, at the dead
of night, and scaling a wall which none of his -

schoolfellows would venture to attempt in open
day, he felt his heart beat more quickly, and a

thrill of strange feverish delight spread through ,

his veins. The temptation prevailed; and he .
resolved to make the attempt. Noiselessly hurry- |

ing on his clothes, he gave an anxious glance at

his unconscious companions, who were sleeping
soundly after the labours of the day; and then,
taking his shoes in his hand, crept softly out of
the room.

The staircase which led to the boys’ dining and
school room was nearly dark, and as he groped his
way cautiously across the passage, and descended

, Step by step, it seemed so very long, that he

thought it would never end. He could scarcely

persuade himself’ it was the same staircase he was ;

accustomed to bound so lightly down in the morn-
ings, and which did not then seem more than a

dozen steps. More than once in his descent he |
paused to make sure that he was not observed, and °
fancied he heard distant noises ; but when he listened —

c 2



|
|
|

'
’

20 THE CHERRY-STONES. |



all was quict around him, save the slow ticking of
the staircase clock.

Arrived at the foot of the stairs, he had still
three rooms to pass through before he reached the

' playground—the dining-room, the school-room itself,

and an outer room, im which the boys’ trunks were
kept, and which went commonly by the name of the
marching-room, because in rainy weather the boys
used to have their drilling lesson there. The doors
of all these rooms he expected to find unfastened ;
and though the outer door of the marching-room,
which opened into the playground, would of course
be locked, yet he knew the key was always left in
the lock on the inside. He was not mistaken. On
trying the dining-room and school-room doors, they
opened without difficulty. He encountered no ob-
stacle as he passed stealthily and silently through .
them. Grim and ghostlike appeared the desks
and forms as the moonlight streamed in full
upon them. As he looked round, he could hardly
realize to himself that it was the scene of his daily
labours, so different was its unbroken stillness, and
its general aspect, under the cold whito light of the
moon, from the glare, and noise, and bustle which
enlivened it by day. Its silence and loneliness
made his heart beat more quickly, and he was glad .
when, unlocking the door of the marching-room, he



|
THE GRAVE ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE. 21

- found himself clear of the house, and stepped joy-
_ fully out into the cool night air.

His first impulse was to cast a hasty glance at the
' windows of the house, to make sure that none of
the family had been disturbed. Every thing was
profoundly still. So far, then, all had gone well.
He moved along under the shadow of the wall,
until he came to the buttress by which he had made
his former ascent; but here an obstacle encoun-
tered him which he had altogether forgotten to
provide for. On the previous afternoon, he had
reached the top of the buttress by the assist-
ance of his schoolfellows. Now, however, he was
entirely alone, and how was he to begin to climb ?
. For a few moments he was baffled. “I will
not give it up, though,” said he to himself, as
he measured the height of the wall with his eye;

“T will not give it up. The greater the difficulty,
the greater the glory; I will manage it somehow,
I am resolved.” As he pondered thus, his eye sud-
. denly rested on a bench which had been brought ‘
out of the marching-room on the afternoon of the

match for the use of the boys during the game. '
“The very thing,” he exclaimed ; “how stupid of
' us not to think of this bench yesterday! Ay,’ he
' pursued, as he laid it with its back resting against
the buttress, and its legs projecting outwards



. from the wall, “this will make a famous ladder.”

and it was only by a vigorous effort that he saved

: recover his equilibrium. “It is Walter’s tiresome

- before; “what a provoking child he is!” Having

| his misfortune, he put the marble into his pocket,

22 THE CHERRY-STONES.



Scrambling, first on to the lower, and then the |
upper legs, he speedily contrived to reach the posi- |
tion from which he had, on the first occasion, suc- |
ceeded in raising himself to the top of the wall:
but as he rested on the ledge previously to making
the requisite spring, his left foot suddenly slipped :

himself from falling headlong into the playground.
As it was, he was obliged to step hastily on to the
bench, and from thence to the ground, before he could

marble,” muttered he, as he picked up the alley, |
which, it will be remembered, his little brother had .
balanced on the ledge of the buttress the night

thus vented his anger on the unconscious cause of

- and recommencing the ascent, soon arrived at the

: top of the wall.

As, however, he was in the act of lowering
himself by the branch of the tree into the orchard, |
his ear caught a sound which filled him with dis- .
may. It was a rapid scuffling of feet in the play-

: ground below, as though some one were running

|

hastily from the house, in the direction of the but-
tress. He clung to the tree in an agony of fear,



not daring either to advance or recede. After re-
maining some minutes in this position, his anxiety
prevailed so far over his fears, that he cautiously
raised himself on the bough, and peeped over the

wall. The first glance reassured him. The occu- | ©

pant of the playground, whose footsteps had caused

THE GRAVE ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE. 23

him so much alarm, was only a favourite spaniel ;

belonging to Dr. Young, whose kennel stood in the
garden adjoining the playground, but who was often
left untied at night. The animal was greatly petted
by the boys, and especially by Mertoun, with whom
it was a frequent amusement to make his canine
friend jump over sticks, or run races round the
playground. This proved fortunate for him on the
present occasion. He had scarcely raised his head
from his lurking-place, before the quick instinct of
the dog had discovered him, and doubtless, had he

_ been a stranger, she would instantly have broken

out into a loud and angry bark. As it was, how-
ever, she contented herself with informing him, by
alow whine, that she was aware of his presence,

' and that she wanted him to come down from the

wall, and join her in some frolic. “ Hush, Juno,

hush!” exclaimed Harry; “hush, good dog;” and
although puzzled at so unusual a request from

' Mertoun, Juno so far complied as to desist from

_ whining, and deliberately seating herself opposite





24 THE CHERRY-STONES.

to the tree, appeared to be speculating with much
' gravity as to the next step which Harry would take.
' ‘Relieved from his immediate embarrassment, |
Mertoun paused. He felt more than half disposed |
to return to ns bed, and abandon the adventure
altogether; but the Tempter now awakened his
pride, and so added a fresh motive for persisting. |
How inglorious, he whispered in his ear, to go
- back now, after all your grand resolutions, and the
risks you have run, and only because you have been
frightened by a dog! Above all, to abandon your
enterprize at; the very moment when the prize
is within your grasp! Why, you can all but reach
the cherries from your present resting-place. “No,
no,” said he, yielding to these thoughts, “it would |
be cowardly, indeed, to give it up now ;” so witha |
parting admonition to Juno to remain quiet, he .
descended swiftly and noiselessly into the orchard, |
and stood, for the second time, at the foot of the _
cherry-tree.

i
j
a iy
|
|

But he had reckoned too far on Juno’s obedience.
So long as Harry continued in sight, she considered -
that she had some security that he was not going :
to baulk her of her expected frolic; but, no sooner '
had the boy disappeared, than she began a series of
whines, each rising louder than the last, aceom-
panied by an occasional short, sharp bark. Mertoun



THE GRAVE ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE. 25

' saw that no time must be lost in returning, lest

the house should be disturbed by her increasing °

clamour. He dared not stop to eat the fruit he had ,
, gathered; but, thrusting a few of the cherries into :
_ his pocket, he hastily reclimbed the wall, and dropped -
~ into the playground. The dog greeted his return —

with unbounded delight, scuffling round and round

- him, and making frantic attempts to jump up and

lick his face. With difficulty—for he did not dare

to elevate his voice—he succeeded in moderating |

' his companion’s excessive and most inopportune |

flow of spirits; but, at length, the dog was pacified, |
and Harry had time to think over what had hap-
| pened. The excitement had passed. The offence

was committed: and its full extent now for the

: first time rushed upon him. It was not the |

- number of cherries he had taken; it was the |

_ act of taking them which appalled him. He -
- could scarcely believe he had really stolen them,
‘and that he, Henry Mertoun, was actually a -

_ thief! For he was by no means an unprincipled
boy. We have seen that he had exposed himself by |
_ his discontent and disobedience to temptation, and .

that he had yielded to it; but in general his

' character stood high, both in the estimation of

the masters and the boys, for honesty and sincerity. ©
It was only a few days before that Dr. Young had —



26 THE CHERRY-STONES.

said publicly of him before the whole school, that he
did not believe any thing would induce Henry Mer-
toun to tell a falsehood ; and his remorse at what he

had ever felt in his life. How could he be so
i wicked! How gladly would he give up—not merely

the few cherries, which were now valueless to him
: —but all he had in the world, if he could only undo
' the work of the last quarter of an hour! But this,
_ he sadly reflected, was impossible. He might be
sorry for it—he might resolve never to be led into
such guilt again—he might do all in his power to

atone for it; but he could not undo it. He became
painfully conscious of that most terrible feature in

an act of sin, that it is irrevocable. “Oh!” said he,

“if Ican only get back quietly to my room again,
: this will be a lesson I shall not soon forget.”

But there was much to be done before he could
with any safety think of retiring to rest. His first

care was to remove the bench, and place it in its

had now done made him more miserable than he '

former position. In the next place the fruit was :
to be disposed of; and here again the terrors of an |

' evil conscience haunted him, and raised doubts and |

, could have produced. If, reasoned he, the fruit be
: found in my possession, suspicion must of course

fears in his mind, which the sense of guilt alone —

‘ light upon me. IfI throw the cherries over the |





THE GRAVE ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE. 27

wall, Mr. Ellison’s gardener will find them in the
morning, and will make inquiries as to who gathered
them. If I leave them in the playground, there
will be still greater risk of detection. He did not
feel the slightest inclination to eat them; indeed,
i they had become hateful to him as evidences of his
| guilt. No other mode of disposing of them, how-
ever, occurred to him, and he accordingly thrust
them hastily into his mouth. But, alas! no sooner
was this done, than the same terrors, created
by the same causes, met him in a new shape.
What was to be done with the stones? There
they were—seven in number—each of them, in
' his excited fancy, telling its tale of a cherry that
. had been stolen! how must they be disposed of?

! Helooked at Juno. The dog was employing herself |
: in scraping a hole in a corner of the playground. |
“You are right, Juno,” said Harry, speaking to |

her, as though he thought she had seen the diffi- ,

culty, and had suggested a way of removing it,
“we must bury them.” And as he spoke he en-

' larged the hole with a stick, till he had made it ;

: sufficiently deep for his purpose; and then, first '

throwing the stones into the hole, he carefully co-
vered them upwith earth, scattering a little loose dust —

. over the spot, so as to make it appear as though the |
_ ground had never been disturbed ; and this he ma- -



28 THE CHERRY-STONES. |

naged so successfully, that when it was done, he
could himself scarcely recognize the spot. “There,”
said he, as he sprinkled the last handful of dust,
“there let them lie, they at least shall not betray me.”
He then thought that every thing was safe, and !
that he might return without risk of discovery to
his bed-room. He had scarcely, however, reached !
the door of the marching-room, when he remem- ‘
bered that he had his little brother Walter’s alley
still in his pocket. This favourite marble of the .
little boy’s had a dark red ring round the centre: |
and might be recognized amongst a thousand. |
That child, reasoned he, in the restlessness of his -
uneasy conscience, will be sure to make a hue and
ery after his marble to-morrow when he finds it has -
been removed from the buttress ; and how am I to
* account for having it in my possession? Wearied
and sick at heart as he was, he returned to the .
buttress, in order to replace it on the ledge. But
this proved no easy matter. His hand shook so
violently, that the marble rolled off no less than -
five times from the narrow slip of wall, on which —
he endeavoured to fix it. The poor boy was more
overcome by this little difficulty than he had been
by his greater troubles. He burst into tears, and -
was, in his vexation, on the point of throwing away
_ the alley, and abandoning the attempt. But if I do,

I





THE GRAVE ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE. 29



again the thought occurred to him, Walter will be -

searching all over the playground for it, and perhaps

make one more attempt, and it proved successful.
The marble settled firmly on the top of the buttress,
and Harry, retracing his steps as quickly as he

| could across the playground, and persuading Juno

to go into the garden, closed the gate upon her, and
then re-entered the marching-room.

We need not follow him through the remainder
of his progress. We may easily imagine the
mingled fretfulness and alarm with which he drew

‘ will light upon the cherry-stones. He resolved to

the noisy bolts, and turned the creaking key; the |
fear and trembling with which he passed through .

the three rooms, and up the staircase, now faintly .

tinged with the morning light; and the hurried ©
glance he cast round him, as he re-entered his bed-

room, lest any of his companions should have de-
tected his absence. But they were all sleeping
soundly and peacefully, just as when he had left
them. It was evident no one in the room had
been disturbed. He hastily slipped off his clothes,
and the clock struck three as he stepped into bed.
—But a single hour had elapsed since he had first
got up to look out of the window: but it was the
longest and most wearisome hour that Harry
Mertoun had ever passed.



. Upon this latter point they were not long left

CHAPTER IIT.

WALTER'S ALLEY.

Iv was nearly half-past six o'clock. The first bell
had rung more than twenty minutes, and the boys _
in Mertoun’s room were dressed and ready to go
down stairs. Harry, however, still continued in bed,
notwithstanding the most strenuous efforts on the

part of his companions to arouse him. It was in
vain that they reminded him that he would forfeit
marks; that he would have a heavy imposition ;
that it would not improbably lose him his prize,
and the like. To all these representations he re-
turned drowsy and fretful answers. The second bell |
sounded. Mertoun still refused to rise; and the |
boys hastened down stairs, speculating as they went
on the unaccountable conduct of their schoolfellow,
and whether Dr. Young would discover his absence.

in doubt. Prayers were scarcely over, before Dr.



WALTER'S ALLEY. 31

Young’s quick eye was observed glancing round
the school-room, as though he had perceived that
some one was absent. ‘“ Where,” said he, “is
Henry Mertoun?” There was a short pause; and
then Charles Warbeck replied,“ I believe, Sir, he
has overslept himself this morning. He seemed
very tired, and, I think, must be a little unwell.”

“Tired, and unwell,” said the Doctor, as he left
the school; and the next instant his heavy footstep :
was heard ascending the staircase that led to -

Mertoun’s room.

Our hero’s slumbers were still unbroken when |
his master entered the apartment, and stood silently |
by his bedside, watching for several minutes, with :

much interest, the features of the sleeping boy. It
was evident, that though his repose was deep, it
was by no means refreshing. His hands were
tightly clenched, and the muscles of his face worked
convulsively, as though he were engaged in some
imaginary struggle; and one foot which protruded

from the counterpane, was slightly stained with |

blood.

“ Mertoun,” said the Doctor, gently laying his -

hand on his shoulder; “do you know what o’clock
it is P””
“ Off, off, Juno!” exclaimed Harry in his sleep.
“Do you hear me, Sir?” said Dr. Young, in



|
|

32 THE CHERRY-STONES.

' a louder tone, shaking him by the arm as he



| spoke.

“ Off, Juno, off, you will crush me!” again ex- .
claimed the sleeper; and as he uttered these words —

he opened his eyes, and fixed them in silent asto-
nishment on the figure of the Doctor standing by

| his bedside.

“ Well, Harry,” said Dr. Young, who could not
forbear smiling at the dismay expressed on the
boy’s countenance ; “ what did you take me for ?”

“J—I beg your pardon, Sir,” stammered Harry,

' only half awake; “I believe I had a disagreeable



dream, that Juno was sitting on my breast, and

| stifling me with her paws.”

“Ah, a nightmare,” said Dr. Young. “ You

; are not well, Mertoun; you must have eaten some-
| thing that has disagreed with you.”

“Oh, no, indeed!’ exclaimed the conscience- _

stricken boy, in alarm; “I am not in the least ill,
indeed I am rot.”

“How then comes it that you are so late?”
pursued the Doctor. Harry made no reply.

“Well, Mertoun,” rejoined the other, after a
moment's pause, “I am glad, at least, you do not
attempt to deccive me by pretending to be ill. I
had rather see you guilty of almost any fault than
deceit. So, as you are usually punctual, I shall



9

WALTER'S ALLEY. 33
|
|

t
t



take no further notice of this irregularity. Dress .
yourself, and come down as quickly as you
can.”

He turned to leave the room, but, as he did so, ;
his eyes again fell on the foot which Harry had .
still left uncovered. “Why you have hurt your
foot, my boy,” said he, kindly stooping down to
view it more narrowly: “and very recently, too.
In what game was this done?”

“T—I do not know,” replied Mertoun. “TI -
suppose I must have scratched it against the bed-
post, during the night; it was not done when I
went to bed last night.”

“You must have been indeed restless, then,”
said Dr. Young; “are you sure,” he added, as he ~
paused with his hand on the lock of the door, “ are
you sure there is nothing the matter with you?”

“ Quite sure, Sir, nothing at all,” replied Harry.

Dr. Young left the room, and no sooner was he

gone than Harry Mertoun burst into a flood of -
tears.

He had, indeed, much to make him unhappy.
it was true he had escaped detection, but his escape
had been dearly purchased by equivocation and ~
deceit. It was in vain that he tried to persuade
hirhself that he had not said any thing untrue. “I
did not tell him,” said he to himself, “that I had |

D



. Bh THE CHERRY-STONES.

not eaten any thing out of the common way, but

only that I had not eaten any thing that had dis-
agreed with me, and I do not know that the
cherries did disagree with me: and as for my foot,

_ I suppose it was hurt in the night, and I do not

know how I hurt it, so that was true at all events.”
And so indeed it was, and evidenced his strongly
excited state during his expedition: for he must,

' without being aware of it, have cut his foot in

some manner while climbing the wall. But although
all this was true as regarded the letter, he felt in
his heart that both his answers were, in spirit,
evasions of the truth; and now, when it was too
late, he wished that he had had courage to make a
full confession. “ Why,” thought he, “when his
hand was on the door, and he spoke to me in that
kind voice, why did I not obey the impulse that
prompted me to tell him the truth?” Above all,
the remission of his punishment by Dr. Young, -
because he had not acted deceitiully, smote upon
his conscience. He felt that, to receive this praise, .
and avail himself of the Doctor’s indulgence on
grounds so entirely false, was a great aggravation
of his offence.

This inward struggle continued for some time,
but the wish for concealment at length prevailed.
It wanted only four days to the end of the half



WALTER'S ALLEY. 35

| year, and Henry Mertoun was the favourite among

. his schoolfellows for the first prize both in classics

and ciphering. If Dr. Young should hear of an
offence so grave as a midnight attempt to steal fruit,
all chance of a prize, he well knew, was at an end;
for, however regular or diligent a boy might be,
an act of dishonesty was considered sufficient to
exclude him from all hope of reward. “ You have
got the highest marks in your class,” he had said ”

~ at Christmas to a clever boy whom he had detected :

in a falsehood; “but I cannot give you the prize.
Diligence and great talents may be turned to evil
as well as good account: unless they are accom-
panied by straightforwardness and honesty I will —
never encourage them.” .

This was the very reflection that should have led

‘ Mertoun at all hazards to tell the truth: but,

unhappily, he thought only of his prize, and the -
shame to which exposure would subject him; so he
determined to drown the reproaches of his con-
science by mixing with the boys again; and,jumping |
out of bed, he hurried over his prayers, and hastily -
dressed himself. He had not quite finished, when
he heard a step on the staircase. The least circum-
stance was now sufficient to alarm him. Throwing
down his waistcoat, he began in great haste to pull
on his shoes, for his stockings were so soiled with
D2



36 THE CHERRY-STONES.



mud and sand as to be likely to lead to awkward
questions ; and there was, moreover, a hole in the
bottom of one of them, and a slight stain of blood
that corresponded too nearly with the wound on his |
foot, not to afford to his disturbed state of mind |
a most unpleasant risk of discovery.

The second shoe was not quite on when the door
opencd, and Charles Warbeck presented himself. |
“Come, Harry,” he said; “what atime you have |
been! Mr. Powell sent me up to look for you. |
He thought you must have fallen asleep again.” |

“Tam just ready,” said Harry, “only this tire-
some shoe never will come on. It feels as if there
were a stone sticking in the toe of it.”

“ Off with it, man, then, and look,’ said Charles ;
“can I help you?” .

“No, I thank you,” replied Mertown, quickly |
alarmed at the notion of his schoolfellow secing the |
condition of his stocking. “I can manage it per- ;
fectly,” and, with a violent effort, he forced his foot |
into the shoe. “ Now,” said he, “ it is all right.”

Notwithstanding this assertion, however, it soon ,
appeared that it was not all right, for he had :
scarcely made three steps towards the door, when '
Warbeek exclaimed, “ Why, Harry, you are walking
lame, your shoe must hurt you.”

“Tt’s all mght, I tell you,” replied Mertoun,

nnn _ _. _





WALTER'S ALLEY. 37

pettishly ; “surely I must know best whether it
hurts me or not.”

“Certainly, Harry; but nevertheless you walked
a little lame; not that that is any great wonder,
considering your climb over the wall.”

“My climb, Charles! what do you mean?”
stammered Mertoun, stopping short in the middle
of the room, and turning very pale.
| “ What do I mean ?” rejomed Warbeck, greatly
: astonished at the tone in which the question was
asked; “your climb after the ericket-ball, to be
i sure. You have not forgotten that already, I

suppose.”

Harry at once saw how nearly he had betrayed
| his own secret. Conscience had led him to mistake
' the meaning ofa very simple question, and another
| falsehood was the consequence. “Of course, I -
| knew you meant that, Warbeck; but how could it
! possibly lame me ?”
| “Why, you might have sprained your foot in
getting down.”

|
'
|
i
!
'
i
|
t
i
|
i
i
'

; ground, and that his wisest course was to take
! refuge in silence. Charles Warbeck, who was a
| good-natured boy, and who saw that for some

unexplained reason the subject was distasteful to

!
|
i
|
|
|
|
Harry felt that he was treading on dangerous
|
|
|
| his companion, did not pursue it further, and they



38 THE CILERRY-STONES.

descended the stairs together without continuing
the conversation.

School was over, and the boys all assembled at
breakfast, when Charles and Harry entered the

room. “low is your foot, Mertoun?” said the -

Doctor, as our hero made his appearance.
“Quite well, Sir, thank you,” replied Warry,
colouring up to the eyes.

“Tam glad to hear it,” was the rejoinder; “I ;

was afraid you were walking a little lame.”
Breakfast went on as usual, but Mertoun had
scarcely finished his first slice of bread, before a

circumstance occurred, which for the moment quite |

deprived him ofall appetite for another. Chancing
‘ to put his hand into his pocket, he felt a
: round substance in one corner of it, which, to his

extreme astonishment, he discovered to be little ;

Walter’s alley. Yes ;—there it was, with the red
ring round the centre ;—the very identical alley that
he fancied he had left safe on the buttress the
night before. “ Was it a dream ?” thought he, as
he turned it round and round in hopeless perplexity.
“Surely I remember that it rolled off five times,
and that the sixth time I succeeded in balancing it
there. By what magic can it have got into my
pocket ? I suppose I must have mistaken something
else for it. But it is very strange.”



WALTER'S ALLEY. 39

“Take care, ILarry,” whispered Warbeck in his
ear, as he sat eycing the mysterious alley, “ take
care ; Mr. Powell is looking at you.”

“ And what if he is ?”” answered Mertoun.

“ Only that he takes away our marbles, you know,
if he sees us playing with them at breakfast.”

The hint was not lost upon larry ; he hastily
thrust the alley into his pocket, in sudden alarm
lest the mystcrious marble should fall into the
master’s hands.

Breakfast was by this time concluded, and the
boys received the usual leave to adjourn to the
playground. They were allowed an hour’s play
between breakfast and school, and they were not
slow to avail themselves of it. Out they rushed,
shouting, leaping, racing, and jostling against one
another, as though life and death depended on
being in the playground first.

‘“ Like sportive deer they coursed about,
And shouted as they ran ;

Turning to mirth all things of earth,
As only boyhood can.”

Mertoun, however, did not share in the high —
spirits of his schoolfellows. Ife followed slowly
and thoughtfully in the rear, endeavouring to de-
vise some means of restoring his brother’s marble



40 THE CHERRY-STONES.

i
}
i
|

to him without awakening his suspicions. Mean-
while, Walter himself had run on as fast as his
little legs could carry him. He was terribly
alarmed, lest some evil-disposed person should get
before him, and possess himself of his favourite
alley. Tlis heart had more than once misgiven
him for separating himself so long from his trea-
sure. He had dreamed of it during the night ; it

’ had distracted his attention all through the morn-

ing-lesson; and he had grown so anxious during

' breakfast, that even the attractions of some orange-

marmalade, wherewith one of his little friends had
enriched the barrenness of his bread and butter,
failed to occupy his undivided attention, as, doubt-

Jess, under other circumstances, it would have

done. No sooner was the signal for departure
given, than away he seampered, and im less than

: two minutes had arrived at the spot where he had

. left his favourite. Ie gave one look at the but-

tress. His worst fears were realized. is trea-
sure was gone; and, what was stranger still, its

place was occupied, not indeed by a marble, but by

some other substance, distantly resembling one.
Back he ran to his brother, his constant counsellor
in all his little troubles: “Oh, Harry! Harry ! what
shall Ido? They have stolen my marble, and’”—
“Well, Walter,’ said Mertoun, who had, of



WALTER'S ALLEY. 41

course, anticipated this piece of information, “T

am sorry your marble is gone, but I dare say it is
. not stolen, and that you will find it again soon;
‘ and, until you do, I will lend you another, as good

or better than your own.”

“Thank you, brother; but I would rather have
my own alley back again than have a great many
new ones. Thank you all the same. But that is
not all. They have not only taken my alley away,

but they have put something curious in its place.
Only do come and see, brother,” continued the
little boy, pulling at the skirt of Harry’s jacket.
Mertoun went with him reluctantly enough, but

he could find no reasonable excuse for declining.

He had, however, no sooner cast a glance in the
direction in which Walter was pointing, than he
made a start of extreme and very disagreeable sur-
prise. If his dismay at the disappearance of the
alley did not equal that of his little brother, now,
at all events, he was at least equally amazed and

confounded. Resting on the narrow ledge of the

buttress, on the spot from whence Walter’s marble
had so unaccountably disappeared, there lay—what

an extraordinary coincidence !—a cherry-stone!



CHAPTER IV.

PRISONERS’ BASE.

Harry Mertroun gazed in amazement at this
unexpected apparition. Could he have mistaken a
cherry-stone for Walter’s alley? It seemed im-
possible that he could have done so. He had only
eaten seven cherries, and he had buried seven cherry-
stones; and yet what other explanation could be
given of so strange an occurrence? One thing
only was clear to him. He must keep Walter’s

marble for the present. If he now produced it, |
further inquirics, difficult to answer, would be

made. He was sorry to deprive the little fellow

of his pet plaything, but he could not safely re- —

store it.

“ A penny for your thoughts, Harry!” exclaimed |
a merry voice close behind him. “How grave you —

look. There is nothing the matter, is there ?”
Harry started. “ Nothing that I know of, Fre-



PRISONERS’ BASE. 43

derick :” and as he spoke he turned, as if to move
away from the buttress.

But Seymour was not to be so easily shaken off.
“What, then, were you staring at? A cherry-
stone, I protest! Well, there is nothing that I
can see so very astonishing in a cherry-stone.”

“TJ did not say there was, Seymour; and why
should you suppose there is?” retorted Mertoun,
with an ineffectual attempt to appear unconcerned.
, Only because of the manner in which you were

staring at it. What do you think of it, Walter?”

added Seymour, observing the perplexity of the -

little boy’s face.
“Never mind, Walter,” interrupted Harry, “we

shall lose all the morning if we wait here. Let us |

choose sides for some game:’” and, taking Sey-
mour by the arm, he drew him away from the
spot.

“But, Harry,” said little Walter, who was not
disposed to let the subject drop so easily, “do not
goaway. I want you to attend to me.”

Mertoun hesitated. He was not desirous of
protracting the conversation with Walter, but he
was afraid that he would make some one else his
confidant, if he refused to listen to him. And
besides, to do Harry justice, he was very sorry for
his brother’s disappointment, and for the share he



44 TIE CHERRY-STONES.

|

had had in it. “Go onto Charles,” he said to Sey-
mour, “T will soon join you.” And then, taking
Walter on one side, he inquired what he wanted.

“Why, ILarry, I want you to advise me how I
am to get my alley again. Do you not think I had
better speak to Dr. Young about it? Perhaps he
would be able to find out the thief.”

“ Nonsense, ask Dr. Young about a marble, in-
deed! No! no! hold your tongue; and, as I told
you, I will give you another instead. It is useless
to talk about it, unless indeed you suspect some-
body, which I suppose you do not.”

“But I do suspect some one,” said Walter, in
a low, confidential tone ; “and if you will promise
not to laugh at me, I will tell you.”

“Yes, that I will,” replied his brother, from
whose thoughts nothing could be further than
laughter at that moment. “ Who is it ?”

“Well, then,” said Walter, gravely, “I think it
was Juno.”

“Juno!” exclaimed Mertoun. “You extraor-
dinary child; who ever heard of a dog stealing
marbles ?”

“There, now,” said Walter, “you promised not
to laugh at me.”

“ But you are so droll, child. Who could help

en nN A Mf
ER

laughing at such a notion P” |

nee



|
|
|
|
|
i





PRISONERS’ BASE. 45



“Why, brother, I have heard of a magpie steal-
ing spoons and forks, and I do not see why a dog
should not steal marbles.”

“Excellent reasoning! And what makes you
suspect poor Juno?”

“Why, I thought I heard her barking in the
playground early this morning; and just how she
rushed out before me to the very place where I had

| left my alley, and put up her paws, as though she

wanted to scramble up there. And only look at
her now, with all the boys round her. Look how

| she is scratching up the ground, just as if she had

buried something. Besides, brother,” continued

| Walter, with a conviction that now, at all events,

he was putting forward an argument which could
not be answered, “if it was not Juno, who could
it have been ?”

The cogency of this logic, however, was lost upon
Mertoun ; for no sooner did he perceive the dog’s
employment, than, suddenly breaking off his con-
ference with Walter, he rushed forward, crying,
“Juno! Juno! good dog! heigh for a race.”
And away went Juno, obedient to the well-known
summons, to the great disappointment of the group
of boys, who had been watching her proceedings
with the greatest interest.

“Oh, why did you call her away, Harry?” said



46 THE CILERRY-STONES.

Warbeck. “We were having such fun with her.
I am sure she smelt a rat.”
“No, no,” said Walter, who at that moment

_ came up; “it was nota rat; it was my alley. Has

any one seen an alley any where ?”
“Yes, Walter,” answered Warbeck, good-na-
turedly, “I have seen a great many alleys in the

- course of my life: but what was yours like ?”

“Oh, it was a most beautiful alley,” said Wal-
ter, “with a red ring all round it.”

“Well, then,” said Warbeck, “I think I saw it
not an hour ago; and, what is more, I do not
think it is so very fur off, but that it may return
to you again.”

As Charles said this, he pointed slily at Mer-
toun’s pocket. This again changed all Marry’s
plans. To deny his possession of the alley would
now be more unsafe than to avow it. How crooked
and uncertain are the ways of deceit! Truly in-
deed has the poet written,

“© Oh, what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practise to deceive !””
and sadly was Marry beginning to illustrate this
truth by his rapid progress in duplicity.

“Ts this your marble, Walter?” said he, taking
it from his pocket, and trying to force a smile as he
held it up to view.



PRISONERS’ BASE. 47

“Oh yes, indeed it is; thank you, Harry, thank
you! Where did you find it?”

“ Ah! where, indeed, Walter? You had better
ask Juno.”

“ Ay, by all means ask Juno,” said Warbeck ;

. “but not just now, because we want her to find the
: vat for us. Come then, Juno, where’s the rat ?”

: back.

“This way, Juno,” cried Harry, calling her

“No, no; here, Juno, here,” cried half-a-dozen

: voices, as they saw the dog about to obey Mertoun’s

summons.

Juno kept running to and fro, first to one party,
and then to the other.

“Here, here, rat, Juno, rat,” shouted Seymour,
grubbing with a stick in the hole which the dog
had begun to dig, and which was not above an inch
or two from the spot where the cherry-stones were
buried. Juno immediately thrust her nose into the
hole, and began digging most vigorously. Mertoun
was in despair. Another minute, and his secret
must be discovered. He made a last effort, and in

: & low reproachful tone called the dog away. The
| dog acknowledged his appeal, and crept submissively
' to his feet, nor could any thing again induce her to

leave him.

His companions in vain endeavoured to persuade





48 THE CHERRY-STONES,

him to give her up. Harry’s fears were too strongly

| excited to allow of his complying. “Get her if ‘
; you ean,” was the only reply he vouchsafed to all

their entreaties, threats, and reproaches.

“Never mind,” said Warbeck at last, “let us
leave him and the dog together. He will soon be
tired of her, and want to join us.”

This, however, did not prove to be the fact. The
whole of that playtime our hero was constant in his
attentions to Juno. It seemed as if he had become
her slave. He followed her wherever she went,

. and was afraid to leave her for a single moment,

‘ lest she should betray the spot where the cherry-
stones were concealed. It was a wearisome and

degrading task, and never had he looked forward
so anxiously to the hour of play as he now did to

_ the ringing of the school-bell.

His companions kept to their resolution of

‘ leaving him to Juno’s society, and he had only one

interruption during the remainder of the playhour.
Walter had been for some time amusing himself :
with alternately aiming the cherry-stone at the
marble, and the marble at the cherry-stone. He
was a most thoroughly honest, simple-hearted,
little boy, and, in the middle of his solitary game,

. the thought suddenly struck him that the cherry-

stone did not belong to him. Instantly, he ran



PRISONERS’ BASE. 49

to his brother and exclaimed, “ Brother, I have
brought you back your cherry-stone; will you give
it to me if you do not want it yourself ?”

| “My cherry-stone! you little plague, what do
- you mean by calling it mine? what have I to do
with it ?”

“Why, you know, I have got my alley back
again, so it cannot be mine; but will you give it
to me ?”

“Oh, yes ;—or stay, give it to me, and I will crack
it for you; and, as he spoke, he stamped upon
‘ and crushed it. “There, Walter, now you can
' pick the kernel out and eat it.”

“But I did not want the kernel,” said Walter,
the tears rising in his eyes; “I wanted to play
marbles with it.”

“Foolish boy! play marbles with a cherry-stone !
I will give you one of my best alleys in its place.”

“Will you, indeed ?” said Walter.

“Yes; but, remember, it is upon one condition ;
that you do not say a word about the cherry-stone
until the end of the half-year.”

“Not to say the word cherry-stone,” responded
Walter, doubtfully, “ until the end of the half-year.”

“Yes; perhaps that will be the safest way. You
are not to say the word cherry-stone until the end
| of the half-year.”



50 TYE CHERRY-STONES.

“But why not? Is ita naughty word, brother
Harry ?”

“ Never mind why not; but if you will promise,
you shall have the marble.”

“JT will promise then,” said Walter.

“ Here, then, Walter,” said Mertoun, producing
an alley from his bag, “there it is for you; but,
remember, if you say the word cherry-stone, I shall
take it away again.”

Walter scampered off with his newly-acquired °

treasure. He did not understand clearly what had
occurred, but he remembered that he was but six

years old, and could not, therefore, be expected to |

understand every thing; and, moreover, as he had -

recovered his own alley, and gained another besides, |

he did not see any great cause for inquiring into

the circumstances. He settled in his own mind,

first, that his brother was very clever to find his —

alley ; secondly, that he was very kind to give him
another ; and thirdly, that he would have a good
game with his two marbles now he had got them.
This last resolution, however, was unhappily cut
prematurely short by the sound of the school-bell,
which at once broke off the boys’ game, and relieved
Mertoun from his embarrassing occupation of
watching Juno’s movements.

School-time passed away much as usual, the only



PRISONERS’ BASE. 51

remarkable thing being that Mertoun’s lessons had
never been so ill done before. This was, in truth,
not surprising. ILe was wholly unable to fix his
attention on his books. The narrow escapes he had
had of detection,—the scratch on his foot,—the
chance question of Warbeck,—his brother’s marble,
—and Juno’s rat-hunt,—all seemed to have con-
spired to betray his guilt. Nor were these his
most unpleasant recollections. The various sub- —
terfuges and evasions by which he had contrived ,
for the time to divert suspicion were yet more
distasteful; and he looked forward to the three
days which must yet pass before the end of the
half-year with a feeling of weariness and disgust he
had never known before.

Meanwhile, his companions began to wonder at
the change which had come over him. Iis refusal,
in the morning, to let Juno hunt for the rat had
greatly diminished the favour with which he was
usually regarded, and his blunders formed the
subject of many ill-natured remarks. “Such strange
mistakes as he made in construing the Virgil,”
saidone. “ And two false quantities,” eried another.

“ And three gross blunders in his ciphering,” added
athird. “Mr. Powell said they would have been
disgraceful to his brother Walter,” said a fourth.
“Talk of his getting two prizes indeed,” said Sharpe,
E2



52 THE CHERRY-STONES.



_ “Tshall be very much surprised if he gets one.”
: Warbeck alone remained faithful to his friend. He
maintained that Harry was probably unwell, and
that the exertions he had undergone on the previous
afternoon were the cause of his depression ; besides
. which, every body was hable to do worse at some
times than at others; and as for the prizes, it was
absurd to suppose that the marks of two days
could change the marks of a whole half-year.

The prizes at Charlton School, it should be
remarked, were given to the boys who had been
most diligent during the whole half-year, and the
most successful in the examination at its close.
A book was kept, in which the marks obtained by
each boy, for every lesson throughout the half-year,
were registered. To these were added the marks
gained in the half-yearly examination, which always
' took place on the day before the boys went home ;

and whoever was then found to have the greatest

number, received the prize, unless, as has been
already remarked, some great act of disobedience,
especially an act of dishonesty, should deprive him
of it, which it always did, however superior he
might have proved himself in talent or industry.

To prevent constant rivalry, Dr. Young never per- |
mitted the marks to be added up until the day on |

which the prizes were awarded. There were always,





PRISONERS’ BASE. 53



however, conjectures among the boys as to whose
names stood highest on the list; nor were they
often far wrong in their conclusions. In the

present half-year, Henry Mertoun was the favourite,
both for the classical and ciphering prizes ; but the —

result was considered to be very uncertain; Charles

Warbeck in classics, and Edward Sharpe in cipher-
: . : |
ing, were supposed to be running him very close. |
The decision of the following Friday, therefore, was

looked forward to with much interest, and hence

Mertoun’s failures had attracted unusual attention.
But the playtime was too precious to be wasted |
in speculations on any subject. All called out for |

play. Many games were suggested and abandoned ;
and at last Warbeck proposed a renewal of the

ericket match of yesterday, but there were many |

dissentient voices. “It would be so tiresome,” said -
West, “again to lose the ball in the orchard. Do —
not you think so, Harry?” he added, addressing

our hero, who at that instant made his appearance
in the playground.

“Well, and if we do,” said Sharpe, “ larry can
get over the wall and fetch it for us. Cannot you,
Harry ?”

There was nothing at all strange in this question,
but such is the nature of guilt, that it made Harry
feel very uncomfortable, especially when he remem-

_— Hae ne — ——



54 THE CHERRY-STONES.

bered his conversation with Sharpe at the supper-
table. He hastily answered, that he thought any
thing was better than cricket; and the majority
appearing to be of his opinion, the idea was aban-
doned.

“Well, at any rate,” said Seymour, “let us do
something. What do you all say to a game at
prisoners’ base ?”

“T have no objection,” said Warbeck, looking
doubtfully at Mertoun. “The only thing is, whe-
ther it may not hurt your foot, Harry.” This was
suggested most good-naturedly, for Charles had
observed, or at least fancied he had observed, that
his friend was still a little lame. Mertoun, how-
ever, was greatly annoyed at the remark. He had
not forgotten the conversation before breaktast,
and chose to fancy Warbeck was still harping on
his unwillingness to take off his shoe. He de-
clared, with much vehemence, that he was never
less lame in his life, and that there was no game
he preferred to prisoners’ base.

“Hurrah, then,” shouted Seymour, “we are una-
nimous at last. Warbeck and Mertoun choose
sides; and Warbeck must have first choice, because
Mertoun was never less lame in his lite, and so I
suppose he will beat us all.”

This sally produced a laugh, in whieh all but



PRISONERS’ BASE. 55

Harry joined. The boys tossed up for the choice.
The sides were chosen, and the game commenced

- with much spirit.

Now, notwithstanding Mertoun’s angry decla-

' ration to the contrary, his shoe was very far from

comfortable. He had continually felt during the
day the same inconvenience which had troubled
him in the morning. He had been afraid to take
off his shoe at that time, because Warbeck would
have seen the state of his stocking; and, although
during school-time he had abundant opportunities
of doing so, without the slightest risk, guilt is ever
so suspicious, that he always fancied some one was
watching him, so that the stone still continued in
his shoe when the game at prisoners’ base was
proposed. So long as he remained quiet, it caused
him but little annoyance; but no sooner did he
begin to exert himself in running, than it became
very troublesome, and it was only by a painful
effort that he more than once escaped being taken
prisoner.

At length, as he grew warm with the excite-
ment of the game, he began to be ashamed of his
former fears. “How absurd,” thought he, “to keep
this abominable stone in my shoe all day! as if
any boy would observe whether my stockings are
dirty or clean; or, if they do, as if they could pos-



56 THE CHERRY-STONES.

sibly guess the cause. I will have it out now, at
all events.” And down he sat on a bench close
at hand, and began untying his shoe.

“What are you at now?” said Markland, one
of the boys on his side. “It is our turn to chal-

lenge. Go out and challenge Warbeck. Seymour

and I will be after him the moment he has crossed
the line; and if we catch him, the game will be
ours.”

“In one minute, George,” said Mertoun. “I
want to get the gravel out of my shoe, and then I
shall be ready for you.” How strange a thing is
deceit! Harry well knew that it was a stone of
some kind that was annoying him; and yet, with-
out any definite reason, he had called it gravel.
He was becoming accustomed to avoid speaking
the exact truth.

There was a pause in the game. “Lect me help



you, Harry,” said Walter, running up from the .

corner where he had been watching the players.

“Thank you, Walter, it is done,” said Harry. |
‘ Now let us see what it is that has been giving -
me this annoyance all day.” As he spoke, he put |
his hand into the shoe, and, to his surprise and -

dismay, produced—a cherry-stone!

“Oh, brother,” exclaimed Walter, “ why, if there

is not the’—and then suddenly recollecting his



PRISONERS’ BASE. 57

promise, he put his hand to his mouth, and stood
gazing in silent astonishment at the contents of
his brother’s shoe. It did not occur to the little
fellow that there were many cherry-stones in the

world. He fancied that the one he saw before

him must be the identical cherry-stone which he
had seen on the buttress in the morning, and
which, having been crushed to pieces by his bro-
ther, had, in revenge, found its way into his shoe.
Instinetively he put his hand into his pocket, and
was not a little comforted to find that both his
marbles were safe, notwithstanding the mysterious
re-appearance of the cherry-stone.

“Hallo!” said Seymour, coming up at this junc-
ture, and perceiving the two brothers gazing at the
stone which Harry still held in his hand, “what
have we here? Another cherry-stone, I declare.
Why, where did this come from ?”’

“Tt came out of his shoe; it did, indeed,” said
Walter, slowly, thinking it too wonderful an occur-
rence to be easily credited.

“Out of his shoe! I suppose, then, that is
what you have been complaining of, Harry P What

on earth could induce you to keep a cherry-stone
in your shoe all day ?”

“TI did not know what it was,” replied Mertoun, ©
in great confusion.







58 THE CHERRY-STONES.

“Well, at all events it is out now,” interposed
Markland, impatiently, “so I suppose we may go
on with the game.”

The delay that this incident had caused attracted
the attention of the boys on the other side. “ What
is the matter, George?” called out West, who,
being on Warbeck’s side, was not allowed by the
rules of the game to come to the spot where Mark-
land and Seymour were standing.

“What is it, Walter?” said Sharpe, beckoning
to the little boy to come to him.

“T promised not to tell,” was the reply.

“ Nonsense, child; why you have had no time to
promise.”’

“Ah! but I promised this morning not to say
the word.”

“What word do you mean? I do not under-
stand you,” said Sharpe, growing more and more

| perplexed.

“Ah! I sce you want me to let it out, but Iam
too cunning for that,” said the child, pursing up -
his lips as he spoke, as though he were afraid that —
the secret would escape in spite of him; and, nod- -
ding his head, retreated to his corner, where he
sat down on his stool, and waited to sec the game
begin again.

“Markland,” cried Sharpe, whose curiosity was





PRISONERS’ BASE. 59

a good deal excited by Walter’s strange reserve,
“what on earth has Mertoun found that there is
such a mystery about ?” ;

“Nothing but a cherry-stone,” was the reply;
“and there is no mystery at all about it that I .
know of.”

“Mystery, or no mystery, here it goes,” said
Harry, and as he spoke he flung it from him, with
a jerk that sent it over the wall, far into the

| middle of the orchard. As he did this, his eye, for
| @ moment, caught that of Sharpe. There was no

mistaking its expression. It was clear that some
suspicion had crossed his mind. Our hero was
more than ever alarmed. All he could do, how-
ever, was to get on his shoe as quickly as possible,
and divert attention by resuming the game. He
overheard Sharpe say, in a low tone, to Warbeck,
“Charles, where do you think that cherry-stone
came from ?”

“Upon my word,” replied Charles, “I do not
know, any more than where it is gone to; and
what is more, I do not care. But look, there is
Mertoun going to challenge us. Two to one he
names me.”

Scarcely had these words been spoken, when —
Harry shouted “Charles Warbeck,” at the top of |
his voice. Away ran the boys, and the moment :



60 THE CILERRY-STONES.

the line had been passed, away darted Seymour and -
Markland in pursuit. Every thing depended on ;

the challenger being able to dodge round, before he !

reached the end of the playground. It was a '

mancuvre Harry was famous for executing with |

success: but on this occasion he ran without any
of his usual animation ; and the very first feint he
made, he was touched and made prisoner by War-
beck. Tis second and third in command, finding
their scheme frustrated, endeavoured to provide for
their own safety, butin vain. They also were made
captive, and lodged with their leader in durance
vile, at the other end of the playground; and

Mertoun’s side having thus lost their three best :
runners, their defeat followed as a matter of course. ;

Fresh sides were chosen, and another and another
game played; but always with the same result.
Mertoun always lost. At last, hot and tired, and

more than half out of temper, from his repeated |

defeats, he begged them to choose sides anew, and
to continue the game without him. Warbeck im-
mediately offered to leave off also, and to come
and sit with him. But to this arrangement Harry
would by uo means agree. He fancied that
Charles wanted to ply him with more questions

about the cherry-stone: though nothing could |
in reality be further from his friend’s thoughts’; !

2





PRISONERS’ BASE. 61

and he declared that he greatly preferred being
alone.

So he sat down by himself sadly enough in the
corner of the playground, while his favourite Juno

came and rested her large black head on his lap, |

as though she understood and sympathized in all
his troubles. It was very strange, he reflected,
that it should have been a cherry-stone that had
troubled him all day; that a cherry-stone should
have spoiled his morning’s amusement; and that
just as he was beginning to recover his spirits, a

. second cherry-stone should have appeared, and
again destroyed his pleasure. Some connexion
they must have with his night’s adventure. “TI
’ remember I was very hurried and confused,” he

said to himself, “and it is not surprising; and

: yet I feel almost certain that I buried all the
stones: well, I was mistaken, and there is an end

of it.’ Then, again, he was vexed to be obliged to

acknowledge to himself, that the very measures he ;

had taken to ensure concealment, had had the
effect. of bringing him to the verge of detection.

_ Seymour's surprise at the appearance of the cherry-
' stone was only occasioned by his having kept it in
_ his shoe all day; and the promise he had exacted
' of Walter in the morning, was the principal cause

of Edward Sharpe’s suspicions. But this is always





62 THE CHERRY-STONES,

' the case with guilt; its own restlessness is its most
frequent betrayer.

Such were Marry Mertoun’s sorrowful reflections,
as he sat in the corner of the playground, with
nobody but Juno for his companion. The merry
shouts of his schoolfellows, who were still engaged
' in their game, served only to deepen his depression.
' He was vexed with himself, and thoroughly un-
happy. But, alas! his sorrow had nothing of real
' repentance in it. He would have given much to
undo what he had done; but he felt even less
inclination than before to take the only course his
- conscience approved. He clung to the hope that
all would yet go well; and that, by to-morrow, he
should have forgotten all about the matter: above
all, he trusted that no more cherry-stones would

make their appearance. In order to secure this, |

as much as possible, he felt carefully in all his

pockets, and satisfied himself, that now, at least, |

there were none concealed about his person.
This gave him some comfort, and when he joined



his schoolfellows in the supper-room, he had re-

covered his composure, and chatted and laughed

with them as usual. Nay, their sprightly con- .
yersation scemed to have banished all his dis- |

quietude; and as Dr. Young paused at the door of
the school-room, when he went in to read prayers,



PRISONERS’ BASE. 63

he heard his voice the loudest and the merriest of
all, No one, who looked at his clear open coun-

' tenance, or listened to his cheerful laugh, could :

have believed he was the same boy who, not an
hour before, was sitting in his solitary corner,
weighed down by a sense of unrepented sin, the
burden of which he had only cast aside for a while.
Truly it is a mystery, that strange privilege which
boyhood alone seems to possess, of being at once
sinful and light-hearted. It is, as it were, the
; mingling of the pure and the impure in the same
‘ cup, without the whole draught becoming polluted.
. In after years, guilt has its moments of wild and
' feverish delight; but boys, and boys alone, can sin,
- and be sorry for a while, and then fling aside all
' thought of it, and feel as though they had never
. sinned at all. In infancy, the consciousness of
sin is a thing unknown. In manhood, it presses on
the heart like an ever-present burden: but in boy-
hood, it is like an April eloud which flits over the
landscape, darkening it for a while, and then
passing away altogether, and leaving it as bright as
ever, Of the many mysteries of boyhood, this is,
perhaps, the most inscrutable.

Dr. Young looked more attentively than usual at

Mertoun when prayers were over, and thought -
that, notwithstanding his high spirits, he was paler





64 THE CHERRY-STONES.



' than was his wont. “Harry,” he said, “I am
_ afraid you are a little unwell. Unless you are quite
. recovered in the morning, you had better not get

up, and Mrs. Young will send you some tea, Good
night, boys. Go up quietly to bed, and do not
chatter and make a noise in Mertoun’s room,
as you are sometimes apt to do, as I wish Harry
to get as sound a night’s rest as possible.”



CHAPTER V.

THE TWO DREAMS.

Dr. Youne’s kindness had renewed all Mertoun’s
feelings of remorse. He walked slowly up stairs,
reflecting mournfully how little he had deserved it.
The only thought which gave him comfort was that
the long dreary day was ended, and that he might
forget his troubles in sleep. “ Let me have a good
night’s rest,” thought he, “and I shall be a different
being ; and then I will to-morrow resolve upon the
course it will be most prudent for me to take.”
Endeavouring thus to quiet his conscience by post-
poning all reflection, he undressed himself, and
stepped into bed.

But the night began with an evil omen. His
head had scarcely touched his pillow, before he
bounded out again with a cry of astonishment that
startled and almost frightened his companions.
“What is it, Harry ?” “Is it a pin? or a needle?

F



G3 THE CHERKY-STUNES,.



or a rat?” cried two or three voices at once.

“Oh!” exclaimed Mertoun, throwing back the

. bed-clothes as he spoke, “what shall I do? there
- is a cherry-stone in the middle of my bed.”

The tone in which these words were uttered

; appeared so ludicrously disproportioned to the
: cause which had elicited them, that they pro-

_ his paroxysm of laughter: “I really beg your |

voked a smile even from the quiet Warbeck, while
the more mercurial spirits received them with
shouts of laughter. Seymour, in particular, who
had come into the room to ask some question of
Warbeck, (for he himself did not sleep in Mer-
toun’s room,) seemed as if he never would cease
laughing. Walter alone sympathized in his bro-

ther’s alarm. He drew cautiously near the bed, ;
eyeing the cherry-stone with an air of suspicion, |
as though he expected it to fly at him. “I beg |

your pardon, Harry,” said Seymour, getting up
from the bed, upon which he had flung himself in

' pardon; but you look as if you had seen a ghost ?

Had it been a cherry-pie, now,” he continued,
looking round him, “ it would have been a different

matter; but being a cherry-stone, I would recom- ,

mend you to throw it out of the window.”

Harry had by this time recovered his self-pos- |

session. “Of course,” said he, as he threw the



|





|

THE TWO DREAMS. 67

cherry-stone into a small pond which lay in the
garden below, “of course there is no difficulty in
getting rid of a cherry-stone; but it was very
careless in Sally to leave it in the bed. You know,
it might have been a needle.”

“Nay,” rejoined Seymour, affecting to under-
stand his words literally ; “it might in time have
been a tree, but certainly not a needle.”

“ Nonsense, Seymour!” interposed Warbeck ;
“it is excessively disagreeable to find things left in

| one’s bed; and if I were Harry, I would complain

to Dr. Young.”

“Complain to Dr. Young!” exclaimed Mertoun,
his suspicions again aroused at this speech; “I
shall certainly not trouble him about such a trifle.”

“ A trifle!”” remarked Sharpe, who had hitherto
sat perfectly quiet, but keenly observing what was
passing; “a trifle, you call it? You did not seem

| to consider it a trifle just now, I think.”

Mertoun made no reply. Silence was his best
mode of escape from the awkward dilemma into
which his consciousness of guilt had led him.
Seymour would have pursued the subject, but
Warbeck entreated him to let it drop, reminding
him that Dr. Young had ordered them to be quiet,
in order that Mertoun’s repose might not be dis-
turbed, and hinting at the same time that if the
F 2



oS THE CUEKRY-STONES.
Doctor should hear any noise, and come in conse-
quence up stairs, he would probably select Seymour
for punishment, because he was out of his own room.
“With all my heart, Charles,’ said Seymour,

i in answer to this appeal; “I only hope our friend

here will not dream of a cherry-stone, or he will

certainly disturb the whole house.”

This observation would, under ordinary circum-

! stances, have led to fresh skirmishing, but Mertoun

was resolved to be upon his guard. No further
remark therefore was made; Seymour soon after-
wards took his departure; and Harry, overcome
by the fatigues of the last night, and the troubles
of the day, quickly fell asleep.

But sleep rarely brings rest to a troubled con-
science. And so it proved in the present instance.

' His imagination still continued to be engrossed

by the same subject which had occupied his waking
hours; only that his present fancies were more

' wild and fantastic than those which had haunted

him through the day. He dreamed that he stood
alone in a large and beautiful garden. The air was
fragrant with the rarest flowers, and every variety
of fruit grew in rich abundance around. Imme-

. diately before him rose a cherry-tree, whose
‘enormous branches, far exceeding in size any he

had ever seen, were loaded with ripe and delicious







THE TWO DREAMS. 69



fruit. At his feet lay his favourite Juno; her eyes
gazing intently on the tree, and sparkling with the
brightness of diamonds. As he eyed the tempting
clusters, which the great height of the tree placed
far above his reach, he thought that the lofty stem
suddenly bent towards him, till the loaded branches
almost touched the ground. He stretched out his
hand, and plucked a cherry, and he had no sooner
done so than the tree sprang back again to its

i former position. Seven times was this repeated.

Again and again the tall trunk stooped till the
branches came within his reach, and each time did
he gather a cherry from the rich store it offered to
his choice. But as the tree rose erect for the
seventh time, a marvellous change came over the
face of things. A chill wintry blast swept through
the sky; and in an instant every trace of life and
beauty had passed away from the garden. The
fiowers fell withered from their stalks: the foliage
vanished from the trees, only a few sere and yellow
leaves remained clinging to the naked branches.
It was a scene of bleak and dreary winter; but the
strange phantasy of a dream added features which

a

no winter landscape ever presented. As he cast .
. his eyes upwards to the cherry-tree, he perceived

that the fruit with which the boughs had been
thickly covered had all vanished, but the stones



: only the skeleton of a dog, with its fiery eyes still

_ and fell thick as hail in all directions around him.
' Presently the branches themselves were torn off by |
' its fury, and whirled like withered leaves into the |
air, leaving the black and crooked trunk alone :
' standing. As Harry continued to gaze, in fear and

- eoil above coil, till he appeared to be completely

- his limbs, and with a violent effort to disengage

70 THE CHERRY-STONES.

still remained, and high and wide the bare, rugged
branches were studded with clusters of cherry-
stones. He looked downwards, and saw that the
seven cherrics he held in his hand had shared the
same fate, and nothing but seven stones met his
view; and instead of his favourite Juno, he saw

fixed upon the tree. As he stood, horror-stricken |
and unable to withdraw his eyes from this appalling |
sight, the violence of the wind increased. First, |
the cherry-stones were dislodged from the branches,



wonder, at this strange spectacle, the trunk itself '
seemed suddenly to be endued with life, and to
twist and writhe as though it had become a serpent.
Harry made a feeble attempt at flight, but his feet
were rooted to the ground. Moving slowly towards
him, it wound its huge length round his body,

encircled in its folds. The horror of his situation
at length broke the spell that seemed to paralyze

himself from the cherry-tree, he awoke.



i
\



TIE TWO DREAMS. val

It was some time before he could persuade him-
self that the frightful scene he had just gone
through was wholly imaginary. The perspiration
stood thick on his forehead, and his frame felt
bruised and benumbed as though only just
released from the grasp of the cherry-tree. He
scarcely dared to open his eyes, lest they should
encounter its hideous writhings, or light upon the
spectral figure of the skeleton dog. But the boy’s
mind and body were alike weary. Nature claimed

her privilege in spite of his terror, and he had not |

fully recovered from its effects before he again fell
asleep.

His second dream also took the shape and colour
of his waking fears. He imagined it was the
morning on which the school was to break up, and
that the boys were assembled to receive the prizes.



But with the wild inconsistency of a dream, the .
scene was not laid in the Charlton school-room, but °

in a wide open plain, extending so far in every
direction that the eye vainly endeavoured to discover

its limit. Immense multitudes, reaching to the °
utmost verge of the horizon, stood round, awaiting -
the result, and even horses and dogs appeared to -

share in the general excitement. The table at

which Dr. Young was seated with the prizes spread

out before him was placed in the centre, and a



—
72, THE CHERRY-STONES.

wide space on every side of it was left entirely
clear. As Harry looked on, he was struck with the
extraordinary distinctness with which the shadows
were traced on the ground. There was the shadow
of Dr. Young; the shadow of the table; the shadow
of each separate book on it; the shadows of every

one of his schoolfellows, as clearly and plainly :

recognizable from one another as the substances to
which they belonged. His wonder at this pheno- °
‘ menon was interrupted by a summons from the :

head master to come and receive the first prize.
It was a proud thing, he thought, to be singled out

for distinction in the face of that vast assembly, and
he moved forward from the throng of boys, elated

with his success; but he had not advanced many .

steps, when a shout arose from behind, “ Look at |
~ his shadow! look at his shadow!’ He cast his »

eyes instinctively downwards, and, to his horror,
beheld the outline of a cherry-tree traced behind
him on the grass. There was the stem, the
branches, and the fruit, rudely formed indeed, but
still plainly distinguishable. It had something

human, too, in its shape, and even bore a grotesque
resemblance to himself. There could be no doubt

it was his own shadow. A cry of derision burst |

from the assembled multitude. Harry heard it,
and it added the finishing stroke to his shame and





|
|
|



THE TWO DREAMS. 73

confusion. Away he rushed across the plain with
the rapidity it seemed of the wind; and as he did
so, he could hear the shouts of the multitude
hurrying after him in hot pursuit. The yelping of

dogs, and the clattering of horses’ feet were distinctly |

audible amid the uproar. On he darted, climbing
hills, leaping down precipices, dashing through
torrents, in the vain hope of shaking off his hateful
attendants. Nearer and nearer came the pursuers,
louder and louder grew the tumult in his rear; at
length, just as they were on the very point of
seizing him, he again awoke.

As he opened his eyes he became sensible that
the sounds which had disturbed his sleep were not
wholly imaginary. The galloping of the horses,
and the yelpings of the dogs, indeed, were no
longer heard; but their place was supplied by the
clamour of the six o’clock bell, whose rusty throat
was sending forth its discordant summons. It is
probable that the clamour which it made had found
its way into Harry’s sleeping senses, and shaped
itself into the singular termination of his dream.
Mertoun felt grateful to it, tired and unrefreshed as
he was, for delivering him from the unnatural shadow
under which he had been so painfully labouring.

“Ab! I was afraid that noisy bell would wake |

you,” said Warbeck.





. gaid our hero, endeavouring to rally ; “you would |

74 THE CHERRY-STONES.

“And why should you be afraid of that, Charles?”

, not wish me to get into another scrape for missing
| prayers ?”’

“No,” replied Charles ; “but the Doctor said you

‘ had better lie in bed this morning; and unless you

are to get up, you know it is as well not to have

' your rest disturbed.”

| ©You mistake, Charles,” said Harry. “ Dr. Young
" only gave me permission to lie in bed if I felt |
unwell, but I am all right this morning; and |

as he spoke he left his bed and began to dress.
But notwithstanding his assumed cheerfulness,

it was evident he was still suffering from indis- |

position. .
“You had really better remain in bed, Harry,”

. said Warbeck; “your eyes are as heavy as lead,

: and you may make yourself seriously ill if you

persist in getting up now.”
“ Ay, do lie in bed, brother,” said Walter, “and
make yourself quite well by to-morrow. You know

to-morrow is your birth-day, and mamma will cer- |

| tainly send usa hamper. And if you are ill you
‘ will not be able to enjoy it.”

“ By all means lie in bed,” exclaimed Sharpe, on
whose mind visions of cake and wine ‘yet to be’

‘ had produced considerable impression, “and take





|
|
i

THE TWO DREAMS. 75

eare of yourself; you must mind and be well to-
- morrow, of all days in the year.”

All the boys joined in the same request, and
Harry at last allowed himself to be persuaded. He

: did, indeed, feel unwell. His head seemed dizzy
‘ and confused, and his whole frame ached with
; weariness. Nor was his illness much to be won-
" dered at, considering his exposure to the night air

without his hat, and the protracted anxiety of the
last twenty-four hours.
The boys proceeded with their toilet with that

| celerity which is supposed to belong to schoolboys

and the canine genus only, and Mertoun was
soon the sole occupant of the room. Left to
his solitary thoughts, he began to meditate upon

' his dreams. He was no coward, nor was he

_ naturally inclined to be superstitious, but he could

not divest his mind of a vague apprehension

that they foreboded some misfortune, which

' the stolen cherries were in some way or other
to bring upon him. He knew that both dreams

might be accounted for without supposing any
thing supernatural. Every circumstance might be
referred to something which had occurred during

_ the day, and which had taken a painful hold on his

memory. But still he felt an indefinite alarm,
which he tried in vain to shake off. It was so





76 THE CHERRY-STONES.

singular that the tree should have bent itself ex-
actly seven times, and that when the seventh
cherry was gathered, every thing should so sud-

denly become bleak and miserable. And then the |

shower of cherry-stones, and the stem of the tree
turning itself into a snake, and twisting itself
round him—did it not seem as though the sin he
had committed was to go on haunting him in-
cessantly, until it brought some terrible punish-

ment upon him? And as for the second dream,

its meaning was still more distinct and alarming.
Was the story of the plundered cherry-tree,

indeed, to interpose between him and the reward |

| of his labours ? was it to cling to him for ever ? and

would all efforts to shake off the disgrace be vain?

“ Nonsense,” at last, said he, after he had pondered °

over these ideas until he had worked himself into a

fever of apprehension. “ Whatagoose Iam! Itis .
a dream, and that is all. I have been thinking |
| about cherry-stones all day, and it cannot be sur-

prising if I dream of them at night; and that is the
beginning and the ending of the whole matter.”
His reflections were interrupted by the opening
of the door, and his friend Warbeck appeared with
the tray containing the tea and dry toast, which
Dr. Young had sent up for his breakfast.
Warbeck arranged the tray according to his



|
|
friend’s directions, and then fetched a trunk, and |

THE TWO DREAMS. 77

seated himself on it by the bed side.

“T hope you will find it sweet enough,” observed
he, after a short silence ; “I saw no less than three
lumps of sugar put into it.”

“That was all right,” returned Mertoun, whose
predilection for sweet things we have already

. remarked upon, “tea can hardly be too sweet to

please me.”

“Ah! so said your brother Walter; and you
may thank him for your extra allowance. He per-
suaded Mrs. Young to let him sweeten the tea

| according to his own fancy. He is a nice little

fellow, Harry. Every body likes him. Even
Dr. Young seemed taken with his zeal in your
behalf, and helped him to pick out the best
lumps; but he would not nevertheless yield to
his request, and allow him to bring up the tray
himself.”

“Why should Walter,” said Mertoun, whose
suspicions the least: thing was sufficient to arouse,
“be so anxious to come ?”

“Why, the wish was natural enough, surely;

and besides, I dare say he wished to be the first to |

tell you the news of the morning. Come now,”

pursued Warbeck, seeing that his companion’s |

curiosity was a good deal excited, “what is the







78 THE CHERRY-STONES.



news? I will give you three guesses, and lay you |

a wager you do not hit upon it.”

“T should never guess, Charles. I have no
talents for guessing.”

“Come, I will give you a hint then. What the

Doctor told us may, perhaps, account for the |

cherry-stone found in your bed last night.”

“ Account for the cherry-stone found in my bed |

last night! What can you mean, Charles?” said
Harry.
“Try and guess.” Harry shook his head im-

| patiently.

“Must I give you another hint? 1t had some-

' thing to do with Squire Ellison, then. Do not



start in that way, or you will certainly upset the
tray. It has something to do with Squire Ellison,
I say. Now can you guess ?”

“T have not the slightest idea of your meaning,
Warbeck,” said Harry, turning pale.

“Why, how dull you are this morning, Harry!
Come now, it has something to do with Squire
Ellison’s orchard; with Squire Ellison’s cherry-
tree. Now, surely, you cannot help guessing
it.”

“T tell you I cannot guess it,” cried Mertoun,

| fretfully. “I wish you would not weary me in

this way, Charles. If you have any thing to tell





_ me, tell it to me at once. Iam tired of repeating

| curiosity, was putting all these questions to him
' in order to discover if he was implicated in the
‘ business, and he therefore resolved to persist to |

Ellison, and that it had something to do with his |

THE CWO DREAMS. 79





that I cannot guess it.”

The fact was, that, prompted by the stings of
conscience, Harry was satisfied in his own mind
that Squire Ellison’s gardener had discovered, from
the foot-marks in the orchard, that some one from
Dr. Young’s had been stealing cherries, and that a
complaint had in consequence been sent to the ,
head master. Mertoun also fancied that Charles
Warbeck, either having been commissioned by the
Doctor to do so, or, in order to satisfy his own

the last in asserting his ignorance of the transac- |
tion. On the other hand, Charles, utterly unsus-
picious of what was passing in his friend’s mind,
and having a conscience at peace with itself, con-
tinued merrily to ply him with fresh hints.

“Come, Harry,” he said, “this is too absurd. |
When I tell you it was a message from Squire



cherry-tree, you must be able to guess it. Why
even little Walter would have guessed it in half
this time.”

“But I am not little Walter,” said Mertoun,
still more crossly than before : “and I do not know



| 80 THE CHERRY-STONES.

what right you have to suspect me of knowing
more about it than any one else.”
“Suspect, Harry! what a strange word! I do

‘ not suspect you of any thing. You are, surely,
| taking this trifling matter in a very odd way.”

“ Are you going to tell me, or are you not?”

“Are you going to upset that cup of tea into
my lap, or are you not?” said Charles, laughing
good-humouredly at his friend’s vehemence. “ Be-
eause if you kick about in that way, you certainly

> will.”



“Tt is you, Warbeck, who make me restless,”

' retorted Mertoun; “and I must say I think it is

very ill-natured of you to persist in teasing me,
when you know I am ill.”

“Indeed, Harry, I did not mean to tease you,
and I am sorry I have done so. It was thought-
less of me, certainly, but really I did not intend to
annoy you; and after all, this news is hardly
worth repeating. It is only that the Doctor in-
formed us, after school this morning, that Squire
Ellison had, last evening, sent the boys a large
basket of cherries, and that we are to have cherry-
pie for dinner to-day. That is the piece of news,
Harry, I had to tell you; and that is all the news
there is, so far as I know.”







CHAPTER VI.

THE QUABREL.

Harry Mzrrown breathed more freely after re- -
ceiving a communication so different from what he
had anticipated. “Is that all?” saidhe. “Tt really
was not worth the mystery you made about it.”

“T made no mystery, Harry. The mystery was |
made by yourself.” !

“Perhaps so; but,” said he, hesitatingly, “you |
said it might—it might account for the cherry- -
stone in my bed last night.”

“Why, Sally might, you know, have filched a -
few cherries from the basket, and dropped one of
the stones whilst she was making your bed. It
would be odd enough if she were to be found out —
by such an accident, would it not ?”

“It would indeed,” said Mertoun: and then,
ashamed of allowing suspicion to rest. upon a per-
son whom he knew to be entirely innocent, he

G



82 THE CHERRY-STONES.

added, quickly, “but it is very unlikely that it
happened in that way. Sally is a most honest
girl. I have often left odd halfpence about, and
have never lost any thing.”

“Far be it from me to say otherwise,” said
Warbeck ; “and I did not mean seriously to sus-
pect her. What I said was only in joke. Not

: but that many persons who would shrink from the



thought of stealing money would not hesitate to
steal fruit, though of course, the one act is as
dishonest as the other.”

My readers will not wonder that Mertoun had
no disposition to argue this question. He flushed
crimson as he heard his companion’s chance ob-
servation ; and, to hide his confusion, took up the
teaspoon, and began violently stirring his tea, an
occupation which he had desisted from in his
anxiety respecting Warbeck’s secret.

“How very odd it is,” he exclaimed, “ that
this lump of sugar will not dissolve. I have
been stirring it almost ever since you came into
the room, and I cannot make any impression
upon it.”

“Take care! take care!’ exclaimed Warbeck, as
he saw the tea circling round, and running over
the edge of the cup. “If you stir it at that rate
you will upset it. Surely sugar must have melted



' It cannot be a lump of sugar I am certain.”

THE QUARREL. 83

long before this. Take it out, and see what it is.

“ Will you be convinced if you see it with your
own eyes?” replied Harry, peevishly, fishing with
his teaspoon for the refractory lump. “Look
here,” he said, as he lifted the spoon out of the

i cup, “look, and satisfy yourself.” But he had

' gearcely spoken these words, when he gave a start,

so violent as effectually to destroy the already tot-

: tering equilibrium of the tray. The teacup was
' upset, and the whole contents discharged directly
: into Warbeck’s lap. Mertoun scarcely observed
| the accident. His eyes were fixed on the spoon.



Instead of a lump of sugar, he had brought to light
another cherry-stone !
“ Warbeck!” he exclaimed, angrily, “you put

' that cherry-stone into my tea.”

“Indeed,” said Warbeck, starting up, and has-

| tily wiping his clothes, “I did not; but it was

you, Harry, who put that tea into my lap.”
“T am glad of it,” retorted Mertoun; “it served
you right ; and I wish it had been scalding hot.”

“Upon my word, Mertoun, this is a little :

you up your breakfast; and then am told that it

i serves me right.”

“ Why then did you put that cherry-stone into

a2

| too bad. I get a ducking in return for bringing |

|



’ me. I must say I think you are carrying a joke a

- pretext for disbelieving Charles’s assertion.

84 THE CHERRY-STONES.

my tea? It was as likely as not to have choked

great deal too far.”

“T have already told you,” said Warbeck, tem-
perately, “that I did not put it into your cup, and
I do not know who did. Be reasonable, Harry,
and think what possible object I could have in
doing so.”

Mertoun was silenced but not convinced. His
anger was not in the least abated; but he had no



“ But,” said Warbeck, after a short silence,
“your breakfast is quite spoiled by this unlucky
upset. Let me go down stairs and try to get
some more for you ?”

“No, I thank you,” replied Mertoun, not over
graciously ; “I have had enough of it already.”

“Enough! why you have scarcely tasted it,
Harry.”

“T wish you would not persist in contradicting
every word I say, Warbeck,” rejoined Mertoun,
with still greater irritation in his tone. “I do
not want any more. Will that satisfy you? If it
will not, go and tell Dr. Young all about it.”

“Well, and if I did, Ido not see that there is
any thing to make him angry, especially as the
cup and saucer are not broken.”



THE QUARREL. 85

“ Go then to him, by all means. You can make '

a good story out of the cherry-stone. You can

say that it very nearly choked me. It might have |

done so, you know, if it did not.”

“ Really, Mertoun, I did not come here to quar- |
rel with you, but you seem determined to fasten a i

quarrel upon me.”’

since you came into the room.”
“In that case I had better go away again, and

' leave you and your cherry-stone together.”

“ The sooner the better,” retorted Mertoun.

Warbeck walked slowly to the door. He paused
a moment, with his hand on the lock, hoping that
his friend would ask him to return. But Mertoun
only turned impatiently in his bed, and he left
the room.

As the door closed upon him, however, Harry
was almost inclined to burst into tears again. He
felt more wretched than ever. He had quarrelled
with his best friend. During all the years they
had been at Charlton together they had never
parted in unkindness until now, nor exchanged
such angry words as had passed between them that
morning. And, what was worse, conscience told

him that the blame of the quarrel rested entirely |

_ with him. He felt as though he had forfeited

“You have done nothing but tease me ever |

{







8&6 THE CHERRY-SIONES.

Charles’s friendship for ever; as though the re- .

membrance of his ill-temper could never be obli-
terated. Itis at such moments as these that we
feel the full value of friends like Charles Warbeck,
whose quict, even-tempered kindness, never rising
to any great warmth of profession, but always uni-
form and to be relied on, forms a stay and prop to

which we unconsciously cling, and the full strength

of which we seldom realize until we are in danger —
of losing it. As Harry thought over Warbeck’s ,

gentleness and forbearance, and his own ingrati-
tude, he sobbed as though his heart would break.
Those odious cherries! How he hated the very
sound of the word. And yet, strange as it may
seem, he felt less inclination to avow his fault than
ever. He resolved, indeed, to beg Charles’s par-
don, and express his sorrow for his petulance on
the earliest possible occasion ; but his very fear of
losing his friendship made him the more anxious
not to fall lower in his esteem: nay, notwithstand-

ing his extreme regret at having given his friend —

offence, he was not sorry he was gone, so much
was he afraid of his pursuing his inquiries respect-

ing the cherry-stones. After the lapse of another -

hour or so, he dressed himself, and went down
stairs, not many minutes before the boys were
summoned to dinner.





THE QUARREL. 87

Meanwhile, Warbeck, as he descended the stairs,
began to reproach himself for his conduct to his
friend. It was true, indeed, that Harry had been

| fretful and unreasonable, nor had he given him any

just cause of offence ; but he thought that he had
not made sufficient allowance for his illness. “I
ought not,” soliloquized he, “to have continued to

plague him about the stupid fruit, though after all ©

it was the cherry-stone that made him so angry.

By-the-by, how strange is all this mystery about .

these cherry-stones! How could this last cne
have got into Harry’s cup? No one came near
| the table, after Mrs. Young had poured out the
tea, except Walter and myself, It must have been
dropped into the cup wkilst I left it in the hall, I
suppose, or perhaps it was put accidentally into the
teapot with the tea-leaves.”’
His speculations were interrupted by little

| Walter, who came running up to him to inquire

* how his brother was. “Is he a great deal better,

Charles? Does he say he will soon be well?”

“He is much the same, Walter; but Ido not :

think he is seriously ill. But, Walter, come here;
I want to ask you a question. Now speak the
truth: was it you who put the cherry-stcne into
his teacup just now ?”’

“Indeed, indeed, I did not:” replied Walter,



. on the point of opening his mouth to tell Warbeck

. the most ludicrous perplexity.

_ the word cherry-stone ?”

88 THE CHERRY-STONES. |



with a face of great disquietude : “ but was it really |
there ?”

“Tt,” said Warbeck, “ what do you mean by ‘ it ?’
There was a cherry-stone in the cup certainly.”

Walter did not reply to the question. He con-
tinued to identify all cherry-stones with the one he
had found on the buttress, and which had first
excited his wonder. It had now, as he supposed,
come to light for the fourth time, and appeared at
the bottom of his brother’s teacup. He was just

all his doubts and fears, when he recollected his
promise respecting the word cherry-stone; and
breaking short off at the beginning of his speech,
he stared at his companion with an expression of

“Well, Walter,” said Charles, eyeing him with
great surprise, “why do you gape at me in that
strange way? Do you know any thing about this
business or not ?”’

“T must not tell,” gasped Walter, “I promised
not to say the word.”

“Not to say the word—not to say what word? |



Walter nodded. ;
“ And why did you promise that ?”
“T do not know,” said Walter.



THE QUARREL. 89

“Well,” said Warbeck, losing all patience at
this new mystery, “at all events you can say
| whether you know how the cherry-stone got into
your brother’s cup.”

“Indeed, I do not. How should I? It is the
strangest thing I ever knew in my life. I saw
Harry crush it to pieces yesterday morning, throw
it over the wall in the afternoon, and into the pond
in the garden last night, and this morning it has
got into his tea-cup. I do not think I ever heard
any thing so strange.”

“Tt is very strange,” repeated Warbeck, absently,
and rather following the current of his own thoughts,
than attending to Walter’s remarks.

“Ts it not?” said the little boy, delighted to
find a big boy as much puzzled as himself; and
then he added, doubtfully, “ Was Juno near at the
time, Charles ?”

“Juno! child? What is your little head run-
ning on? What can Juno have to do with it ?”

“T do not quite know,” said Walter ; “but Juno
was very busy looking at it when we found it on
the wall.”

Warbeck looked steadily at Walter, to see
whether he was venturing to make game of him.

But there was an expression of ingenuous honesty |

in the boy’s face that it was impossible to mistake.









90 THE CHERRY-STONES.

De a ee

He was evidently in earnest. Some strange mys-
tery Warbeck thought there must be about these
cherry-stones; but he could get no clue to it, and
whatever it might be, it was no business of his.
Moreover, the time for his class to be called up

| Was approaching, and he had not yet finished pre-

paring his Homer. So, dismissing for the present
the subject from his thoughts altogether, he re-
entered the school-room, and seating himself at his
desk, was soon deeply absorbed in the mysteries of
moods and tenses.

The dinner-table that day presented an unusual
display of luxuries. Instead of rolls of suet
pudding, the usual homely fare on Wednesdays
and Fridays, the board groaned beneath a goodly
array of cherry-pies, which sent forth an odour
which, as Seymour remarked to his neighbours,
was grateful to the senses of the expecting boys,
as the savour of the perfect hecatomb was said, in

their morning lesson, to have been to the nostrils '

of the cloud-compelling Jupiter. Indeed, as Sey- ;

mour further remarked, they had a decided advan-
tage over the king of gods and men, seeing that
the savour of the pies was, to them, but a pre-

liminary pleasure to the more substantial one .

which was to follow: whereas, the less fortunate
cloud-compeller was fain to content himself with



THE QUARREL. 91



the odour of his hecatomb, in default of a more

solid mode of enjoying it. Harry Mertoun, who, |

as we have already informed our readers, had made

his appearance some few minutes before the boys |

went in to dinner, was seated next to Warbeck.
It was evident that their quarrel was at an end.

Harry had made use of the short space afforded

: him, to ask Charles’s forgiveness for the petulance



and ill-humour he had shown. It was readily
granted ; and they were now conversing together
with that mixture of shyness and elaborate polite-

ness, which boys usually manifest towards one :
another when a quarrel has been settled between |
them. Mertoun, however, notwithstanding all his .

efforts to be cordial to his friend, was evidently ill

| at ease. The sight of the cherries, which Squire

Ellison’s bounty had bestowed on the boys, awoke

unpleasant reflections ; and he was not sorry that -

his indisposition precluded him from partaking in |

| the feast. It was a relief to him when the table

was cleared and grace said; but as the boys got up

| at its conclusion to leave the dining-room, Dr.

Young desired him to remain behind. “You may
all go,” said he, “excepting Henry Mertoun; I
wish to say a few words to him.”

Now it happened not unfrequently that the ~

Doctor detained a boy for a few minutes after



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ine tt
i.

rat aES


THE CHERRY-STONKES :

A Cale.


Works hp the same Author.

THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. An Allegory.
2s. Gd. bound in cloth.

Il.

THE DISTANT HILLS. An Allegory. (Printed
uniformly with the above.) 2s. 6d.

Itt.

THE OLD MAN’S HOME. A Tale. (Printed uni-
Sormly with the above.) 2s. Gd.

*,* A cheaper Edition of the above three Works may be had,
price 1s. each.

IV.

THE KING'S MESSENGERS. An Allegorical Tale.
(Printed uniformly with the above.) 2s. 6d.

v.
A COLLECTED EDITION of these FOUR ALLE-
GORIES, eleganily printed in one Volume, with a

Memoir and Portrait of the Author. Second Edition.
10s. 6d.

VI.

THE FALL OF CRESUS ; a Story from Herodotus,
designed to connect the Study of History with the Doc-
trine of a superintending Providence. 3s. 6d.

Vu.

THE WARNINGS OF THE HOLY WEEK, &c.;
being a Course of Parocuia, Lecruners for the Week
BEFORE Easter, and the Easter Festivats. Third
Edition. 5s.
"He cautiously raised himself an the Bough, and peeped over theWall a

~23.



: : Low Wo
London, Published by 1


THE CHERRY-STONES ;

oR,

CHARLTON SCHOOL. —

Cale for Pauth.

PARTLY FROM THE MSS. OF THE

REV. WILLIAM ADAMS,

AUTHOR OF “ THE SHADOW OF THE cRoss,” &e.

EDITED BY TRE

REV. H. C. ADAMS.

Seconds Edition.

LONDON:

FRANCIS & JOHN RIVINGTON,
ST, PAUL’S CHURCH YARD, AND WATERLOO PLACE,

1852.




LONDON
GILBERT & RIVINGTON, PRINTERS,

ST, JOHN’S SQUARE.


TO

JOHN W. ADAMS

AND

EMILY E. C. ADAMS

Chis little Balnme is Susrribed

THEIR AFFECTIONATE UNCLE

H.C. A.




PREFACE.

Many years have passed away since my lamented
brother first delighted a party of children, assem-
bled at a Christmas entertainment, with the simple
outline of this Tale. It was repeated by him on

other occasions of a similar kind; and he was often |

urgently entreated by his youthful audiences to
publish the Story. During the summer of 1842,

| after the first attack of the fatal disorder which

ultimately removed him from us, and before his
departure for Madeira in the autumn of that year,
he occupied himself in committing to writing the
larger portion of the Story, with the view of its
ultimate adaptation for the Press. The little Tale
was then laid aside, and the higher and more im-
portant publications, which afterwards occupied his
time, prevented its resumption, although the idea
was never wholly abandoned by him.

After his death, many friends, who remembered
the delight with which the Story had been listened
to, were desirous that it should be given to the


viii PREFACE.

world, and it was placed in my hands with that
intention.

I found it could not be published in its then
state. It was little more than » rough draft, with
marginal notes, and some portions not written at
all.

Notwithstanding this difficulty, we were anxious
for its publication. The Story not only contains
a practical and valuable Moral, but it is calculated
to influence that time of life which it is in general
peculiarly difficult to reach by such means. I
have, therefore, ventured to rewrite the Book,
retaining as far as possible the original MSS., and
supplying a continuation and conclusion in keeping
with it. That the Story must, under such circum-
stances, lose much of the beauty and interest
which it would have possessed if it had been com-
pleted by the mind by which it was originally con-
ceived, is sufficiently obvious; but I trust enough

remains to justify the publication, and to render |

the Work interesting as well as valuable to its

youthful Readers, for whose perusal it is principally ;

designed.
H.C. A.
WINCHESTER,
May 1, 1851.


CHAPTER I.

THE SLIGHT ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE.

“How tiresome!” exclaimed Charles Warbeck ;

! “how very tiresome, Harry! This is the third -

done it on purpose.”
“Tt is too bad!” “It is very ill-natured!” “It
is just like him!” was echoed from various parts

|

i

'

|

time you have knocked it over. You must have
| of the playground.

“How could I help it?” expostulated Henry |
Mertoun, the head boy of the school, a fine Jad in
his thirteenth year. ‘How could I help it, when ;

he would give me nothing but full pitches ?”
“Nonsense, Harry, you know very well you
might have blocked them if you had chosen.”
“Block them indeed,” rejoined Mertoun, in-
dignantly striking the ground with his bat as he
spoke; “a nice thing to be blocking full pitches—
| a nice way to be out, I think—and to be blocking,
| B
"way of preventing yourself or any onc else from being
- out, by putting a stop to the game altogether.”

2 THE CHERRY-STONES.





too, when we have twenty runs to get, and nobody
but Tommy Brook to go in!”

“Well, at any rate, you have taken an effectual

Such were the discontented exclamations that

. proceeded from the playground of Charlton School,
- on the afternoon of the 18th of June, 184—. A —

few words will explain what had caused the tem- :
porary unpopularity of Henry Mertoun. It was a
half-holiday, and the boys had been the whole |
afternoon engaged in the grand cricket. match of .
the half year. It had proved a most interesting
contest, Warbeck’s side had at one time deci-
dedly the advantage; but, in his second innings,
Mertoun had batted with such spirit and success, |
as bade fair to change the fortune of the day; and
as the game approached its conclusion, its issue ap-
peared so very doubtful, as to excite the utmost
anxiety both among the spectators and the com-
batants. Unluckily, however, there was a draw-
back peculiar to the ground on which they played.
Tt was bounded on one side by a brick wall, about :
nine feet high, and it occasionally happened that .
their matches were interrupted by the ball being —

- struck over this barrier into an adjoining orchard. '

Now, whether it was owing to Warbeck’s bad ©

|
THE SLIGHT ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE. 3



bowling, as Mertoun had affirmed, or to Mertoun’s
own impetuosity, as the popular voice had declared,
T cannot take upon myself to say ; but, within one
half-hour, he had three times struck the ball into
the forbidden territory. Dr. Young, their master,
had twice allowed them to go round to his neigh-
bour, Squire Ellison, to whom the orchard belonged,

' with a request to his gardener to throw their ball
' back again into the playground: but he had warned
' them at the same time that, if the accident again

occurred, he could not permit them to trouble Mr.
Ellison’s servant a third time. All the boys, young
and old, knew that there was no chance of Dr.
Young’s departing from his word. No one, indeed,

thought it worth while to make the attempt, so that _

it is not surprising that they thought it “too bad”
and “very ill-natured,” and declared that it was
“done on purpose,” and the like ; and were withal
very much disposed to be out of humour; whether
reasonably or unreasonably, with the cause of the
disaster, as it is the wont of boys and men to be,
when any thing occurs to mar their enjoyment.

The cricketers wandered listlessly up and down |

: the playground; for, after the excitement of the |

match, it was impossible to take interest in any

fresh game. There was a cloud on every face.
_ Some argued hotly on the probable result of the un- —

B2
| 4 THE CHERRY-STONES. |

~ finished match: each party maintaining that there

could be no doubt but that their side had had the |
advantage, and must have won if it had been con-
cluded. Others vented their spleen in murmurs

against every thing which seemed in any way con- -
nected with the mishap; and Mertoun’s batting, »
Warbeck’s bowling, Dr. Young, Squire Ellison, his .

~ orchard, his gardener, and, lastly, the wall of the
. playground—each came in for its share of censure. .
_ The wall in particular was the object of universal

disfavour. Never, probably, was any composition of —
brick and mortar subjected to such severe criticism, _
as the ill-starred wall in question. “It ought to

. have had palings on the top;”—“It ought to be

. nothing but palings ;’

—“Tt ought to be a great
deal lower ;”—“ It ought not to be there at all ;’—
“Tt ought to be there, and to be twice as high;”— .
were all urged and ali admitted ; it not making, ap-
parently, the slightest difference in the unanimity —
of the party, that no two agreed together in the

: fault they found. None of the party was more

thoroughly out of temper than Mertoun himself.!
He was vexed at the interruption of his imnings: |
he was vexed because he had ceased to be the object
of gencral admiration; above all, he was vexed be-
cause he felt that it was chiefly his carelessness that
had caused the accident. Discontent and idleness _
| THE SLIGHT ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE. 5

present occasion.

first class boys, who had been very loud in his ex-
pressions of disappointment. “What a pity that

or a foot or two lower!”

generally lead to mischief, and so it proved on the -

“ What a pity!” exclaimed Seymour, one of the

abominable wall was not built a foot or two higher, :

“A foot or two higher or lower,” said West; -

; “well, I do not see what good we should get if it |

: was a foot or two lower. We should only lose our
ball twice as often.”

“Tf,” replied Seymour, “it were a foot or two
' higher, there would be much less chance of the ball
' being knocked over; and if it were a foot or two

lower, we might manage to get over, and bring it
: back.”
“And why should we not get over as it is,”

suddenly exclaimed Mertoun, looking eagerly up at
the wall, “it would not be so very difficult ?”
“Oh, dear, no!’ remarked Seymour, ironically,

you had better perform this particularly easy feat,
and get it back again.”

This taunt, and the general laugh that followed
it, only stimulated Mertoun to make the attempt.

But it was an easier thing to resolve on than to



| « particularly easy, I declare; and I really think, ,

Harry, that as it was you who lost our ball, that .


6 THE CHERRY-STONES.

~ execute. The height, to be sure, was not very for-
midable; and the boy was well known as a bold and
active climber; but his performances had hitherto
been confined to trees, and how was he to com-
mence operations on a smooth surface of brickwork,
that offered neither trunk to swarm, nor branches
to cling to? If the wall had been decayed ever so
"little, or if even a single brick had been removed, the
‘ ease would have been different. But our hero (for
such Harry Mertoun may be styled) was not in a
humour to be easily discouraged. He took a care-
ful survey of the whole line of building, and his eye
soon rested on the only point which offered a pos-
sibility of success. Towards the further end of the
- wall, and at a short distance from the corner, there
was a buttress rising about five feet from the ground,
the top of which had been slightly worn away, so as
to afford a resting-place of about half an inch in
' breadth. It was a favourite amusement with the
younger boys to pitch their marbles so as to make
- them rest on this slight ledge; but it was so very
' narrow, that they but seldom succeeded in their
attempts.
“Tf” said Mertoun, as standing upon tip-toe he

tried with a‘large stone to knock away more of the -

brickwork from the top of the buttress, to the mex- |

pressible delight of his little brother, Walter, who
THE SLIGHT ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE. 7:

had passed a great part of the afternoon in vain ,

endeavours to make a favourite alley rest on the
ledge, “if I could only get my foot up there, I
could manage the rest easily enough.”

“ We will give youa lift,” shouted several voices.
“You can stand on me,” said West, leaning, as he
spoke, against the buttress, so as to offer his shoul-

_ der as a step.

“No, no,” eried Warbeck, who had hitherto

' taken no part in the proceedings, “it is impossible,

and he may break a limb; besides,’ he continued,

. Ina lower tone, “ what would Dr. Young say ?”

“ Never mind Dr. Young,” replied Mertoun,

~ recklessly ; “ it will be his own fault for not giving

‘ us leave to go round for the ball;

ta

more words, availing himself of the hands and

‘ shoulders of his companions, he made a vigorous

effort to reach the top of the buttress. Twice the
attempt failed, and the second time he tore his

and without .

trowsers against the sharp surface of the buttress; -

but the third trial was attended with more success. —

His spring succeeded, and for a moment he paused,

with his foot supported by the narrow ridge, and ©
the top of the wall grasped with both his hands. -

Still the work was only half accomplished.
“And now you have got your foot there, what
next ?” inquired Seymour, with a provoking laugh.
1

8 THE CHERRY-STONES.

Harry made no reply, but throwing all his strength |

into his arms, he slowly raised his body, until he

was able to get his knee on a level with his hands, |

and in an instant afterwards, waving his cap above

' his head, he stood triumphantly on the summit of
' the wall.

Once on the top, all the rest was easy. He

walked cautiously along, till he arrived at a point .
_ where a large branch of one of the trees rested —
: against the brickwork. Holding fast by this, he

, gtadually let himself down on the opposite side.

There was a moment of breathless expectation while |

he was hidden from the eyes of his schoolfellows ;
and then the cricket ball came bounding into the

playground, and announced the successful issue of |

the expedition.
“ Hush, hush!” cried several voices, as a general

shout was raised; “we shall have Dr. Young, or |

one of the ushers, out directly, to know what is the
matter, and then Harry will get into a nice scrape.
Make haste, Mertoun, there’s no time to lose.”

Our hero appeared to be perfectly aware of this

fact, without being reminded of it. To climb the
tree, and regain the top of the wall, was the work
of a moment; and then, without returning to the
point at which he had ascended, he let himself

' down as far as he could by his hands, and, assisted
THE SLIGHT ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE. 9

| by his companions, dropped quietly and safely to !

; the ground.

It will readily be believed, that this successful feat

|
|

. produced a complete revolution in the sentiments ,
of the little world of Charlton School. Mertoun’s ;
unpopularity passed away in amoment. He had ©

~ achieved what no one hitherto had even ventured |

. to attempt. There was, indeed, a legend still ex- .

tant, of some daring adventurer in the heroic ages

(there is always an heroic age in the traditions of

every school, in which the boys are related to have ©
been greater in size, and more venturous in spirit,)

who had scaled one of the walls of the playground,
and brought back with him a moss-covered brick,
as a memorial of his expedition, which might still
' be seen half-buried under the great buttress. But

' the boys in general held the tradition to be my- —

thical, nay, to have been altogether devised, in

order to account for the presence of the aforesaid —

moss-covered brick: and Harry was regarded quite |

as a hero by his companions. “ Bravo, Harry!

q29 :

- “Well done, Harry!’ “I should not have believed |
| it possible ;” “There is not another boy that would .
have ventured to attempt it;’ and the like, was |

. heard on all sides: whilst others, anxious to claim

any share, however trifling, in so glorious an under-
taking, disputed warmly as to who it was that
10 THE CHERRY-STONES.

guided his foot to the ledge of the buttress, and

. who gave him the last push which enabled him to
- get his hand to the top of the wall.

Poor Harry! he did, indeed, run a great risk of

- being spoiled. First, there had been his unusual

" guecess at cricket, and the proud thoughts to

which it had given rise; then a temporary reverse,
which, instead of subduing him, had only awakened

_ angry and rebellious feelings; then these had led

him on to commit an act of disobedience; and

; lastly, his disobedience had been attended with suc-

: cess, and the admiration of his schoolfellows. He

was more than ever full of proud thoughts. Thisday |

might, indeed, well prove the beginning of trouble.
_ “Well,” at length observed Seymour, after about
half an hour had been wasted in various expressions
of surprise and admiration, “I do not precisely see
what use it is having our ball back again, if we are

not to go on with the match.” Now it would seem ;
not a little strange that this obvious fact had not !
occurred either to Mertoun or his friends. There |
_ was no doubt that the interruption of the game
' had been regarded as a great hardship, and was the

cause of Iarry’s dangerous exploit. But no sooner

had the difficulty been removed, than they almost
' forgot to continue it. So much has imagination to

do with our worst misfortunes.


THE SLIGHT ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE. 11

Seymour’s hint, however, was no sooner heard.
than it was acted upon; but the long contested
game was not, after all, destined to be concluded.
Too much time had been lost. The wickets were
scarcely pitched again, before the bell rang for
supper, and the boys left the playground, convers-

ing as they straggled in, upon the various occur- |

rences of the eventful afternoon, which had just
come to a conclusion.

“Harry, Harry!” said little Walter Mertoun,
drawing his brother back from the crowd; “I am
so much obliged to you; only see what you have
done for me.”

“What are you worrying about ?” said Mertoun,
who had received too much flattery from his older
schoolfellows to wish to be detained by the praises
of a child of six years old.

“Only see how beautifully my alley balances on

| the place you made for it.”

“ T made for it,” said Harry, impatiently ; “ what
are you talking about ?”

“Why,” said Walter, innocently, “did not you
knock away the bricks with a stone for me ?”

“Well,” replied Harry, after a moment’s reflec-
tion, “if I did, you had better hold your tongue
about it ;” and he turned to follow his companions.

“But, Harry, please tell me one thing. Do
12 TNE CHERRY-STONES.

‘ you think it will be sate if I leave it there all
‘ night ?”
“eave what?” said Mertoun, again turning |

round—“ the buttress ?”

“No, no! the alley. Now you are laughing at
me, brother Harry.”

“Well, Walter, I do not think the alley will
walk away of its own accord.”

“Then you think it will be safe?” said Walter,
doubtfully.

“Oh, ay! quite safe—don’t tease,” hastily re- |

plied Mertoun, as he ran off to join his companions _
atthe supper table. Walter shook his head gravely, _
- as though he thought a matter of such importance
, ought not to be so lightly dealt with; and then,
_ giving one parting look at his favourite, he slowly

followed his brother’s steps.

Tt would have been well for Mertoun if the

events of the evening had ended with this conver-

‘ gation; and his exploit had led to no consequences

more serious than the balancing of his little bro-
ther’s marble on the ledge of the buttress. But an-
other question was asked in the supper-room by an
older boy, the results of which were very different.

“Mertoun,” whispered a voice in his ear, as he
tcok his seat at the table, “did the fruit in the

~ crehaid look very tempting ?”
THE SLIGHT ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE. 13

Harry started as he heard the words. He had
not observed who his neighbour on the left hand
was; and on turning round to reconnoitre him, he
was not particularly pleased to find himself seated
next to Edward Sharpe, a boy in the first class not
much younger than himself, but: who had only lately
come to the school, where he was already notorious
for suggesting schemes of mischief which he had
not courage to execute himself.

“ Really,” replied Harry, “I had no time to
look ; but I do remember,” he continued, after a
moment’s recollection, “that there was a most

splendid cherry-tree, covered with fruit, at the foot

of which I found he ball.”

“Ah! then,” said the other slily, “let me go

halves with you in the cherries you gathered.”
“The cherries I gathered!” exclaimed Harry, in

great surprise, “I did not go into the orchard to

gather cherries, I went to look for the ball.”

“But when you were there, you know it did not |
much matter what you went for. So you were '

under a ripe cherry-tree, and let the cherries off!
Are you certain you gathered none?”

“Indeed, I did not; I had something else to .

' think of. Besides, Edward, surely it would have
been stealing Squire Ellison’s cherries.”
“Stealing, indeed! as if Squire Ellison would
14 THE CHERRY-STONES.

mind a few cherries out of that large orchard! And
if he did, it would serve him right for not sending
the boys some fruit.”
“But he did send us some last year, and perhaps
he will do so again.”
“ Perhaps he may,” rejoined Sharpe, “and perhaps
he may not; and ‘ perhaps’s’ may be good things
as well as cherries; but if my foot had once got
into his orchard, there would have been no ‘ per-
haps’s’ for me.”

The conversation, which had been carried on in
a low whisper, was here interrupted by a summons
to prayers. But it had lasted long enough to give a
new turn to the thoughts of Harry Mertoun. It
was perfectly true, as he had said, that while in the

orchard the idea of taking the fruit had never ,
occurred tohim. But he began now more than half -

to repent of his own honesty. It was, he reasoned,
overstrained to call picking a few cherries off a large
tree robbery. And such splendid cherries too.

“Well, however,” thought he, “the opportunity is

gone by, and after all I am not sorry that I did not
think of picking them, while I was there.”

Notwithstanding this conclusion, however, his :

mind ran upon the subject during the whole of the .

prayer-time that evening; nor did he make any |

decided effort to shake it off. There was one very
THE SLIGHT ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE. 15



sad consequence arising from this. He retired to ©
rest without having implored forgiveness for his
fretfulness and disobedience during the day; and .
without having asked for protection during the
dangers of the night. No one can tell how much
misery might have been spared him, if this evening _
he had but once thought seriously on the words
“lead us not into temptation” which his lips
repeated.
CHAPTER II.

THE GRAVE ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE.

Ir was remarked that evening by the boys who

slept in the same room with Mertoun, that he was ~
- unusually silent. Though generally disposed to be —

' talkative, especially when any thing interesting had

occurred, he this evening scarcely joined in the |

conversation, notwithstanding that it turned en- :
, tirely on the stirring incidents of the day, in which |

he had borne so conspicuous a part. The boys,
however, were much tired, and the conversation
soon dropped from its first animated flow to a few
scattered observations at longer and longer in-

tervals; until at last the most profound silence |

pervaded the apartment.
But Mertoun could not compose himself to rest.

: We have seen that he had retired to bed without

having really offered a single prayer for protection
during the dangers of the night. We cannot,


|

THE GRAVE ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE. 17

therefore, wonder that the evil thoughts of the

day should continue to haunt him. Long after —

the heavy breathing of the boys around him had
announced that he was the only one awake, he was

tossing restlessly upon his pillow. He thought .
| again and again over the events of the day: his

success at cricket; his clamber over the wall; the
admiration which his skill and boldness had ob-
tained. Still he was restiess and dissatisfied. The
evil desires, which Sharpe’s conversation at the
supper table had raised in his mind, gained strength

the more he dwelt on them. He could not drive |

the provoking cherry-tree, with its ripe and beauti-
ful fruit, from his thoughts: and the more he in-

dulged his longings, the more clear and distinct |

the recollection of all he had seen grew in his

imagination. More than once, as he was dropping |

off to sleep, he was roused by finding himself |

stretching out his hand to catch at the imaginary
fruit. Eleven, twelve, one, two o’clock struck.
At length, without any settled purpose, he stole
out of bed, and crept cautiously to the window.

It was a fine moonlight night; and every part of

the playground, and orchard beyond, was distinctly

visible in the clear white light. The wall, seen

from the height at which he stood, seemed a very ;

slight separation between them,—and there, just


18 THE CHERRY-STONES.

{

where his imagination had placed it, stood the ~

tempting cherry-tree. Up to this night it had

never occurred to Harry, or to any other of the —

boys, that the orchard, which they saw from their
bed-room window, was within their reach: but now
that he had actually surmounted the obstacle that

lay between them, he had exposed himself to a —
- temptation hitherto unknown to him. As he looked
| eagerly on the scene of his afternoon’s adventure,

the thought suddenly rushed into his mind, why
should he not go down stairs now: again climb the
wall of the playground, and possess himself of
some of the delicious fruit. For a moment he
repelled the thought, but the next it returned with

' redoubled force. The temptation, indeed, assailed

him in more than one weak point. He was naturally
fond of sweet things; and if he had not been
carefully brought up, might have become a greedy
boy. And, on the present occasion, he had thought
upon the cherries for such a length of time, that he

| felt an extraordinary desire to obtain them. But
another point in his character exposed him still more |
| to danger. He was remarkable for a strong love of
| the romantic and adventurous ; as, indeed, is com-

monly the case with boys of a warm and eager

temper. Tales of wild and perilous exploits would -
at all times arrest and rivet his attention, often to |


THE GRAVE ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE. 19 ;

_ the neglect of serious duties: and he was apt to lose -

all recollection of the folly and criminality of some '
‘ of his heroes, in his admiration of their unbounded ;
; and desperate courage. And as he now thought of
the daring and romance of going alone, at the dead
of night, and scaling a wall which none of his -

schoolfellows would venture to attempt in open
day, he felt his heart beat more quickly, and a

thrill of strange feverish delight spread through ,

his veins. The temptation prevailed; and he .
resolved to make the attempt. Noiselessly hurry- |

ing on his clothes, he gave an anxious glance at

his unconscious companions, who were sleeping
soundly after the labours of the day; and then,
taking his shoes in his hand, crept softly out of
the room.

The staircase which led to the boys’ dining and
school room was nearly dark, and as he groped his
way cautiously across the passage, and descended

, Step by step, it seemed so very long, that he

thought it would never end. He could scarcely

persuade himself’ it was the same staircase he was ;

accustomed to bound so lightly down in the morn-
ings, and which did not then seem more than a

dozen steps. More than once in his descent he |
paused to make sure that he was not observed, and °
fancied he heard distant noises ; but when he listened —

c 2
|
|
|

'
’

20 THE CHERRY-STONES. |



all was quict around him, save the slow ticking of
the staircase clock.

Arrived at the foot of the stairs, he had still
three rooms to pass through before he reached the

' playground—the dining-room, the school-room itself,

and an outer room, im which the boys’ trunks were
kept, and which went commonly by the name of the
marching-room, because in rainy weather the boys
used to have their drilling lesson there. The doors
of all these rooms he expected to find unfastened ;
and though the outer door of the marching-room,
which opened into the playground, would of course
be locked, yet he knew the key was always left in
the lock on the inside. He was not mistaken. On
trying the dining-room and school-room doors, they
opened without difficulty. He encountered no ob-
stacle as he passed stealthily and silently through .
them. Grim and ghostlike appeared the desks
and forms as the moonlight streamed in full
upon them. As he looked round, he could hardly
realize to himself that it was the scene of his daily
labours, so different was its unbroken stillness, and
its general aspect, under the cold whito light of the
moon, from the glare, and noise, and bustle which
enlivened it by day. Its silence and loneliness
made his heart beat more quickly, and he was glad .
when, unlocking the door of the marching-room, he
|
THE GRAVE ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE. 21

- found himself clear of the house, and stepped joy-
_ fully out into the cool night air.

His first impulse was to cast a hasty glance at the
' windows of the house, to make sure that none of
the family had been disturbed. Every thing was
profoundly still. So far, then, all had gone well.
He moved along under the shadow of the wall,
until he came to the buttress by which he had made
his former ascent; but here an obstacle encoun-
tered him which he had altogether forgotten to
provide for. On the previous afternoon, he had
reached the top of the buttress by the assist-
ance of his schoolfellows. Now, however, he was
entirely alone, and how was he to begin to climb ?
. For a few moments he was baffled. “I will
not give it up, though,” said he to himself, as
he measured the height of the wall with his eye;

“T will not give it up. The greater the difficulty,
the greater the glory; I will manage it somehow,
I am resolved.” As he pondered thus, his eye sud-
. denly rested on a bench which had been brought ‘
out of the marching-room on the afternoon of the

match for the use of the boys during the game. '
“The very thing,” he exclaimed ; “how stupid of
' us not to think of this bench yesterday! Ay,’ he
' pursued, as he laid it with its back resting against
the buttress, and its legs projecting outwards
. from the wall, “this will make a famous ladder.”

and it was only by a vigorous effort that he saved

: recover his equilibrium. “It is Walter’s tiresome

- before; “what a provoking child he is!” Having

| his misfortune, he put the marble into his pocket,

22 THE CHERRY-STONES.



Scrambling, first on to the lower, and then the |
upper legs, he speedily contrived to reach the posi- |
tion from which he had, on the first occasion, suc- |
ceeded in raising himself to the top of the wall:
but as he rested on the ledge previously to making
the requisite spring, his left foot suddenly slipped :

himself from falling headlong into the playground.
As it was, he was obliged to step hastily on to the
bench, and from thence to the ground, before he could

marble,” muttered he, as he picked up the alley, |
which, it will be remembered, his little brother had .
balanced on the ledge of the buttress the night

thus vented his anger on the unconscious cause of

- and recommencing the ascent, soon arrived at the

: top of the wall.

As, however, he was in the act of lowering
himself by the branch of the tree into the orchard, |
his ear caught a sound which filled him with dis- .
may. It was a rapid scuffling of feet in the play-

: ground below, as though some one were running

|

hastily from the house, in the direction of the but-
tress. He clung to the tree in an agony of fear,
not daring either to advance or recede. After re-
maining some minutes in this position, his anxiety
prevailed so far over his fears, that he cautiously
raised himself on the bough, and peeped over the

wall. The first glance reassured him. The occu- | ©

pant of the playground, whose footsteps had caused

THE GRAVE ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE. 23

him so much alarm, was only a favourite spaniel ;

belonging to Dr. Young, whose kennel stood in the
garden adjoining the playground, but who was often
left untied at night. The animal was greatly petted
by the boys, and especially by Mertoun, with whom
it was a frequent amusement to make his canine
friend jump over sticks, or run races round the
playground. This proved fortunate for him on the
present occasion. He had scarcely raised his head
from his lurking-place, before the quick instinct of
the dog had discovered him, and doubtless, had he

_ been a stranger, she would instantly have broken

out into a loud and angry bark. As it was, how-
ever, she contented herself with informing him, by
alow whine, that she was aware of his presence,

' and that she wanted him to come down from the

wall, and join her in some frolic. “ Hush, Juno,

hush!” exclaimed Harry; “hush, good dog;” and
although puzzled at so unusual a request from

' Mertoun, Juno so far complied as to desist from

_ whining, and deliberately seating herself opposite


24 THE CHERRY-STONES.

to the tree, appeared to be speculating with much
' gravity as to the next step which Harry would take.
' ‘Relieved from his immediate embarrassment, |
Mertoun paused. He felt more than half disposed |
to return to ns bed, and abandon the adventure
altogether; but the Tempter now awakened his
pride, and so added a fresh motive for persisting. |
How inglorious, he whispered in his ear, to go
- back now, after all your grand resolutions, and the
risks you have run, and only because you have been
frightened by a dog! Above all, to abandon your
enterprize at; the very moment when the prize
is within your grasp! Why, you can all but reach
the cherries from your present resting-place. “No,
no,” said he, yielding to these thoughts, “it would |
be cowardly, indeed, to give it up now ;” so witha |
parting admonition to Juno to remain quiet, he .
descended swiftly and noiselessly into the orchard, |
and stood, for the second time, at the foot of the _
cherry-tree.

i
j
a iy
|
|

But he had reckoned too far on Juno’s obedience.
So long as Harry continued in sight, she considered -
that she had some security that he was not going :
to baulk her of her expected frolic; but, no sooner '
had the boy disappeared, than she began a series of
whines, each rising louder than the last, aceom-
panied by an occasional short, sharp bark. Mertoun
THE GRAVE ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE. 25

' saw that no time must be lost in returning, lest

the house should be disturbed by her increasing °

clamour. He dared not stop to eat the fruit he had ,
, gathered; but, thrusting a few of the cherries into :
_ his pocket, he hastily reclimbed the wall, and dropped -
~ into the playground. The dog greeted his return —

with unbounded delight, scuffling round and round

- him, and making frantic attempts to jump up and

lick his face. With difficulty—for he did not dare

to elevate his voice—he succeeded in moderating |

' his companion’s excessive and most inopportune |

flow of spirits; but, at length, the dog was pacified, |
and Harry had time to think over what had hap-
| pened. The excitement had passed. The offence

was committed: and its full extent now for the

: first time rushed upon him. It was not the |

- number of cherries he had taken; it was the |

_ act of taking them which appalled him. He -
- could scarcely believe he had really stolen them,
‘and that he, Henry Mertoun, was actually a -

_ thief! For he was by no means an unprincipled
boy. We have seen that he had exposed himself by |
_ his discontent and disobedience to temptation, and .

that he had yielded to it; but in general his

' character stood high, both in the estimation of

the masters and the boys, for honesty and sincerity. ©
It was only a few days before that Dr. Young had —
26 THE CHERRY-STONES.

said publicly of him before the whole school, that he
did not believe any thing would induce Henry Mer-
toun to tell a falsehood ; and his remorse at what he

had ever felt in his life. How could he be so
i wicked! How gladly would he give up—not merely

the few cherries, which were now valueless to him
: —but all he had in the world, if he could only undo
' the work of the last quarter of an hour! But this,
_ he sadly reflected, was impossible. He might be
sorry for it—he might resolve never to be led into
such guilt again—he might do all in his power to

atone for it; but he could not undo it. He became
painfully conscious of that most terrible feature in

an act of sin, that it is irrevocable. “Oh!” said he,

“if Ican only get back quietly to my room again,
: this will be a lesson I shall not soon forget.”

But there was much to be done before he could
with any safety think of retiring to rest. His first

care was to remove the bench, and place it in its

had now done made him more miserable than he '

former position. In the next place the fruit was :
to be disposed of; and here again the terrors of an |

' evil conscience haunted him, and raised doubts and |

, could have produced. If, reasoned he, the fruit be
: found in my possession, suspicion must of course

fears in his mind, which the sense of guilt alone —

‘ light upon me. IfI throw the cherries over the |


THE GRAVE ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE. 27

wall, Mr. Ellison’s gardener will find them in the
morning, and will make inquiries as to who gathered
them. If I leave them in the playground, there
will be still greater risk of detection. He did not
feel the slightest inclination to eat them; indeed,
i they had become hateful to him as evidences of his
| guilt. No other mode of disposing of them, how-
ever, occurred to him, and he accordingly thrust
them hastily into his mouth. But, alas! no sooner
was this done, than the same terrors, created
by the same causes, met him in a new shape.
What was to be done with the stones? There
they were—seven in number—each of them, in
' his excited fancy, telling its tale of a cherry that
. had been stolen! how must they be disposed of?

! Helooked at Juno. The dog was employing herself |
: in scraping a hole in a corner of the playground. |
“You are right, Juno,” said Harry, speaking to |

her, as though he thought she had seen the diffi- ,

culty, and had suggested a way of removing it,
“we must bury them.” And as he spoke he en-

' larged the hole with a stick, till he had made it ;

: sufficiently deep for his purpose; and then, first '

throwing the stones into the hole, he carefully co-
vered them upwith earth, scattering a little loose dust —

. over the spot, so as to make it appear as though the |
_ ground had never been disturbed ; and this he ma- -
28 THE CHERRY-STONES. |

naged so successfully, that when it was done, he
could himself scarcely recognize the spot. “There,”
said he, as he sprinkled the last handful of dust,
“there let them lie, they at least shall not betray me.”
He then thought that every thing was safe, and !
that he might return without risk of discovery to
his bed-room. He had scarcely, however, reached !
the door of the marching-room, when he remem- ‘
bered that he had his little brother Walter’s alley
still in his pocket. This favourite marble of the .
little boy’s had a dark red ring round the centre: |
and might be recognized amongst a thousand. |
That child, reasoned he, in the restlessness of his -
uneasy conscience, will be sure to make a hue and
ery after his marble to-morrow when he finds it has -
been removed from the buttress ; and how am I to
* account for having it in my possession? Wearied
and sick at heart as he was, he returned to the .
buttress, in order to replace it on the ledge. But
this proved no easy matter. His hand shook so
violently, that the marble rolled off no less than -
five times from the narrow slip of wall, on which —
he endeavoured to fix it. The poor boy was more
overcome by this little difficulty than he had been
by his greater troubles. He burst into tears, and -
was, in his vexation, on the point of throwing away
_ the alley, and abandoning the attempt. But if I do,

I


THE GRAVE ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE. 29



again the thought occurred to him, Walter will be -

searching all over the playground for it, and perhaps

make one more attempt, and it proved successful.
The marble settled firmly on the top of the buttress,
and Harry, retracing his steps as quickly as he

| could across the playground, and persuading Juno

to go into the garden, closed the gate upon her, and
then re-entered the marching-room.

We need not follow him through the remainder
of his progress. We may easily imagine the
mingled fretfulness and alarm with which he drew

‘ will light upon the cherry-stones. He resolved to

the noisy bolts, and turned the creaking key; the |
fear and trembling with which he passed through .

the three rooms, and up the staircase, now faintly .

tinged with the morning light; and the hurried ©
glance he cast round him, as he re-entered his bed-

room, lest any of his companions should have de-
tected his absence. But they were all sleeping
soundly and peacefully, just as when he had left
them. It was evident no one in the room had
been disturbed. He hastily slipped off his clothes,
and the clock struck three as he stepped into bed.
—But a single hour had elapsed since he had first
got up to look out of the window: but it was the
longest and most wearisome hour that Harry
Mertoun had ever passed.
. Upon this latter point they were not long left

CHAPTER IIT.

WALTER'S ALLEY.

Iv was nearly half-past six o'clock. The first bell
had rung more than twenty minutes, and the boys _
in Mertoun’s room were dressed and ready to go
down stairs. Harry, however, still continued in bed,
notwithstanding the most strenuous efforts on the

part of his companions to arouse him. It was in
vain that they reminded him that he would forfeit
marks; that he would have a heavy imposition ;
that it would not improbably lose him his prize,
and the like. To all these representations he re-
turned drowsy and fretful answers. The second bell |
sounded. Mertoun still refused to rise; and the |
boys hastened down stairs, speculating as they went
on the unaccountable conduct of their schoolfellow,
and whether Dr. Young would discover his absence.

in doubt. Prayers were scarcely over, before Dr.
WALTER'S ALLEY. 31

Young’s quick eye was observed glancing round
the school-room, as though he had perceived that
some one was absent. ‘“ Where,” said he, “is
Henry Mertoun?” There was a short pause; and
then Charles Warbeck replied,“ I believe, Sir, he
has overslept himself this morning. He seemed
very tired, and, I think, must be a little unwell.”

“Tired, and unwell,” said the Doctor, as he left
the school; and the next instant his heavy footstep :
was heard ascending the staircase that led to -

Mertoun’s room.

Our hero’s slumbers were still unbroken when |
his master entered the apartment, and stood silently |
by his bedside, watching for several minutes, with :

much interest, the features of the sleeping boy. It
was evident, that though his repose was deep, it
was by no means refreshing. His hands were
tightly clenched, and the muscles of his face worked
convulsively, as though he were engaged in some
imaginary struggle; and one foot which protruded

from the counterpane, was slightly stained with |

blood.

“ Mertoun,” said the Doctor, gently laying his -

hand on his shoulder; “do you know what o’clock
it is P””
“ Off, off, Juno!” exclaimed Harry in his sleep.
“Do you hear me, Sir?” said Dr. Young, in
|
|

32 THE CHERRY-STONES.

' a louder tone, shaking him by the arm as he



| spoke.

“ Off, Juno, off, you will crush me!” again ex- .
claimed the sleeper; and as he uttered these words —

he opened his eyes, and fixed them in silent asto-
nishment on the figure of the Doctor standing by

| his bedside.

“ Well, Harry,” said Dr. Young, who could not
forbear smiling at the dismay expressed on the
boy’s countenance ; “ what did you take me for ?”

“J—I beg your pardon, Sir,” stammered Harry,

' only half awake; “I believe I had a disagreeable



dream, that Juno was sitting on my breast, and

| stifling me with her paws.”

“Ah, a nightmare,” said Dr. Young. “ You

; are not well, Mertoun; you must have eaten some-
| thing that has disagreed with you.”

“Oh, no, indeed!’ exclaimed the conscience- _

stricken boy, in alarm; “I am not in the least ill,
indeed I am rot.”

“How then comes it that you are so late?”
pursued the Doctor. Harry made no reply.

“Well, Mertoun,” rejoined the other, after a
moment's pause, “I am glad, at least, you do not
attempt to deccive me by pretending to be ill. I
had rather see you guilty of almost any fault than
deceit. So, as you are usually punctual, I shall
9

WALTER'S ALLEY. 33
|
|

t
t



take no further notice of this irregularity. Dress .
yourself, and come down as quickly as you
can.”

He turned to leave the room, but, as he did so, ;
his eyes again fell on the foot which Harry had .
still left uncovered. “Why you have hurt your
foot, my boy,” said he, kindly stooping down to
view it more narrowly: “and very recently, too.
In what game was this done?”

“T—I do not know,” replied Mertoun. “TI -
suppose I must have scratched it against the bed-
post, during the night; it was not done when I
went to bed last night.”

“You must have been indeed restless, then,”
said Dr. Young; “are you sure,” he added, as he ~
paused with his hand on the lock of the door, “ are
you sure there is nothing the matter with you?”

“ Quite sure, Sir, nothing at all,” replied Harry.

Dr. Young left the room, and no sooner was he

gone than Harry Mertoun burst into a flood of -
tears.

He had, indeed, much to make him unhappy.
it was true he had escaped detection, but his escape
had been dearly purchased by equivocation and ~
deceit. It was in vain that he tried to persuade
hirhself that he had not said any thing untrue. “I
did not tell him,” said he to himself, “that I had |

D
. Bh THE CHERRY-STONES.

not eaten any thing out of the common way, but

only that I had not eaten any thing that had dis-
agreed with me, and I do not know that the
cherries did disagree with me: and as for my foot,

_ I suppose it was hurt in the night, and I do not

know how I hurt it, so that was true at all events.”
And so indeed it was, and evidenced his strongly
excited state during his expedition: for he must,

' without being aware of it, have cut his foot in

some manner while climbing the wall. But although
all this was true as regarded the letter, he felt in
his heart that both his answers were, in spirit,
evasions of the truth; and now, when it was too
late, he wished that he had had courage to make a
full confession. “ Why,” thought he, “when his
hand was on the door, and he spoke to me in that
kind voice, why did I not obey the impulse that
prompted me to tell him the truth?” Above all,
the remission of his punishment by Dr. Young, -
because he had not acted deceitiully, smote upon
his conscience. He felt that, to receive this praise, .
and avail himself of the Doctor’s indulgence on
grounds so entirely false, was a great aggravation
of his offence.

This inward struggle continued for some time,
but the wish for concealment at length prevailed.
It wanted only four days to the end of the half
WALTER'S ALLEY. 35

| year, and Henry Mertoun was the favourite among

. his schoolfellows for the first prize both in classics

and ciphering. If Dr. Young should hear of an
offence so grave as a midnight attempt to steal fruit,
all chance of a prize, he well knew, was at an end;
for, however regular or diligent a boy might be,
an act of dishonesty was considered sufficient to
exclude him from all hope of reward. “ You have
got the highest marks in your class,” he had said ”

~ at Christmas to a clever boy whom he had detected :

in a falsehood; “but I cannot give you the prize.
Diligence and great talents may be turned to evil
as well as good account: unless they are accom-
panied by straightforwardness and honesty I will —
never encourage them.” .

This was the very reflection that should have led

‘ Mertoun at all hazards to tell the truth: but,

unhappily, he thought only of his prize, and the -
shame to which exposure would subject him; so he
determined to drown the reproaches of his con-
science by mixing with the boys again; and,jumping |
out of bed, he hurried over his prayers, and hastily -
dressed himself. He had not quite finished, when
he heard a step on the staircase. The least circum-
stance was now sufficient to alarm him. Throwing
down his waistcoat, he began in great haste to pull
on his shoes, for his stockings were so soiled with
D2
36 THE CHERRY-STONES.



mud and sand as to be likely to lead to awkward
questions ; and there was, moreover, a hole in the
bottom of one of them, and a slight stain of blood
that corresponded too nearly with the wound on his |
foot, not to afford to his disturbed state of mind |
a most unpleasant risk of discovery.

The second shoe was not quite on when the door
opencd, and Charles Warbeck presented himself. |
“Come, Harry,” he said; “what atime you have |
been! Mr. Powell sent me up to look for you. |
He thought you must have fallen asleep again.” |

“Tam just ready,” said Harry, “only this tire-
some shoe never will come on. It feels as if there
were a stone sticking in the toe of it.”

“ Off with it, man, then, and look,’ said Charles ;
“can I help you?” .

“No, I thank you,” replied Mertown, quickly |
alarmed at the notion of his schoolfellow secing the |
condition of his stocking. “I can manage it per- ;
fectly,” and, with a violent effort, he forced his foot |
into the shoe. “ Now,” said he, “ it is all right.”

Notwithstanding this assertion, however, it soon ,
appeared that it was not all right, for he had :
scarcely made three steps towards the door, when '
Warbeek exclaimed, “ Why, Harry, you are walking
lame, your shoe must hurt you.”

“Tt’s all mght, I tell you,” replied Mertoun,

nnn _ _. _


WALTER'S ALLEY. 37

pettishly ; “surely I must know best whether it
hurts me or not.”

“Certainly, Harry; but nevertheless you walked
a little lame; not that that is any great wonder,
considering your climb over the wall.”

“My climb, Charles! what do you mean?”
stammered Mertoun, stopping short in the middle
of the room, and turning very pale.
| “ What do I mean ?” rejomed Warbeck, greatly
: astonished at the tone in which the question was
asked; “your climb after the ericket-ball, to be
i sure. You have not forgotten that already, I

suppose.”

Harry at once saw how nearly he had betrayed
| his own secret. Conscience had led him to mistake
' the meaning ofa very simple question, and another
| falsehood was the consequence. “Of course, I -
| knew you meant that, Warbeck; but how could it
! possibly lame me ?”
| “Why, you might have sprained your foot in
getting down.”

|
'
|
i
!
'
i
|
t
i
|
i
i
'

; ground, and that his wisest course was to take
! refuge in silence. Charles Warbeck, who was a
| good-natured boy, and who saw that for some

unexplained reason the subject was distasteful to

!
|
i
|
|
|
|
Harry felt that he was treading on dangerous
|
|
|
| his companion, did not pursue it further, and they
38 THE CILERRY-STONES.

descended the stairs together without continuing
the conversation.

School was over, and the boys all assembled at
breakfast, when Charles and Harry entered the

room. “low is your foot, Mertoun?” said the -

Doctor, as our hero made his appearance.
“Quite well, Sir, thank you,” replied Warry,
colouring up to the eyes.

“Tam glad to hear it,” was the rejoinder; “I ;

was afraid you were walking a little lame.”
Breakfast went on as usual, but Mertoun had
scarcely finished his first slice of bread, before a

circumstance occurred, which for the moment quite |

deprived him ofall appetite for another. Chancing
‘ to put his hand into his pocket, he felt a
: round substance in one corner of it, which, to his

extreme astonishment, he discovered to be little ;

Walter’s alley. Yes ;—there it was, with the red
ring round the centre ;—the very identical alley that
he fancied he had left safe on the buttress the
night before. “ Was it a dream ?” thought he, as
he turned it round and round in hopeless perplexity.
“Surely I remember that it rolled off five times,
and that the sixth time I succeeded in balancing it
there. By what magic can it have got into my
pocket ? I suppose I must have mistaken something
else for it. But it is very strange.”
WALTER'S ALLEY. 39

“Take care, ILarry,” whispered Warbeck in his
ear, as he sat eycing the mysterious alley, “ take
care ; Mr. Powell is looking at you.”

“ And what if he is ?”” answered Mertoun.

“ Only that he takes away our marbles, you know,
if he sees us playing with them at breakfast.”

The hint was not lost upon larry ; he hastily
thrust the alley into his pocket, in sudden alarm
lest the mystcrious marble should fall into the
master’s hands.

Breakfast was by this time concluded, and the
boys received the usual leave to adjourn to the
playground. They were allowed an hour’s play
between breakfast and school, and they were not
slow to avail themselves of it. Out they rushed,
shouting, leaping, racing, and jostling against one
another, as though life and death depended on
being in the playground first.

‘“ Like sportive deer they coursed about,
And shouted as they ran ;

Turning to mirth all things of earth,
As only boyhood can.”

Mertoun, however, did not share in the high —
spirits of his schoolfellows. Ife followed slowly
and thoughtfully in the rear, endeavouring to de-
vise some means of restoring his brother’s marble
40 THE CHERRY-STONES.

i
}
i
|

to him without awakening his suspicions. Mean-
while, Walter himself had run on as fast as his
little legs could carry him. He was terribly
alarmed, lest some evil-disposed person should get
before him, and possess himself of his favourite
alley. Tlis heart had more than once misgiven
him for separating himself so long from his trea-
sure. He had dreamed of it during the night ; it

’ had distracted his attention all through the morn-

ing-lesson; and he had grown so anxious during

' breakfast, that even the attractions of some orange-

marmalade, wherewith one of his little friends had
enriched the barrenness of his bread and butter,
failed to occupy his undivided attention, as, doubt-

Jess, under other circumstances, it would have

done. No sooner was the signal for departure
given, than away he seampered, and im less than

: two minutes had arrived at the spot where he had

. left his favourite. Ie gave one look at the but-

tress. His worst fears were realized. is trea-
sure was gone; and, what was stranger still, its

place was occupied, not indeed by a marble, but by

some other substance, distantly resembling one.
Back he ran to his brother, his constant counsellor
in all his little troubles: “Oh, Harry! Harry ! what
shall Ido? They have stolen my marble, and’”—
“Well, Walter,’ said Mertoun, who had, of
WALTER'S ALLEY. 41

course, anticipated this piece of information, “T

am sorry your marble is gone, but I dare say it is
. not stolen, and that you will find it again soon;
‘ and, until you do, I will lend you another, as good

or better than your own.”

“Thank you, brother; but I would rather have
my own alley back again than have a great many
new ones. Thank you all the same. But that is
not all. They have not only taken my alley away,

but they have put something curious in its place.
Only do come and see, brother,” continued the
little boy, pulling at the skirt of Harry’s jacket.
Mertoun went with him reluctantly enough, but

he could find no reasonable excuse for declining.

He had, however, no sooner cast a glance in the
direction in which Walter was pointing, than he
made a start of extreme and very disagreeable sur-
prise. If his dismay at the disappearance of the
alley did not equal that of his little brother, now,
at all events, he was at least equally amazed and

confounded. Resting on the narrow ledge of the

buttress, on the spot from whence Walter’s marble
had so unaccountably disappeared, there lay—what

an extraordinary coincidence !—a cherry-stone!
CHAPTER IV.

PRISONERS’ BASE.

Harry Mertroun gazed in amazement at this
unexpected apparition. Could he have mistaken a
cherry-stone for Walter’s alley? It seemed im-
possible that he could have done so. He had only
eaten seven cherries, and he had buried seven cherry-
stones; and yet what other explanation could be
given of so strange an occurrence? One thing
only was clear to him. He must keep Walter’s

marble for the present. If he now produced it, |
further inquirics, difficult to answer, would be

made. He was sorry to deprive the little fellow

of his pet plaything, but he could not safely re- —

store it.

“ A penny for your thoughts, Harry!” exclaimed |
a merry voice close behind him. “How grave you —

look. There is nothing the matter, is there ?”
Harry started. “ Nothing that I know of, Fre-
PRISONERS’ BASE. 43

derick :” and as he spoke he turned, as if to move
away from the buttress.

But Seymour was not to be so easily shaken off.
“What, then, were you staring at? A cherry-
stone, I protest! Well, there is nothing that I
can see so very astonishing in a cherry-stone.”

“TJ did not say there was, Seymour; and why
should you suppose there is?” retorted Mertoun,
with an ineffectual attempt to appear unconcerned.
, Only because of the manner in which you were

staring at it. What do you think of it, Walter?”

added Seymour, observing the perplexity of the -

little boy’s face.
“Never mind, Walter,” interrupted Harry, “we

shall lose all the morning if we wait here. Let us |

choose sides for some game:’” and, taking Sey-
mour by the arm, he drew him away from the
spot.

“But, Harry,” said little Walter, who was not
disposed to let the subject drop so easily, “do not
goaway. I want you to attend to me.”

Mertoun hesitated. He was not desirous of
protracting the conversation with Walter, but he
was afraid that he would make some one else his
confidant, if he refused to listen to him. And
besides, to do Harry justice, he was very sorry for
his brother’s disappointment, and for the share he
44 TIE CHERRY-STONES.

|

had had in it. “Go onto Charles,” he said to Sey-
mour, “T will soon join you.” And then, taking
Walter on one side, he inquired what he wanted.

“Why, ILarry, I want you to advise me how I
am to get my alley again. Do you not think I had
better speak to Dr. Young about it? Perhaps he
would be able to find out the thief.”

“ Nonsense, ask Dr. Young about a marble, in-
deed! No! no! hold your tongue; and, as I told
you, I will give you another instead. It is useless
to talk about it, unless indeed you suspect some-
body, which I suppose you do not.”

“But I do suspect some one,” said Walter, in
a low, confidential tone ; “and if you will promise
not to laugh at me, I will tell you.”

“Yes, that I will,” replied his brother, from
whose thoughts nothing could be further than
laughter at that moment. “ Who is it ?”

“Well, then,” said Walter, gravely, “I think it
was Juno.”

“Juno!” exclaimed Mertoun. “You extraor-
dinary child; who ever heard of a dog stealing
marbles ?”

“There, now,” said Walter, “you promised not
to laugh at me.”

“ But you are so droll, child. Who could help

en nN A Mf
ER

laughing at such a notion P” |

nee
|
|
|
|
|
i





PRISONERS’ BASE. 45



“Why, brother, I have heard of a magpie steal-
ing spoons and forks, and I do not see why a dog
should not steal marbles.”

“Excellent reasoning! And what makes you
suspect poor Juno?”

“Why, I thought I heard her barking in the
playground early this morning; and just how she
rushed out before me to the very place where I had

| left my alley, and put up her paws, as though she

wanted to scramble up there. And only look at
her now, with all the boys round her. Look how

| she is scratching up the ground, just as if she had

buried something. Besides, brother,” continued

| Walter, with a conviction that now, at all events,

he was putting forward an argument which could
not be answered, “if it was not Juno, who could
it have been ?”

The cogency of this logic, however, was lost upon
Mertoun ; for no sooner did he perceive the dog’s
employment, than, suddenly breaking off his con-
ference with Walter, he rushed forward, crying,
“Juno! Juno! good dog! heigh for a race.”
And away went Juno, obedient to the well-known
summons, to the great disappointment of the group
of boys, who had been watching her proceedings
with the greatest interest.

“Oh, why did you call her away, Harry?” said
46 THE CILERRY-STONES.

Warbeck. “We were having such fun with her.
I am sure she smelt a rat.”
“No, no,” said Walter, who at that moment

_ came up; “it was nota rat; it was my alley. Has

any one seen an alley any where ?”
“Yes, Walter,” answered Warbeck, good-na-
turedly, “I have seen a great many alleys in the

- course of my life: but what was yours like ?”

“Oh, it was a most beautiful alley,” said Wal-
ter, “with a red ring all round it.”

“Well, then,” said Warbeck, “I think I saw it
not an hour ago; and, what is more, I do not
think it is so very fur off, but that it may return
to you again.”

As Charles said this, he pointed slily at Mer-
toun’s pocket. This again changed all Marry’s
plans. To deny his possession of the alley would
now be more unsafe than to avow it. How crooked
and uncertain are the ways of deceit! Truly in-
deed has the poet written,

“© Oh, what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practise to deceive !””
and sadly was Marry beginning to illustrate this
truth by his rapid progress in duplicity.

“Ts this your marble, Walter?” said he, taking
it from his pocket, and trying to force a smile as he
held it up to view.
PRISONERS’ BASE. 47

“Oh yes, indeed it is; thank you, Harry, thank
you! Where did you find it?”

“ Ah! where, indeed, Walter? You had better
ask Juno.”

“ Ay, by all means ask Juno,” said Warbeck ;

. “but not just now, because we want her to find the
: vat for us. Come then, Juno, where’s the rat ?”

: back.

“This way, Juno,” cried Harry, calling her

“No, no; here, Juno, here,” cried half-a-dozen

: voices, as they saw the dog about to obey Mertoun’s

summons.

Juno kept running to and fro, first to one party,
and then to the other.

“Here, here, rat, Juno, rat,” shouted Seymour,
grubbing with a stick in the hole which the dog
had begun to dig, and which was not above an inch
or two from the spot where the cherry-stones were
buried. Juno immediately thrust her nose into the
hole, and began digging most vigorously. Mertoun
was in despair. Another minute, and his secret
must be discovered. He made a last effort, and in

: & low reproachful tone called the dog away. The
| dog acknowledged his appeal, and crept submissively
' to his feet, nor could any thing again induce her to

leave him.

His companions in vain endeavoured to persuade


48 THE CHERRY-STONES,

him to give her up. Harry’s fears were too strongly

| excited to allow of his complying. “Get her if ‘
; you ean,” was the only reply he vouchsafed to all

their entreaties, threats, and reproaches.

“Never mind,” said Warbeck at last, “let us
leave him and the dog together. He will soon be
tired of her, and want to join us.”

This, however, did not prove to be the fact. The
whole of that playtime our hero was constant in his
attentions to Juno. It seemed as if he had become
her slave. He followed her wherever she went,

. and was afraid to leave her for a single moment,

‘ lest she should betray the spot where the cherry-
stones were concealed. It was a wearisome and

degrading task, and never had he looked forward
so anxiously to the hour of play as he now did to

_ the ringing of the school-bell.

His companions kept to their resolution of

‘ leaving him to Juno’s society, and he had only one

interruption during the remainder of the playhour.
Walter had been for some time amusing himself :
with alternately aiming the cherry-stone at the
marble, and the marble at the cherry-stone. He
was a most thoroughly honest, simple-hearted,
little boy, and, in the middle of his solitary game,

. the thought suddenly struck him that the cherry-

stone did not belong to him. Instantly, he ran
PRISONERS’ BASE. 49

to his brother and exclaimed, “ Brother, I have
brought you back your cherry-stone; will you give
it to me if you do not want it yourself ?”

| “My cherry-stone! you little plague, what do
- you mean by calling it mine? what have I to do
with it ?”

“Why, you know, I have got my alley back
again, so it cannot be mine; but will you give it
to me ?”

“Oh, yes ;—or stay, give it to me, and I will crack
it for you; and, as he spoke, he stamped upon
‘ and crushed it. “There, Walter, now you can
' pick the kernel out and eat it.”

“But I did not want the kernel,” said Walter,
the tears rising in his eyes; “I wanted to play
marbles with it.”

“Foolish boy! play marbles with a cherry-stone !
I will give you one of my best alleys in its place.”

“Will you, indeed ?” said Walter.

“Yes; but, remember, it is upon one condition ;
that you do not say a word about the cherry-stone
until the end of the half-year.”

“Not to say the word cherry-stone,” responded
Walter, doubtfully, “ until the end of the half-year.”

“Yes; perhaps that will be the safest way. You
are not to say the word cherry-stone until the end
| of the half-year.”
50 TYE CHERRY-STONES.

“But why not? Is ita naughty word, brother
Harry ?”

“ Never mind why not; but if you will promise,
you shall have the marble.”

“JT will promise then,” said Walter.

“ Here, then, Walter,” said Mertoun, producing
an alley from his bag, “there it is for you; but,
remember, if you say the word cherry-stone, I shall
take it away again.”

Walter scampered off with his newly-acquired °

treasure. He did not understand clearly what had
occurred, but he remembered that he was but six

years old, and could not, therefore, be expected to |

understand every thing; and, moreover, as he had -

recovered his own alley, and gained another besides, |

he did not see any great cause for inquiring into

the circumstances. He settled in his own mind,

first, that his brother was very clever to find his —

alley ; secondly, that he was very kind to give him
another ; and thirdly, that he would have a good
game with his two marbles now he had got them.
This last resolution, however, was unhappily cut
prematurely short by the sound of the school-bell,
which at once broke off the boys’ game, and relieved
Mertoun from his embarrassing occupation of
watching Juno’s movements.

School-time passed away much as usual, the only
PRISONERS’ BASE. 51

remarkable thing being that Mertoun’s lessons had
never been so ill done before. This was, in truth,
not surprising. ILe was wholly unable to fix his
attention on his books. The narrow escapes he had
had of detection,—the scratch on his foot,—the
chance question of Warbeck,—his brother’s marble,
—and Juno’s rat-hunt,—all seemed to have con-
spired to betray his guilt. Nor were these his
most unpleasant recollections. The various sub- —
terfuges and evasions by which he had contrived ,
for the time to divert suspicion were yet more
distasteful; and he looked forward to the three
days which must yet pass before the end of the
half-year with a feeling of weariness and disgust he
had never known before.

Meanwhile, his companions began to wonder at
the change which had come over him. Iis refusal,
in the morning, to let Juno hunt for the rat had
greatly diminished the favour with which he was
usually regarded, and his blunders formed the
subject of many ill-natured remarks. “Such strange
mistakes as he made in construing the Virgil,”
saidone. “ And two false quantities,” eried another.

“ And three gross blunders in his ciphering,” added
athird. “Mr. Powell said they would have been
disgraceful to his brother Walter,” said a fourth.
“Talk of his getting two prizes indeed,” said Sharpe,
E2
52 THE CHERRY-STONES.



_ “Tshall be very much surprised if he gets one.”
: Warbeck alone remained faithful to his friend. He
maintained that Harry was probably unwell, and
that the exertions he had undergone on the previous
afternoon were the cause of his depression ; besides
. which, every body was hable to do worse at some
times than at others; and as for the prizes, it was
absurd to suppose that the marks of two days
could change the marks of a whole half-year.

The prizes at Charlton School, it should be
remarked, were given to the boys who had been
most diligent during the whole half-year, and the
most successful in the examination at its close.
A book was kept, in which the marks obtained by
each boy, for every lesson throughout the half-year,
were registered. To these were added the marks
gained in the half-yearly examination, which always
' took place on the day before the boys went home ;

and whoever was then found to have the greatest

number, received the prize, unless, as has been
already remarked, some great act of disobedience,
especially an act of dishonesty, should deprive him
of it, which it always did, however superior he
might have proved himself in talent or industry.

To prevent constant rivalry, Dr. Young never per- |
mitted the marks to be added up until the day on |

which the prizes were awarded. There were always,


PRISONERS’ BASE. 53



however, conjectures among the boys as to whose
names stood highest on the list; nor were they
often far wrong in their conclusions. In the

present half-year, Henry Mertoun was the favourite,
both for the classical and ciphering prizes ; but the —

result was considered to be very uncertain; Charles

Warbeck in classics, and Edward Sharpe in cipher-
: . : |
ing, were supposed to be running him very close. |
The decision of the following Friday, therefore, was

looked forward to with much interest, and hence

Mertoun’s failures had attracted unusual attention.
But the playtime was too precious to be wasted |
in speculations on any subject. All called out for |

play. Many games were suggested and abandoned ;
and at last Warbeck proposed a renewal of the

ericket match of yesterday, but there were many |

dissentient voices. “It would be so tiresome,” said -
West, “again to lose the ball in the orchard. Do —
not you think so, Harry?” he added, addressing

our hero, who at that instant made his appearance
in the playground.

“Well, and if we do,” said Sharpe, “ larry can
get over the wall and fetch it for us. Cannot you,
Harry ?”

There was nothing at all strange in this question,
but such is the nature of guilt, that it made Harry
feel very uncomfortable, especially when he remem-

_— Hae ne — ——
54 THE CHERRY-STONES.

bered his conversation with Sharpe at the supper-
table. He hastily answered, that he thought any
thing was better than cricket; and the majority
appearing to be of his opinion, the idea was aban-
doned.

“Well, at any rate,” said Seymour, “let us do
something. What do you all say to a game at
prisoners’ base ?”

“T have no objection,” said Warbeck, looking
doubtfully at Mertoun. “The only thing is, whe-
ther it may not hurt your foot, Harry.” This was
suggested most good-naturedly, for Charles had
observed, or at least fancied he had observed, that
his friend was still a little lame. Mertoun, how-
ever, was greatly annoyed at the remark. He had
not forgotten the conversation before breaktast,
and chose to fancy Warbeck was still harping on
his unwillingness to take off his shoe. He de-
clared, with much vehemence, that he was never
less lame in his life, and that there was no game
he preferred to prisoners’ base.

“Hurrah, then,” shouted Seymour, “we are una-
nimous at last. Warbeck and Mertoun choose
sides; and Warbeck must have first choice, because
Mertoun was never less lame in his lite, and so I
suppose he will beat us all.”

This sally produced a laugh, in whieh all but
PRISONERS’ BASE. 55

Harry joined. The boys tossed up for the choice.
The sides were chosen, and the game commenced

- with much spirit.

Now, notwithstanding Mertoun’s angry decla-

' ration to the contrary, his shoe was very far from

comfortable. He had continually felt during the
day the same inconvenience which had troubled
him in the morning. He had been afraid to take
off his shoe at that time, because Warbeck would
have seen the state of his stocking; and, although
during school-time he had abundant opportunities
of doing so, without the slightest risk, guilt is ever
so suspicious, that he always fancied some one was
watching him, so that the stone still continued in
his shoe when the game at prisoners’ base was
proposed. So long as he remained quiet, it caused
him but little annoyance; but no sooner did he
begin to exert himself in running, than it became
very troublesome, and it was only by a painful
effort that he more than once escaped being taken
prisoner.

At length, as he grew warm with the excite-
ment of the game, he began to be ashamed of his
former fears. “How absurd,” thought he, “to keep
this abominable stone in my shoe all day! as if
any boy would observe whether my stockings are
dirty or clean; or, if they do, as if they could pos-
56 THE CHERRY-STONES.

sibly guess the cause. I will have it out now, at
all events.” And down he sat on a bench close
at hand, and began untying his shoe.

“What are you at now?” said Markland, one
of the boys on his side. “It is our turn to chal-

lenge. Go out and challenge Warbeck. Seymour

and I will be after him the moment he has crossed
the line; and if we catch him, the game will be
ours.”

“In one minute, George,” said Mertoun. “I
want to get the gravel out of my shoe, and then I
shall be ready for you.” How strange a thing is
deceit! Harry well knew that it was a stone of
some kind that was annoying him; and yet, with-
out any definite reason, he had called it gravel.
He was becoming accustomed to avoid speaking
the exact truth.

There was a pause in the game. “Lect me help



you, Harry,” said Walter, running up from the .

corner where he had been watching the players.

“Thank you, Walter, it is done,” said Harry. |
‘ Now let us see what it is that has been giving -
me this annoyance all day.” As he spoke, he put |
his hand into the shoe, and, to his surprise and -

dismay, produced—a cherry-stone!

“Oh, brother,” exclaimed Walter, “ why, if there

is not the’—and then suddenly recollecting his
PRISONERS’ BASE. 57

promise, he put his hand to his mouth, and stood
gazing in silent astonishment at the contents of
his brother’s shoe. It did not occur to the little
fellow that there were many cherry-stones in the

world. He fancied that the one he saw before

him must be the identical cherry-stone which he
had seen on the buttress in the morning, and
which, having been crushed to pieces by his bro-
ther, had, in revenge, found its way into his shoe.
Instinetively he put his hand into his pocket, and
was not a little comforted to find that both his
marbles were safe, notwithstanding the mysterious
re-appearance of the cherry-stone.

“Hallo!” said Seymour, coming up at this junc-
ture, and perceiving the two brothers gazing at the
stone which Harry still held in his hand, “what
have we here? Another cherry-stone, I declare.
Why, where did this come from ?”’

“Tt came out of his shoe; it did, indeed,” said
Walter, slowly, thinking it too wonderful an occur-
rence to be easily credited.

“Out of his shoe! I suppose, then, that is
what you have been complaining of, Harry P What

on earth could induce you to keep a cherry-stone
in your shoe all day ?”

“TI did not know what it was,” replied Mertoun, ©
in great confusion.




58 THE CHERRY-STONES.

“Well, at all events it is out now,” interposed
Markland, impatiently, “so I suppose we may go
on with the game.”

The delay that this incident had caused attracted
the attention of the boys on the other side. “ What
is the matter, George?” called out West, who,
being on Warbeck’s side, was not allowed by the
rules of the game to come to the spot where Mark-
land and Seymour were standing.

“What is it, Walter?” said Sharpe, beckoning
to the little boy to come to him.

“T promised not to tell,” was the reply.

“ Nonsense, child; why you have had no time to
promise.”’

“Ah! but I promised this morning not to say
the word.”

“What word do you mean? I do not under-
stand you,” said Sharpe, growing more and more

| perplexed.

“Ah! I sce you want me to let it out, but Iam
too cunning for that,” said the child, pursing up -
his lips as he spoke, as though he were afraid that —
the secret would escape in spite of him; and, nod- -
ding his head, retreated to his corner, where he
sat down on his stool, and waited to sec the game
begin again.

“Markland,” cried Sharpe, whose curiosity was


PRISONERS’ BASE. 59

a good deal excited by Walter’s strange reserve,
“what on earth has Mertoun found that there is
such a mystery about ?” ;

“Nothing but a cherry-stone,” was the reply;
“and there is no mystery at all about it that I .
know of.”

“Mystery, or no mystery, here it goes,” said
Harry, and as he spoke he flung it from him, with
a jerk that sent it over the wall, far into the

| middle of the orchard. As he did this, his eye, for
| @ moment, caught that of Sharpe. There was no

mistaking its expression. It was clear that some
suspicion had crossed his mind. Our hero was
more than ever alarmed. All he could do, how-
ever, was to get on his shoe as quickly as possible,
and divert attention by resuming the game. He
overheard Sharpe say, in a low tone, to Warbeck,
“Charles, where do you think that cherry-stone
came from ?”

“Upon my word,” replied Charles, “I do not
know, any more than where it is gone to; and
what is more, I do not care. But look, there is
Mertoun going to challenge us. Two to one he
names me.”

Scarcely had these words been spoken, when —
Harry shouted “Charles Warbeck,” at the top of |
his voice. Away ran the boys, and the moment :
60 THE CILERRY-STONES.

the line had been passed, away darted Seymour and -
Markland in pursuit. Every thing depended on ;

the challenger being able to dodge round, before he !

reached the end of the playground. It was a '

mancuvre Harry was famous for executing with |

success: but on this occasion he ran without any
of his usual animation ; and the very first feint he
made, he was touched and made prisoner by War-
beck. Tis second and third in command, finding
their scheme frustrated, endeavoured to provide for
their own safety, butin vain. They also were made
captive, and lodged with their leader in durance
vile, at the other end of the playground; and

Mertoun’s side having thus lost their three best :
runners, their defeat followed as a matter of course. ;

Fresh sides were chosen, and another and another
game played; but always with the same result.
Mertoun always lost. At last, hot and tired, and

more than half out of temper, from his repeated |

defeats, he begged them to choose sides anew, and
to continue the game without him. Warbeck im-
mediately offered to leave off also, and to come
and sit with him. But to this arrangement Harry
would by uo means agree. He fancied that
Charles wanted to ply him with more questions

about the cherry-stone: though nothing could |
in reality be further from his friend’s thoughts’; !

2


PRISONERS’ BASE. 61

and he declared that he greatly preferred being
alone.

So he sat down by himself sadly enough in the
corner of the playground, while his favourite Juno

came and rested her large black head on his lap, |

as though she understood and sympathized in all
his troubles. It was very strange, he reflected,
that it should have been a cherry-stone that had
troubled him all day; that a cherry-stone should
have spoiled his morning’s amusement; and that
just as he was beginning to recover his spirits, a

. second cherry-stone should have appeared, and
again destroyed his pleasure. Some connexion
they must have with his night’s adventure. “TI
’ remember I was very hurried and confused,” he

said to himself, “and it is not surprising; and

: yet I feel almost certain that I buried all the
stones: well, I was mistaken, and there is an end

of it.’ Then, again, he was vexed to be obliged to

acknowledge to himself, that the very measures he ;

had taken to ensure concealment, had had the
effect. of bringing him to the verge of detection.

_ Seymour's surprise at the appearance of the cherry-
' stone was only occasioned by his having kept it in
_ his shoe all day; and the promise he had exacted
' of Walter in the morning, was the principal cause

of Edward Sharpe’s suspicions. But this is always


62 THE CHERRY-STONES,

' the case with guilt; its own restlessness is its most
frequent betrayer.

Such were Marry Mertoun’s sorrowful reflections,
as he sat in the corner of the playground, with
nobody but Juno for his companion. The merry
shouts of his schoolfellows, who were still engaged
' in their game, served only to deepen his depression.
' He was vexed with himself, and thoroughly un-
happy. But, alas! his sorrow had nothing of real
' repentance in it. He would have given much to
undo what he had done; but he felt even less
inclination than before to take the only course his
- conscience approved. He clung to the hope that
all would yet go well; and that, by to-morrow, he
should have forgotten all about the matter: above
all, he trusted that no more cherry-stones would

make their appearance. In order to secure this, |

as much as possible, he felt carefully in all his

pockets, and satisfied himself, that now, at least, |

there were none concealed about his person.
This gave him some comfort, and when he joined



his schoolfellows in the supper-room, he had re-

covered his composure, and chatted and laughed

with them as usual. Nay, their sprightly con- .
yersation scemed to have banished all his dis- |

quietude; and as Dr. Young paused at the door of
the school-room, when he went in to read prayers,
PRISONERS’ BASE. 63

he heard his voice the loudest and the merriest of
all, No one, who looked at his clear open coun-

' tenance, or listened to his cheerful laugh, could :

have believed he was the same boy who, not an
hour before, was sitting in his solitary corner,
weighed down by a sense of unrepented sin, the
burden of which he had only cast aside for a while.
Truly it is a mystery, that strange privilege which
boyhood alone seems to possess, of being at once
sinful and light-hearted. It is, as it were, the
; mingling of the pure and the impure in the same
‘ cup, without the whole draught becoming polluted.
. In after years, guilt has its moments of wild and
' feverish delight; but boys, and boys alone, can sin,
- and be sorry for a while, and then fling aside all
' thought of it, and feel as though they had never
. sinned at all. In infancy, the consciousness of
sin is a thing unknown. In manhood, it presses on
the heart like an ever-present burden: but in boy-
hood, it is like an April eloud which flits over the
landscape, darkening it for a while, and then
passing away altogether, and leaving it as bright as
ever, Of the many mysteries of boyhood, this is,
perhaps, the most inscrutable.

Dr. Young looked more attentively than usual at

Mertoun when prayers were over, and thought -
that, notwithstanding his high spirits, he was paler


64 THE CHERRY-STONES.



' than was his wont. “Harry,” he said, “I am
_ afraid you are a little unwell. Unless you are quite
. recovered in the morning, you had better not get

up, and Mrs. Young will send you some tea, Good
night, boys. Go up quietly to bed, and do not
chatter and make a noise in Mertoun’s room,
as you are sometimes apt to do, as I wish Harry
to get as sound a night’s rest as possible.”
CHAPTER V.

THE TWO DREAMS.

Dr. Youne’s kindness had renewed all Mertoun’s
feelings of remorse. He walked slowly up stairs,
reflecting mournfully how little he had deserved it.
The only thought which gave him comfort was that
the long dreary day was ended, and that he might
forget his troubles in sleep. “ Let me have a good
night’s rest,” thought he, “and I shall be a different
being ; and then I will to-morrow resolve upon the
course it will be most prudent for me to take.”
Endeavouring thus to quiet his conscience by post-
poning all reflection, he undressed himself, and
stepped into bed.

But the night began with an evil omen. His
head had scarcely touched his pillow, before he
bounded out again with a cry of astonishment that
startled and almost frightened his companions.
“What is it, Harry ?” “Is it a pin? or a needle?

F
G3 THE CHERKY-STUNES,.



or a rat?” cried two or three voices at once.

“Oh!” exclaimed Mertoun, throwing back the

. bed-clothes as he spoke, “what shall I do? there
- is a cherry-stone in the middle of my bed.”

The tone in which these words were uttered

; appeared so ludicrously disproportioned to the
: cause which had elicited them, that they pro-

_ his paroxysm of laughter: “I really beg your |

voked a smile even from the quiet Warbeck, while
the more mercurial spirits received them with
shouts of laughter. Seymour, in particular, who
had come into the room to ask some question of
Warbeck, (for he himself did not sleep in Mer-
toun’s room,) seemed as if he never would cease
laughing. Walter alone sympathized in his bro-

ther’s alarm. He drew cautiously near the bed, ;
eyeing the cherry-stone with an air of suspicion, |
as though he expected it to fly at him. “I beg |

your pardon, Harry,” said Seymour, getting up
from the bed, upon which he had flung himself in

' pardon; but you look as if you had seen a ghost ?

Had it been a cherry-pie, now,” he continued,
looking round him, “ it would have been a different

matter; but being a cherry-stone, I would recom- ,

mend you to throw it out of the window.”

Harry had by this time recovered his self-pos- |

session. “Of course,” said he, as he threw the



|


|

THE TWO DREAMS. 67

cherry-stone into a small pond which lay in the
garden below, “of course there is no difficulty in
getting rid of a cherry-stone; but it was very
careless in Sally to leave it in the bed. You know,
it might have been a needle.”

“Nay,” rejoined Seymour, affecting to under-
stand his words literally ; “it might in time have
been a tree, but certainly not a needle.”

“ Nonsense, Seymour!” interposed Warbeck ;
“it is excessively disagreeable to find things left in

| one’s bed; and if I were Harry, I would complain

to Dr. Young.”

“Complain to Dr. Young!” exclaimed Mertoun,
his suspicions again aroused at this speech; “I
shall certainly not trouble him about such a trifle.”

“ A trifle!”” remarked Sharpe, who had hitherto
sat perfectly quiet, but keenly observing what was
passing; “a trifle, you call it? You did not seem

| to consider it a trifle just now, I think.”

Mertoun made no reply. Silence was his best
mode of escape from the awkward dilemma into
which his consciousness of guilt had led him.
Seymour would have pursued the subject, but
Warbeck entreated him to let it drop, reminding
him that Dr. Young had ordered them to be quiet,
in order that Mertoun’s repose might not be dis-
turbed, and hinting at the same time that if the
F 2
oS THE CUEKRY-STONES.
Doctor should hear any noise, and come in conse-
quence up stairs, he would probably select Seymour
for punishment, because he was out of his own room.
“With all my heart, Charles,’ said Seymour,

i in answer to this appeal; “I only hope our friend

here will not dream of a cherry-stone, or he will

certainly disturb the whole house.”

This observation would, under ordinary circum-

! stances, have led to fresh skirmishing, but Mertoun

was resolved to be upon his guard. No further
remark therefore was made; Seymour soon after-
wards took his departure; and Harry, overcome
by the fatigues of the last night, and the troubles
of the day, quickly fell asleep.

But sleep rarely brings rest to a troubled con-
science. And so it proved in the present instance.

' His imagination still continued to be engrossed

by the same subject which had occupied his waking
hours; only that his present fancies were more

' wild and fantastic than those which had haunted

him through the day. He dreamed that he stood
alone in a large and beautiful garden. The air was
fragrant with the rarest flowers, and every variety
of fruit grew in rich abundance around. Imme-

. diately before him rose a cherry-tree, whose
‘enormous branches, far exceeding in size any he

had ever seen, were loaded with ripe and delicious




THE TWO DREAMS. 69



fruit. At his feet lay his favourite Juno; her eyes
gazing intently on the tree, and sparkling with the
brightness of diamonds. As he eyed the tempting
clusters, which the great height of the tree placed
far above his reach, he thought that the lofty stem
suddenly bent towards him, till the loaded branches
almost touched the ground. He stretched out his
hand, and plucked a cherry, and he had no sooner
done so than the tree sprang back again to its

i former position. Seven times was this repeated.

Again and again the tall trunk stooped till the
branches came within his reach, and each time did
he gather a cherry from the rich store it offered to
his choice. But as the tree rose erect for the
seventh time, a marvellous change came over the
face of things. A chill wintry blast swept through
the sky; and in an instant every trace of life and
beauty had passed away from the garden. The
fiowers fell withered from their stalks: the foliage
vanished from the trees, only a few sere and yellow
leaves remained clinging to the naked branches.
It was a scene of bleak and dreary winter; but the
strange phantasy of a dream added features which

a

no winter landscape ever presented. As he cast .
. his eyes upwards to the cherry-tree, he perceived

that the fruit with which the boughs had been
thickly covered had all vanished, but the stones
: only the skeleton of a dog, with its fiery eyes still

_ and fell thick as hail in all directions around him.
' Presently the branches themselves were torn off by |
' its fury, and whirled like withered leaves into the |
air, leaving the black and crooked trunk alone :
' standing. As Harry continued to gaze, in fear and

- eoil above coil, till he appeared to be completely

- his limbs, and with a violent effort to disengage

70 THE CHERRY-STONES.

still remained, and high and wide the bare, rugged
branches were studded with clusters of cherry-
stones. He looked downwards, and saw that the
seven cherrics he held in his hand had shared the
same fate, and nothing but seven stones met his
view; and instead of his favourite Juno, he saw

fixed upon the tree. As he stood, horror-stricken |
and unable to withdraw his eyes from this appalling |
sight, the violence of the wind increased. First, |
the cherry-stones were dislodged from the branches,



wonder, at this strange spectacle, the trunk itself '
seemed suddenly to be endued with life, and to
twist and writhe as though it had become a serpent.
Harry made a feeble attempt at flight, but his feet
were rooted to the ground. Moving slowly towards
him, it wound its huge length round his body,

encircled in its folds. The horror of his situation
at length broke the spell that seemed to paralyze

himself from the cherry-tree, he awoke.
i
\



TIE TWO DREAMS. val

It was some time before he could persuade him-
self that the frightful scene he had just gone
through was wholly imaginary. The perspiration
stood thick on his forehead, and his frame felt
bruised and benumbed as though only just
released from the grasp of the cherry-tree. He
scarcely dared to open his eyes, lest they should
encounter its hideous writhings, or light upon the
spectral figure of the skeleton dog. But the boy’s
mind and body were alike weary. Nature claimed

her privilege in spite of his terror, and he had not |

fully recovered from its effects before he again fell
asleep.

His second dream also took the shape and colour
of his waking fears. He imagined it was the
morning on which the school was to break up, and
that the boys were assembled to receive the prizes.



But with the wild inconsistency of a dream, the .
scene was not laid in the Charlton school-room, but °

in a wide open plain, extending so far in every
direction that the eye vainly endeavoured to discover

its limit. Immense multitudes, reaching to the °
utmost verge of the horizon, stood round, awaiting -
the result, and even horses and dogs appeared to -

share in the general excitement. The table at

which Dr. Young was seated with the prizes spread

out before him was placed in the centre, and a
—
72, THE CHERRY-STONES.

wide space on every side of it was left entirely
clear. As Harry looked on, he was struck with the
extraordinary distinctness with which the shadows
were traced on the ground. There was the shadow
of Dr. Young; the shadow of the table; the shadow
of each separate book on it; the shadows of every

one of his schoolfellows, as clearly and plainly :

recognizable from one another as the substances to
which they belonged. His wonder at this pheno- °
‘ menon was interrupted by a summons from the :

head master to come and receive the first prize.
It was a proud thing, he thought, to be singled out

for distinction in the face of that vast assembly, and
he moved forward from the throng of boys, elated

with his success; but he had not advanced many .

steps, when a shout arose from behind, “ Look at |
~ his shadow! look at his shadow!’ He cast his »

eyes instinctively downwards, and, to his horror,
beheld the outline of a cherry-tree traced behind
him on the grass. There was the stem, the
branches, and the fruit, rudely formed indeed, but
still plainly distinguishable. It had something

human, too, in its shape, and even bore a grotesque
resemblance to himself. There could be no doubt

it was his own shadow. A cry of derision burst |

from the assembled multitude. Harry heard it,
and it added the finishing stroke to his shame and


|
|
|



THE TWO DREAMS. 73

confusion. Away he rushed across the plain with
the rapidity it seemed of the wind; and as he did
so, he could hear the shouts of the multitude
hurrying after him in hot pursuit. The yelping of

dogs, and the clattering of horses’ feet were distinctly |

audible amid the uproar. On he darted, climbing
hills, leaping down precipices, dashing through
torrents, in the vain hope of shaking off his hateful
attendants. Nearer and nearer came the pursuers,
louder and louder grew the tumult in his rear; at
length, just as they were on the very point of
seizing him, he again awoke.

As he opened his eyes he became sensible that
the sounds which had disturbed his sleep were not
wholly imaginary. The galloping of the horses,
and the yelpings of the dogs, indeed, were no
longer heard; but their place was supplied by the
clamour of the six o’clock bell, whose rusty throat
was sending forth its discordant summons. It is
probable that the clamour which it made had found
its way into Harry’s sleeping senses, and shaped
itself into the singular termination of his dream.
Mertoun felt grateful to it, tired and unrefreshed as
he was, for delivering him from the unnatural shadow
under which he had been so painfully labouring.

“Ab! I was afraid that noisy bell would wake |

you,” said Warbeck.


. gaid our hero, endeavouring to rally ; “you would |

74 THE CHERRY-STONES.

“And why should you be afraid of that, Charles?”

, not wish me to get into another scrape for missing
| prayers ?”’

“No,” replied Charles ; “but the Doctor said you

‘ had better lie in bed this morning; and unless you

are to get up, you know it is as well not to have

' your rest disturbed.”

| ©You mistake, Charles,” said Harry. “ Dr. Young
" only gave me permission to lie in bed if I felt |
unwell, but I am all right this morning; and |

as he spoke he left his bed and began to dress.
But notwithstanding his assumed cheerfulness,

it was evident he was still suffering from indis- |

position. .
“You had really better remain in bed, Harry,”

. said Warbeck; “your eyes are as heavy as lead,

: and you may make yourself seriously ill if you

persist in getting up now.”
“ Ay, do lie in bed, brother,” said Walter, “and
make yourself quite well by to-morrow. You know

to-morrow is your birth-day, and mamma will cer- |

| tainly send usa hamper. And if you are ill you
‘ will not be able to enjoy it.”

“ By all means lie in bed,” exclaimed Sharpe, on
whose mind visions of cake and wine ‘yet to be’

‘ had produced considerable impression, “and take


|
|
i

THE TWO DREAMS. 75

eare of yourself; you must mind and be well to-
- morrow, of all days in the year.”

All the boys joined in the same request, and
Harry at last allowed himself to be persuaded. He

: did, indeed, feel unwell. His head seemed dizzy
‘ and confused, and his whole frame ached with
; weariness. Nor was his illness much to be won-
" dered at, considering his exposure to the night air

without his hat, and the protracted anxiety of the
last twenty-four hours.
The boys proceeded with their toilet with that

| celerity which is supposed to belong to schoolboys

and the canine genus only, and Mertoun was
soon the sole occupant of the room. Left to
his solitary thoughts, he began to meditate upon

' his dreams. He was no coward, nor was he

_ naturally inclined to be superstitious, but he could

not divest his mind of a vague apprehension

that they foreboded some misfortune, which

' the stolen cherries were in some way or other
to bring upon him. He knew that both dreams

might be accounted for without supposing any
thing supernatural. Every circumstance might be
referred to something which had occurred during

_ the day, and which had taken a painful hold on his

memory. But still he felt an indefinite alarm,
which he tried in vain to shake off. It was so


76 THE CHERRY-STONES.

singular that the tree should have bent itself ex-
actly seven times, and that when the seventh
cherry was gathered, every thing should so sud-

denly become bleak and miserable. And then the |

shower of cherry-stones, and the stem of the tree
turning itself into a snake, and twisting itself
round him—did it not seem as though the sin he
had committed was to go on haunting him in-
cessantly, until it brought some terrible punish-

ment upon him? And as for the second dream,

its meaning was still more distinct and alarming.
Was the story of the plundered cherry-tree,

indeed, to interpose between him and the reward |

| of his labours ? was it to cling to him for ever ? and

would all efforts to shake off the disgrace be vain?

“ Nonsense,” at last, said he, after he had pondered °

over these ideas until he had worked himself into a

fever of apprehension. “ Whatagoose Iam! Itis .
a dream, and that is all. I have been thinking |
| about cherry-stones all day, and it cannot be sur-

prising if I dream of them at night; and that is the
beginning and the ending of the whole matter.”
His reflections were interrupted by the opening
of the door, and his friend Warbeck appeared with
the tray containing the tea and dry toast, which
Dr. Young had sent up for his breakfast.
Warbeck arranged the tray according to his
|
|
friend’s directions, and then fetched a trunk, and |

THE TWO DREAMS. 77

seated himself on it by the bed side.

“T hope you will find it sweet enough,” observed
he, after a short silence ; “I saw no less than three
lumps of sugar put into it.”

“That was all right,” returned Mertoun, whose
predilection for sweet things we have already

. remarked upon, “tea can hardly be too sweet to

please me.”

“Ah! so said your brother Walter; and you
may thank him for your extra allowance. He per-
suaded Mrs. Young to let him sweeten the tea

| according to his own fancy. He is a nice little

fellow, Harry. Every body likes him. Even
Dr. Young seemed taken with his zeal in your
behalf, and helped him to pick out the best
lumps; but he would not nevertheless yield to
his request, and allow him to bring up the tray
himself.”

“Why should Walter,” said Mertoun, whose
suspicions the least: thing was sufficient to arouse,
“be so anxious to come ?”

“Why, the wish was natural enough, surely;

and besides, I dare say he wished to be the first to |

tell you the news of the morning. Come now,”

pursued Warbeck, seeing that his companion’s |

curiosity was a good deal excited, “what is the




78 THE CHERRY-STONES.



news? I will give you three guesses, and lay you |

a wager you do not hit upon it.”

“T should never guess, Charles. I have no
talents for guessing.”

“Come, I will give you a hint then. What the

Doctor told us may, perhaps, account for the |

cherry-stone found in your bed last night.”

“ Account for the cherry-stone found in my bed |

last night! What can you mean, Charles?” said
Harry.
“Try and guess.” Harry shook his head im-

| patiently.

“Must I give you another hint? 1t had some-

' thing to do with Squire Ellison, then. Do not



start in that way, or you will certainly upset the
tray. It has something to do with Squire Ellison,
I say. Now can you guess ?”

“T have not the slightest idea of your meaning,
Warbeck,” said Harry, turning pale.

“Why, how dull you are this morning, Harry!
Come now, it has something to do with Squire
Ellison’s orchard; with Squire Ellison’s cherry-
tree. Now, surely, you cannot help guessing
it.”

“T tell you I cannot guess it,” cried Mertoun,

| fretfully. “I wish you would not weary me in

this way, Charles. If you have any thing to tell


_ me, tell it to me at once. Iam tired of repeating

| curiosity, was putting all these questions to him
' in order to discover if he was implicated in the
‘ business, and he therefore resolved to persist to |

Ellison, and that it had something to do with his |

THE CWO DREAMS. 79





that I cannot guess it.”

The fact was, that, prompted by the stings of
conscience, Harry was satisfied in his own mind
that Squire Ellison’s gardener had discovered, from
the foot-marks in the orchard, that some one from
Dr. Young’s had been stealing cherries, and that a
complaint had in consequence been sent to the ,
head master. Mertoun also fancied that Charles
Warbeck, either having been commissioned by the
Doctor to do so, or, in order to satisfy his own

the last in asserting his ignorance of the transac- |
tion. On the other hand, Charles, utterly unsus-
picious of what was passing in his friend’s mind,
and having a conscience at peace with itself, con-
tinued merrily to ply him with fresh hints.

“Come, Harry,” he said, “this is too absurd. |
When I tell you it was a message from Squire



cherry-tree, you must be able to guess it. Why
even little Walter would have guessed it in half
this time.”

“But I am not little Walter,” said Mertoun,
still more crossly than before : “and I do not know
| 80 THE CHERRY-STONES.

what right you have to suspect me of knowing
more about it than any one else.”
“Suspect, Harry! what a strange word! I do

‘ not suspect you of any thing. You are, surely,
| taking this trifling matter in a very odd way.”

“ Are you going to tell me, or are you not?”

“Are you going to upset that cup of tea into
my lap, or are you not?” said Charles, laughing
good-humouredly at his friend’s vehemence. “ Be-
eause if you kick about in that way, you certainly

> will.”



“Tt is you, Warbeck, who make me restless,”

' retorted Mertoun; “and I must say I think it is

very ill-natured of you to persist in teasing me,
when you know I am ill.”

“Indeed, Harry, I did not mean to tease you,
and I am sorry I have done so. It was thought-
less of me, certainly, but really I did not intend to
annoy you; and after all, this news is hardly
worth repeating. It is only that the Doctor in-
formed us, after school this morning, that Squire
Ellison had, last evening, sent the boys a large
basket of cherries, and that we are to have cherry-
pie for dinner to-day. That is the piece of news,
Harry, I had to tell you; and that is all the news
there is, so far as I know.”




CHAPTER VI.

THE QUABREL.

Harry Mzrrown breathed more freely after re- -
ceiving a communication so different from what he
had anticipated. “Is that all?” saidhe. “Tt really
was not worth the mystery you made about it.”

“T made no mystery, Harry. The mystery was |
made by yourself.” !

“Perhaps so; but,” said he, hesitatingly, “you |
said it might—it might account for the cherry- -
stone in my bed last night.”

“Why, Sally might, you know, have filched a -
few cherries from the basket, and dropped one of
the stones whilst she was making your bed. It
would be odd enough if she were to be found out —
by such an accident, would it not ?”

“It would indeed,” said Mertoun: and then,
ashamed of allowing suspicion to rest. upon a per-
son whom he knew to be entirely innocent, he

G
82 THE CHERRY-STONES.

added, quickly, “but it is very unlikely that it
happened in that way. Sally is a most honest
girl. I have often left odd halfpence about, and
have never lost any thing.”

“Far be it from me to say otherwise,” said
Warbeck ; “and I did not mean seriously to sus-
pect her. What I said was only in joke. Not

: but that many persons who would shrink from the



thought of stealing money would not hesitate to
steal fruit, though of course, the one act is as
dishonest as the other.”

My readers will not wonder that Mertoun had
no disposition to argue this question. He flushed
crimson as he heard his companion’s chance ob-
servation ; and, to hide his confusion, took up the
teaspoon, and began violently stirring his tea, an
occupation which he had desisted from in his
anxiety respecting Warbeck’s secret.

“How very odd it is,” he exclaimed, “ that
this lump of sugar will not dissolve. I have
been stirring it almost ever since you came into
the room, and I cannot make any impression
upon it.”

“Take care! take care!’ exclaimed Warbeck, as
he saw the tea circling round, and running over
the edge of the cup. “If you stir it at that rate
you will upset it. Surely sugar must have melted
' It cannot be a lump of sugar I am certain.”

THE QUARREL. 83

long before this. Take it out, and see what it is.

“ Will you be convinced if you see it with your
own eyes?” replied Harry, peevishly, fishing with
his teaspoon for the refractory lump. “Look
here,” he said, as he lifted the spoon out of the

i cup, “look, and satisfy yourself.” But he had

' gearcely spoken these words, when he gave a start,

so violent as effectually to destroy the already tot-

: tering equilibrium of the tray. The teacup was
' upset, and the whole contents discharged directly
: into Warbeck’s lap. Mertoun scarcely observed
| the accident. His eyes were fixed on the spoon.



Instead of a lump of sugar, he had brought to light
another cherry-stone !
“ Warbeck!” he exclaimed, angrily, “you put

' that cherry-stone into my tea.”

“Indeed,” said Warbeck, starting up, and has-

| tily wiping his clothes, “I did not; but it was

you, Harry, who put that tea into my lap.”
“T am glad of it,” retorted Mertoun; “it served
you right ; and I wish it had been scalding hot.”

“Upon my word, Mertoun, this is a little :

you up your breakfast; and then am told that it

i serves me right.”

“ Why then did you put that cherry-stone into

a2

| too bad. I get a ducking in return for bringing |

|
’ me. I must say I think you are carrying a joke a

- pretext for disbelieving Charles’s assertion.

84 THE CHERRY-STONES.

my tea? It was as likely as not to have choked

great deal too far.”

“T have already told you,” said Warbeck, tem-
perately, “that I did not put it into your cup, and
I do not know who did. Be reasonable, Harry,
and think what possible object I could have in
doing so.”

Mertoun was silenced but not convinced. His
anger was not in the least abated; but he had no



“ But,” said Warbeck, after a short silence,
“your breakfast is quite spoiled by this unlucky
upset. Let me go down stairs and try to get
some more for you ?”

“No, I thank you,” replied Mertoun, not over
graciously ; “I have had enough of it already.”

“Enough! why you have scarcely tasted it,
Harry.”

“T wish you would not persist in contradicting
every word I say, Warbeck,” rejoined Mertoun,
with still greater irritation in his tone. “I do
not want any more. Will that satisfy you? If it
will not, go and tell Dr. Young all about it.”

“Well, and if I did, Ido not see that there is
any thing to make him angry, especially as the
cup and saucer are not broken.”
THE QUARREL. 85

“ Go then to him, by all means. You can make '

a good story out of the cherry-stone. You can

say that it very nearly choked me. It might have |

done so, you know, if it did not.”

“ Really, Mertoun, I did not come here to quar- |
rel with you, but you seem determined to fasten a i

quarrel upon me.”’

since you came into the room.”
“In that case I had better go away again, and

' leave you and your cherry-stone together.”

“ The sooner the better,” retorted Mertoun.

Warbeck walked slowly to the door. He paused
a moment, with his hand on the lock, hoping that
his friend would ask him to return. But Mertoun
only turned impatiently in his bed, and he left
the room.

As the door closed upon him, however, Harry
was almost inclined to burst into tears again. He
felt more wretched than ever. He had quarrelled
with his best friend. During all the years they
had been at Charlton together they had never
parted in unkindness until now, nor exchanged
such angry words as had passed between them that
morning. And, what was worse, conscience told

him that the blame of the quarrel rested entirely |

_ with him. He felt as though he had forfeited

“You have done nothing but tease me ever |

{




8&6 THE CHERRY-SIONES.

Charles’s friendship for ever; as though the re- .

membrance of his ill-temper could never be obli-
terated. Itis at such moments as these that we
feel the full value of friends like Charles Warbeck,
whose quict, even-tempered kindness, never rising
to any great warmth of profession, but always uni-
form and to be relied on, forms a stay and prop to

which we unconsciously cling, and the full strength

of which we seldom realize until we are in danger —
of losing it. As Harry thought over Warbeck’s ,

gentleness and forbearance, and his own ingrati-
tude, he sobbed as though his heart would break.
Those odious cherries! How he hated the very
sound of the word. And yet, strange as it may
seem, he felt less inclination to avow his fault than
ever. He resolved, indeed, to beg Charles’s par-
don, and express his sorrow for his petulance on
the earliest possible occasion ; but his very fear of
losing his friendship made him the more anxious
not to fall lower in his esteem: nay, notwithstand-

ing his extreme regret at having given his friend —

offence, he was not sorry he was gone, so much
was he afraid of his pursuing his inquiries respect-

ing the cherry-stones. After the lapse of another -

hour or so, he dressed himself, and went down
stairs, not many minutes before the boys were
summoned to dinner.


THE QUARREL. 87

Meanwhile, Warbeck, as he descended the stairs,
began to reproach himself for his conduct to his
friend. It was true, indeed, that Harry had been

| fretful and unreasonable, nor had he given him any

just cause of offence ; but he thought that he had
not made sufficient allowance for his illness. “I
ought not,” soliloquized he, “to have continued to

plague him about the stupid fruit, though after all ©

it was the cherry-stone that made him so angry.

By-the-by, how strange is all this mystery about .

these cherry-stones! How could this last cne
have got into Harry’s cup? No one came near
| the table, after Mrs. Young had poured out the
tea, except Walter and myself, It must have been
dropped into the cup wkilst I left it in the hall, I
suppose, or perhaps it was put accidentally into the
teapot with the tea-leaves.”’
His speculations were interrupted by little

| Walter, who came running up to him to inquire

* how his brother was. “Is he a great deal better,

Charles? Does he say he will soon be well?”

“He is much the same, Walter; but Ido not :

think he is seriously ill. But, Walter, come here;
I want to ask you a question. Now speak the
truth: was it you who put the cherry-stcne into
his teacup just now ?”’

“Indeed, indeed, I did not:” replied Walter,
. on the point of opening his mouth to tell Warbeck

. the most ludicrous perplexity.

_ the word cherry-stone ?”

88 THE CHERRY-STONES. |



with a face of great disquietude : “ but was it really |
there ?”

“Tt,” said Warbeck, “ what do you mean by ‘ it ?’
There was a cherry-stone in the cup certainly.”

Walter did not reply to the question. He con-
tinued to identify all cherry-stones with the one he
had found on the buttress, and which had first
excited his wonder. It had now, as he supposed,
come to light for the fourth time, and appeared at
the bottom of his brother’s teacup. He was just

all his doubts and fears, when he recollected his
promise respecting the word cherry-stone; and
breaking short off at the beginning of his speech,
he stared at his companion with an expression of

“Well, Walter,” said Charles, eyeing him with
great surprise, “why do you gape at me in that
strange way? Do you know any thing about this
business or not ?”’

“T must not tell,” gasped Walter, “I promised
not to say the word.”

“Not to say the word—not to say what word? |



Walter nodded. ;
“ And why did you promise that ?”
“T do not know,” said Walter.
THE QUARREL. 89

“Well,” said Warbeck, losing all patience at
this new mystery, “at all events you can say
| whether you know how the cherry-stone got into
your brother’s cup.”

“Indeed, I do not. How should I? It is the
strangest thing I ever knew in my life. I saw
Harry crush it to pieces yesterday morning, throw
it over the wall in the afternoon, and into the pond
in the garden last night, and this morning it has
got into his tea-cup. I do not think I ever heard
any thing so strange.”

“Tt is very strange,” repeated Warbeck, absently,
and rather following the current of his own thoughts,
than attending to Walter’s remarks.

“Ts it not?” said the little boy, delighted to
find a big boy as much puzzled as himself; and
then he added, doubtfully, “ Was Juno near at the
time, Charles ?”

“Juno! child? What is your little head run-
ning on? What can Juno have to do with it ?”

“T do not quite know,” said Walter ; “but Juno
was very busy looking at it when we found it on
the wall.”

Warbeck looked steadily at Walter, to see
whether he was venturing to make game of him.

But there was an expression of ingenuous honesty |

in the boy’s face that it was impossible to mistake.






90 THE CHERRY-STONES.

De a ee

He was evidently in earnest. Some strange mys-
tery Warbeck thought there must be about these
cherry-stones; but he could get no clue to it, and
whatever it might be, it was no business of his.
Moreover, the time for his class to be called up

| Was approaching, and he had not yet finished pre-

paring his Homer. So, dismissing for the present
the subject from his thoughts altogether, he re-
entered the school-room, and seating himself at his
desk, was soon deeply absorbed in the mysteries of
moods and tenses.

The dinner-table that day presented an unusual
display of luxuries. Instead of rolls of suet
pudding, the usual homely fare on Wednesdays
and Fridays, the board groaned beneath a goodly
array of cherry-pies, which sent forth an odour
which, as Seymour remarked to his neighbours,
was grateful to the senses of the expecting boys,
as the savour of the perfect hecatomb was said, in

their morning lesson, to have been to the nostrils '

of the cloud-compelling Jupiter. Indeed, as Sey- ;

mour further remarked, they had a decided advan-
tage over the king of gods and men, seeing that
the savour of the pies was, to them, but a pre-

liminary pleasure to the more substantial one .

which was to follow: whereas, the less fortunate
cloud-compeller was fain to content himself with
THE QUARREL. 91



the odour of his hecatomb, in default of a more

solid mode of enjoying it. Harry Mertoun, who, |

as we have already informed our readers, had made

his appearance some few minutes before the boys |

went in to dinner, was seated next to Warbeck.
It was evident that their quarrel was at an end.

Harry had made use of the short space afforded

: him, to ask Charles’s forgiveness for the petulance



and ill-humour he had shown. It was readily
granted ; and they were now conversing together
with that mixture of shyness and elaborate polite-

ness, which boys usually manifest towards one :
another when a quarrel has been settled between |
them. Mertoun, however, notwithstanding all his .

efforts to be cordial to his friend, was evidently ill

| at ease. The sight of the cherries, which Squire

Ellison’s bounty had bestowed on the boys, awoke

unpleasant reflections ; and he was not sorry that -

his indisposition precluded him from partaking in |

| the feast. It was a relief to him when the table

was cleared and grace said; but as the boys got up

| at its conclusion to leave the dining-room, Dr.

Young desired him to remain behind. “You may
all go,” said he, “excepting Henry Mertoun; I
wish to say a few words to him.”

Now it happened not unfrequently that the ~

Doctor detained a boy for a few minutes after
| 92 THE CHERRY-STONES.

' dinner, when he had received a letter from his
parents or friends, or when he wished to make any
| slight change in the arrangements for the day, or
' had any thing to say respecting the school in
' general, which he did not think of sufficient im-

portance to announce to all the boys publicly. This

was particularly the case towards the end of the

half-year; so that no one was surprised when
_ Harry was desired to remain, or, indeed, thought |
‘ much about it. But Mertoun’s was an evil con- :

science; and, moreover, his ideas had of late been
so entirely occupied with one subject, that he
fancied every thing that happened must have some
reference to it. So that when he was left alone

with Dr. Young, his alarm and embarrassment was
so evident that the latter could not fail to observe
' it. “Why, Mertoun,” he said, “what is the
, matter? Iam not going to punish you. Did you
' suppose I was?” he continued, as he noticed with ,
surprise the boy’s increasing perturbation. “I trust
you have not been doing any thing which would
lead you to expect that I was?” Harry’s lips tried
to shape a negative, but in vain; and after two or
three attempts to reply to the question asked him,
- he cast his eyes on the ground, and was silent.

“There is something very singular in this con-
, duct,” said Dr. Young: “your manner leads me to
|


THE QUARREL. 93

_ Suppose that you have done something which you

feel to be wrong. If this is indeed the case, let me
remind you that it is your plain duty to confess it
at once, and without reserve. And, further, that
it is your duty to confess it to me, to whose hands
your parents have entrusted you, and who am
responsible to them, and to One higher than them,
for my care of you. Remember deceit is in itself a
grievous sin, and that your offence, whatever it

may be, will be greatly increased, if you do not
: deal honestly and truthfully with me.”

Harry shook from head to foot. He had neither

_ courage to speak, nor hardihood to persist in
' remaining silent. The Doctor could not help

pitying his manifest distress.
“Harry,” he said, kindly taking his hand, “do
not think I wish to be harsh towards you. I would

: not willingly give you pain, but I should be no

true friend of yours, if I forbore to speak to you as
I have done.”

Mertoun burst into tears. His better feelings
were roused by the mingled kindness and solemnity

' of his master’s manner. He was upon the point

of opening his lips to make a full confession, when
he was interrupted by a knock at the door; and,
before Dr. Young had time to prevent them, two
persons entered the apartment.
CHAPTER VII.

THE HAMPER FROM HOME.

“ Preass, Sir,” said Sally, as she entered the room,
closely followed by little Walter, “please, Sir, may
I take Master Mertoun’s hamper into the school-
room? Master Walter wants so much to see what
is in it, that he has persuaded me to ask your
leave to have it opened at once.”’

“Certainly not, Sally,” replied Dr. Young, greatly
vexed at the interruption. “The hamper is not to
be opened until I give the order for it to be done.
Walter must restrain his curiosity until I have
done speaking to his brother. “Go into the play-
ground,” he continued, as he saw Walter about to
approach his brother, who had studiously kept his

~ face averted from him. “Go into the playground,

and wait until he comes to you.”
Walter and Sally left the room by different
doors, each somewhat abashed at the reproof they


|
!

THE HAMPER FROM HOME. 95



had received; and Dr. Young, again turning to
Harry, renewed his exhortations to him to declare
what was weighing upon his mind.

But the interval which had elapsed since the
knock at the door was heard, brief as it was, had

_ produced a great change in Mertoun’s feelings.
' In the first place, the arrival of the hamper had
' reminded him that the following day was his birth-
' day. Now, whenever a birth-day occurred during

the half-year, it was customary for the friends of
the boy to send him a hamper: and it was Dr.
Young’s practice to allow the boy, and such of his

_ Schoolfellows as he might invite, to pass the after-

noon in an unfurnished room, looking out upon
the garden, and removed equally from Dr. Young’s

: own apartments and the school premises. Here,
. on an ancient deal table (which, with some benches,

formed the sole surviving furniture of the room),
they used to spread their banquet, and enjoy them-
selves after the manner of boys, in the uncontrolled
possession of fruits, sweetmeats, pastry, and cakes.

: And the feast concluded, the remainder of the
- afternoon was usually passed in playing forfeits,

hide and seek, and similar games. Harry recol-
lected that he had already asked several of his

_ friends to spend the afternoon with him in the event

of the arrival of his hamper. He felt certain that if
96 THE CHERRY-STONES.

Dr. Young should hear of the serious offence he had

. committed, he would not grant him the usual indul-

gence, and then he would have to explain to the
boys whom he had invited the cause of the re-
fusal. It also occurred to him that his father and
mother would undoubtedly inquire of his brother
and himself, on his return home, as to the events
of his birth-day, and thus the knowledge of his
offence would reach them also: for even if he could
succeed in evading their question himself, he could

not silence his brother, who would, as a matter of |

course, tell his mamma the whole of his disappoint-
ment. Then again the Tempter whispered him
that he was not bound to betray himself; that it
was one thing to tell falsehoods, and another to say
nothing; that he had made up his mind never to
offend in like manner again; and, as for punish-

ment, he had already suffered more than he de- |
served. These and similar thoughts rushed across |

his mind in far less time than it requires to recount

- them; and the result was, that when Dr. Young

' again addressed him, he found him in a state of |

mind widely different from that which he had

' manifested before the interruption. To all his

earnest entreaties to him not to conceal the truth, |

and his warnings of the danger of doing so, he

_ made no reply. He withdrew himself into obsti-

a






THE WAMPER FROM HOME. 97



nate reserve, that iron frontier of a boy’s heart
which it is so difficult to pass, and which all who
are familiar with them must frequently have as-
sailed in vain. When asked to account for his

alarmed him by calling him back unexpectedly
that there was nothing the matter; and, lastly,
that nothing particular had of late occurred.

| recent agitation, he replied that the Doctor had,

Dr. Young soon relinquished the attempt, and i

; merely saying, “Well, Mertoun, we must hope it .

is so, but you certainly seemed to be unusually |

disturbed,” passed on to another subject. “There °
are two things,’ said he, “which I wish to speak _

| to you about. In the first place, I had to an- .
/ nounce to you the arrival of a hamper for you from |

your father. But Sally has saved me that trouble, —

by announcing it herself. I suppose you will wish |

to have the usual indulgence for yourself and
friends?” Harry bowed. “The other matter I
have to mention is also, in some degree, connected
with your birth-day. To-morrow, you are aware,
is the day of the half-yearly examination. As the

| first class boys will probably be of your party, I

will examine them in the morning, and the junior

| classes in the afternoon. The first class, there-
' fore, will come into the dining-room at nine o’clock
' to-morrow morning, and the examination will con-

H
ud TUE CHERRY-STONES.

tinue until noon. Make this known in the school,

Harry ; and now you may go and unpack your
hamper.”
Our hero lost no time in availing himself of this
permission. He had felt humbled and degraded in
his master’s presence, and he was glad to escape
from his penetrating glance. But he had no wish
again to go amongst his school-fellows. He would
gladly have been alone. He wanted to reflect
upon all that had occurred, although he knew that
- such reflection would only increase his wretched-
_ ness. Ife had, however, no opportunity of retire-
' ment. On entering the school-room he was beset,
~ on the one hand, by a crowd of boys, eager to learn
| why the Doctor had detained him so long, and, on
' the other, by his brother Walter, who anxiously
| inquired whether he had obtained permission to
: open the hamper. From the former he was soon
‘ able to disengage himself, by telling them briefly
: that Dr. Young had sent for him to tell him that
- the first class would be examined in the morning,
instead of the afternoon; and then, turning to
Walter, announced that permission had been given
for the hamper to be unpacked, and that he would ,
immediately go with him, and bring it into the |
t

: school-room. In truth Mertoun was quite as eager
| as his brother to unpack the hamper. Not that in


THE HAMPER FROM ILOME. 99

his present frame of mind he cared for its con-

: tents; but since he could not be alone, he coveted

some new excitement, which might divert his
thoughts into a new channel, and he was not dis-

' appointed. The arrival of a hamper was an event
_ of no small importance in Charlton school; and no

sooner did it make its appearance than it was wel-

~ comed with a shout of acclamation, and a general

crowding together of Harry’s friends. Its contents

were explored, and submitted to the inspection of |

the bystanders. It was declared to be a capital
hamper.
“Harry knows how to keep his birth-day,” said

one.

“And his friends seem to understand how it
ought to be kept also,” rejoined another.

“T wish he may get a prize,” added West.

“T should just think he would too,” said Styles.
“T only wish I had half as good a chance.”

“He deserves one if any boy ever did,” said
Markland.

“ Ay, that he does,” and “I wish I was half as
clever,’ was echoed from every tongue.

Mertoun listened for the first few moments with
satisfaction to the general buzz of applause. His
vanity was gratified by the magnificence of his
hamper, and the admiration it had excited: for,

nH 2


co

, sirous that every thing which came “from home” |



100 THE CUERRY-STONES.

1
|

like most boys of his age, he was particularly de- :

should be perfectly unexceptionable. School-boys
of ten and twelve years of age always represent
their friends as living in a style of the utmost

refinement and grandeur; and their dignity is '
: grievously outraged by any thing which tends to |
, show that their mode of life is on a level with that |

family dignity had been honourably maintained on
the present occasion; but the pleasure soon passed

away, and was succeeded by a feeling almost of |
disgust. He placed the packages which he had |

taken out of the hamper one by one in his box, for

' security, until they should be wanted on the fol-

lowing day; and he had scarcely turned the key

| of their neighbours. He felt therefore, that the :

upon them, when something attracting the atten- |

tion of the boys, he found himself entirely deserted

' by the crowd which had been pressing so eagerly .

round him a few minutes before. He felt no dis- |
_ position to join them. He put the key into his ©
pocket, and was slowly turning away, when he was |

stopped by his brother pulling at his sleeve.
“Yarry,” said the little fellow, “pray look if
there is not a letter for us in the hamper? I
want to know how papa, and mamma, and Con-
stance are, aud the rabbits, and the red-cheeked




THE HAMPER FROM TOME. 101 |





apples in the orchard. Do you know, I think
papa means to let me have a pony all to myself
these holidays, and perhaps the letter may say .
something about it.”

Mertoun was much vexed with himself as he |
heard Walter’s request. In the excitement of .
unpacking the hamper, and listening to his school- |
| fellows’ praises, he had forgotten to look for a |
letter. Now, however, he applied himself to search -
among the hay ; and, after a long scrutiny, brought
to light two small paper packets directed to himself
and Walter, and also two letters similarly addressed. |
It was impossible for Mertoun not to envy the
; broad simple delight which the little boy’s face
| exhibited, when, having untied his parcel, he pro- |
duced from it a bright new Victoria half-crown.
“Only look here, brother!” he exclaimed, “ only
look here! a whole half-crown!” and then, seating
himself on a bench by Harry’s side, he proceeded
to open his letter, occupying himself partly in
fruitless attempts to decipher its contents, and :
partly in speculations on the various articles he
intended to purchase with his newly-acquired
wealth ; and certainly, if his half-crown realized -
only a tenth part of his expectations, it would be .
the most wonderful half-crown that ever issued —
from her Majesty’s Mint.
|
| -

102 THE CHERRY-STONES.

Having watched his brother’s movements for a
few minutcs, Mertoun turned to his own package

' and letter. He looked at the latter first. It con-

tained some lines of cordial congratulation and good
wishes on the return of his birth-day, and informed
him that they had sent him the choicest of the ripe
fruit in the garden, the best cake that his friend

_ Mrs. Bridget the housekeeper could produce, and

: the letter. His mind was in suchastate of nervous |



the present his father was in the habit of making
him on his birth-day, and concluded with a confident
anticipation, that Dr. Young would be able, in his
breaking-up letter, to speak as favourably of his
general conduct and attention to his studies, as he
had done on former occasions.

Mertoun breathed more freely as he laid down

excitement that he imagined every thing, however
remotely connected with the subject of his fears,
would in some unforeseen way bring it up again ;
and although his good sense told him that his alarm
was in the present instance utterly unreasonable,

still he was relieved when he was assured that it was

groundless. Taking up the packet, “A half-sove-

| reign, of course,” he said, as he opened it; “ papa

does not intend to give me a whole one, I know,

until I go to a public school, and that will not be |
for another twelvemonth. It does not feel like a |


THE IWAMPER FROM HOME. 103





half-sovereign either. Hah!” he exclaimed, almost

| with a seream, as the parcel dropped from his

hand, “what can this mean?” ‘Walter looked up
as he heard his brother’s exclamation, and saw him
staring in mingled fear and astonishment at a
cherry-stone which the last wrapping of paper had
disclosed.

“Oh, Harry!” he exclaimed, “that dreadful
thing again! Do pray tell Dr. Young, brother, I
am sure he would prevent it from coming again.
Do you know,” he continued, lowering his voice as
he spoke, “I think it must be a ghost, and that it

|

|

is sent to haunt you. I thought it was only |

people who had done very naughty things who were
haunted by ghosts.”

“Hold your tongue, you little blockhead,” said /
his brother angrily, “how can you talk such ~

in league to play me some trick. One of them

/ nonsense? I more than half suspect the boys are |

must have taken the half-sovereign out of the —

parcel, and put this cherry-stone in its place. 1

will know who it is, I am determined. I will not —

be cheated and made a fool of in this way; and if

I thought that you, Walter,” (for Harry had by .

this time worked himself into a towering passion,)
“had assisted them to put these cherry-stones in
my way, I would box your ears. I would,” he
' necessity of propitiating Walter; and commanding |
his irritation as well as he was able, he took the |



104 THE CHERRY-STONES.

repeated, taking the child by the shoulders, and
shaking him roughly. Walter burst into tears.
“Qh! Harry, how can you be so unkind! I do not
want,” said he, struggling to escape from his
brother’s grasp, “I do not want your alley at all.
I will give it back to you. It was very naughty of
you to make me promise to say nothing about it.”
Mertoun’s fears were greatly excited. He saw the

child on his knee, and began to try to persuade
him that he was only in jest. “Why, Walter,” he
said, “you do not think I was in earnest, do you?
T should have shaken you a great deal harder if I
had intended to hurt you. Think no more about
that silly cherry-stone, and do not tcll the boys
about what has happened, for they might think that
I meant to be really unkind to you.”

Harry had a more difficult task than he had

_ anticipated. Walter, though a quick-tempered
- boy, was warm-hearted, and very forgiving, but

he could not get over the impression that his
brother was not joking when he shook him; and

moreover, he had a vague lingering suspicion that

it was wrong to say nothing about these repeated
appearances of the cherry-stone. The school-bell

_: had rung before Mertoun had fully succeeded in



— pn a en ee mee a






oo nn er

TIE HAMPER FROM HOME. 105

restoring the sunshine to his face; and it was not

without some misgiving lest the child’s looks
should betray him, that he set him down from his
knee, and desired him to run into school as fast as
' he could, whilst he himself followed slowly after.

. He seated himself at his desk with a heavy
' heart. Matters were growing worse and worse,
and where would his difficulties end? He had
now been harsh and unkind to his little brother,
, and had pretended to be affectionate to him when
he did not really feel so. And his half-sovereign,
' too. Such a sum was a serious loss; and, besides,
his father would be certain to ask him how he had
spent it, and suspicion must arise if he put up
with the loss without an effort to recover the
money. Yet, on the other hand, there was still
greater risk in complaining to Dr. Young; for
then, of course, the history of the mysterious
cherry-stones must be made known, and the whole
' subject sifted from beginning to end. Then, again,

: his thoughts dwelt in great perplexity on the
: extraordinary circumstance of the stone being
' found in the parcel from home. Moreover, his*
' harassed mind shared to some extent Walter's
notion, monstrous as it seemed, that there was
something supernatural in the business. Guilt is
always prone to be superstitious. ‘Was it fated,”




106 THE CHERRY-STONES.

thought he, “that the seven cherry-stones he had _
buried should return upon him in some strange |

way, until the whole had been brought to light.”

' Five times already had a cherry-stone come across |
| him in a manner that was wholly inexplicable to
' him. He reasoned against the idea, and tried to



|
{

drive it out of his mind, but he could not entirely

succeed. And what with his attention being »
absorbed by these thoughts, and what with the -
furtive glances he from time to time directed at -
Walter, to see whether his demeanour attracted |
suspicion, it was not surprising that he knew but -
little of his lesson when the time came for his |
class to be called up. If his performance on the .

previous day had been bad, it was now ten times

worse. Never since he had been at school had he —
appeared to such disadvantage. He lost place +

after place, until, from being nearly the head boy,
he became last of the whole class; and even when
his mistakes were pointed out to him, he was so
inattentive, that he continued to repeat them.
Dr. Young at last became extremely angry, and

‘assured him, that it was only on consideration of |

; his previous good conduct, and from the circum- |

stance of his indisposition in the morning, that he |

did not withdraw the permission he had granted

; him of celebrating his birth-day with his friends.
THE HAMPER FROM HOME. 107

It was seldom that Dr. Young spoke with such
severity to any boy, and he had never done so to
Mertoun, from the first day he had entered the
school. Already depressed by what had occurred

_ during the day, his disgrace put the finishing

' School-time, supper-time, and prayers, seemed pro- |

stroke to Mertoun’s discomfort. He sat silent
and weary through the long and miserable evening.

! tracted to twice their usual length ; and the short

delay which ensued after prayers, before the boys

_ went up to bed, appeared an age to his excited

fancy. And when, at last, he laid his head upon

| his comfortless pillow, it was difficult to say, whe-



ther the recollection of the day he had passed, or

, the anticipation of the one that was to come, occa-

sioned him the more painful reflections.


: has often failed to do so. As to ciphering, he was

_you please, but Harry Mertoun will have the first

CHAPTER VIII.

THE EXAMINATION.

“WELL, you may say what you please,” said
George Markland, when the first class boys were
assembled in the dining-room on the following
morning, awaiting Dr. Young’s arrival, before com-
mencing the examination; “you may say what

class prize, both in classics, and in ciphering.
What can a few bad marks signify at the end of
the half-year? He has been regularly gaining on
Warbeck throughout the whole time; and, depend
upon it, he is too far ahead to be caught.”

“ Well,” said West, in reply, “I doubt whether
Mertoun has gained so greatly on Warbeck. If
Harry is the quickest, Charles is the surest, and
though he never gets many marks at a time, he
never fails to get one every lesson, and Mertoun
1 THE EXAMINATION. 109

} —— —

, never much before Sharpe; and I suspect they
| have changed places within the last two days.
| Besides, see how he has been doing his lessons for
; the last two days; why, Dr. Young would not give
him the prize if he were fifty a head.”

The conversation just detailed will give our
readers a fair idea of the feelings of the boys gene-
rally towards the two principal competitors for the

| first class prize in classics. There was always
| much interest and speculation on the subject; but,
; on the present occasion, the excitement was un-



usually great. This partly arose from the contrast
which the characters of the two boys presented.
Both of them were favourites with their school-
fellows, Harry especially so; but if he was the

spected ; and it was a doubtful point among them,
whether Harry’s quickness, or Warbeck’s steadi-
ness, would succeed. The interest was greatly
enhanced by the extreme uncertainty of the result,
which the last few days had considerably increased.

No one, not even Dr. Young himself, knew how
the marks really stood. Indeed, he made a point

was ended, lest he might find it more difficult to
exercise strict impartiality, if he knew that one or
| two additional marks might change the fortunes of



most loved, Charles was the most generally re- |



of not adding them up until the final examination |
110 THE CHERRY-STONES.

the day. When, therefore, the boys took their
places, for examination, all eyes were turned on
Mertoun and his antagonist; while the feelings of
the two boys themselves were raised to the highest
pitch of anxiety.

“T shall examine you first,” said Dr. Young, as
soon as the boys were all arranged in order, “in
Homer and Xenophon; then in Cesar and Virgil;

and lastly, with Mr. Powell’s assistance, in cipher- |

: ing. The Greek, the Latin authors, and the

' arithmetic, will each occupy about an hour; so |

that by twelve o’clock the whole will be con-
cluded. I propose to add up the marks this even-
ing, and to-morrow morning shall acquaint you

‘ with the result. Now we will begin at once.
. Open your books at the hundred and thirtieth line
‘ of the first Iliad. Charles Warbeck, construe the
' first passage.”

The examination began, and Mertoun’s attention

' was soon fully absorbed. He had risen that morn-

ing from his broken and feverish sleep unrefreshed
in mind and body: and he had been during the

: morning even more peevish and fretful than on the

previous day. To all the congratulations and kind
wishes of his friends, on the return of his birth-day,
he had returned cold and ungracious answers;
and to any allusions to the approaching examina-


THE EXAMINATION. 111

- tions, and predictions of his probable success, he
~ replied yet more crossly, until, at last, his partisans
had dropped off one by one, and had left him to
digest his ill-humour by himself. The sense of his
ungraciousness contributed to increase his dis-
comfort, and when he opened his Homer, at the
beginning of the examination, it was with a feeling
of weariness and disgust, which augured ill for his
- performance in it. It was, perhaps, fortunate for
. him that his blunders, on the preceding evening,
' had brought him to the foot of his class / for had.
' he been set on to construe, at the beginning of the
proceedings, he must have made a complete failure.
* As, however, question after question was asked,
"and places began to be taken and lost, his emula-
' tion was gradually roused. He soon recovered his
position above the boys at the bottom of the class;
then above several more; then above all excepting
Charles Warbeck ; and, lastly, above Charles War-
beck himself. When it came to his turn to be set

_ on, he appeared to have recovered all his former |

quickness of apprehension and memory. He con-

strued with unusual correctness and spirit, and .

answered the questions that were put to him with
an intelligence and facility that he had never
surpassed. He was, in fact, like a high-spirited
horse, who, in the excitement of the race, loses all


aa

112 THE CHERRY-STONES. |
1

recollection of the stiffness and weariness which he

felt at starting. Even Dr. Young seemed struck

with the boy’s unusual animation, and no one who |
heard him could doubt what would be the result of .
the trial.

The examination in classics approached its close. / |
The Homer, Xenophon, and Cesar, had been dis- :
posed of, and the Virgil nearly construed through. |

‘“Yon have all been set on, I believe,’ said Dr.
Young, as he prepared to close the book, “ and,
considering that the fourth book of Virgilis more .

. difficult than any of the three former, you have ©

~ acquitted yourselves most creditably. Stay,” he :
- added, as he glanced down the row of marks, “T

- read the passage aloud, and then translate it.

see I have omitted to put on Henry Mertoun.
Turn, Harry, to the three hundred and fifth line; -

Harry turned to the place indicated, but, to the .
surprise of his school-fellows, he had not proceeded
far, before his voice faltered, and his whole manner .

. suddenly changed. It was one of the passages in |

which Dido reproaches Aineas with the fraud he |
was secretly practising against her; and as he read |
the words his conscience applied them to himself.
They seemed as if written for the purpose of |
exposing to every one what was passing in his own |
breast.




'
THE EXAMINATION. 113 |
t
1

“ Dissimulare ! etiam sperdsti, perfide, tantum
Posse nefas, tacitusque mea decedere terra ?
Nec te noster amor, nec te data dextera quondam,
Nec —_—_—””

“Nec,” he repeated, trying hard to subdue his
agitation, but the words seemed to stick in his
_ throat, and after several vain attempts to proceed,
: he stopped altogether.
_ “Well, Harry, what is the matter?” said Dr. |
Young, eyeing him as he spoke with much atten- |
: tion ; “perhaps you are reading from a book with |
too small a print. Some one lend him a larger |
, one. Ay, this will do,” he continued, taking one
' that was handed to him by a boy standing near,

Mertoun mechanically took the book from his |
hand, and began turning over the leaves. He |

|
|
and giving it to Harry, “this has a larger type.” |
!
| struggled hard to regain his self-command, for he :

|

| was quite aware that his embarrassment had a very |
' strange appearance. “How can I be so foolish!” l

1 « Art thou, indeed, so perjured and so base ?
And hopest thou yet to cover thy disgrace ?
And with thy secret undivulged, depart
From these my realms, deceiver as thou art ?
Hath nought availed thy stubborn heart to move,
\ My proffered hand, my unrequited love ?”
I
114 THE CILERRY-STONES.

said he to himself, “as if Dr. Young could have
chosen the passage on purpose. If I do not mind
what I am about, all will be discovered.” Reasoning
thus, he nerved himself sufficiently to proceed with
tolerable composure; but, alas! he had scareely
turned over another page, when he suddenly
dropped the Virgil from his hands, and turned
deadly pale. Shut in between the leaves of the
book, at the place specified by the Doctor, he had
found—another cherry-stone! Warbeck caught
him in his arms, or he would have fallen on the
floor. ‘ What is the matter, Harry ?”—“ Are you
ill?” broke from a dozen pair of lips at once.

“ Stand clear of him, all of you,” said Dr. Young,
seeing that the boy was sufficiently recovered to
support himself. ‘Now, Mertoun, tell me what
was the matter with you?” Harry hesitated.
“Speak out; if there is any thing concealed which
I ought to know, do not make it worse by further
concealment. Remember what I told you yester-
day.”

Harry was still silent. Deceitful as his conduct
had been during the last two days, he could not

: bring himself to tell a downright falsehood. Dr.

; Young calmly and patiently awaited his answer ;

and the boys, not knowing what to make of this

_ extraordinary scene, also remained perfectly silent,

Joe ee . cieeee


| THE EXAMINATION. 115



looking from one to another with faces of the
utmost astonishment.

“T—T do not feel very well,” at last stammered
Harry ; “will you allow me, Sir, to go to my room

' and lie down; I will answer any questions when
_ this faintness is gone off, but I am too ill to do so
" now.”

“You are, indeed, unwell, I am afraid,’’ replied

send for Mr. Millar; and in the course of the
afternoon will come and see you myself. You will

shall have their treat notwithstanding, and Walter

and left the room.

when he said that he was unwell. The anxiety of
the last few days, and the unusual excitement of

the examination, had brought on a violent nervous
headache, and the doctor on his arrival found it
necessary to give him some powerful remedies.
He then fell into a gentle doze, which lasted some
hours, and awoke about four o’clock, a good deal

| refreshed. But though his bodily ailments were

12

will, I dare say, do his best to supply your place.” -
Harry bowed in acquiescence to this arrangement, .

He had indeed spoken no more than the truth :

the Doctor, as he looked at his pale cheeks and |
trembling figure, “go up to bed at once. I will |

not of course be able to have your birth-day party |
this afternoon; but the boys whom you have asked


116 TIE CHERRY-STONES.



' almost gone, his mind continued to be as much

tormented as ever by his painful recollections. He
endeavoured to banish them by every means in his
power. He counted the spots on the pattern of
the curtains, and tried to reckon up how many the
whole bed furniture contained. He repeated aloud
verses and speeches which he had learned by rote;
and, lastly, he tried to occupy his mind by devising
schemes of amusement during the approaching
holidays. All, however, was in vain. The subject

| he wished to banish returned to him continually,

until at last he relinquished all attempt to resist it,
and suffered his thoughts to flow in the channel
they had chosen for themselves. He recalled all the
troubles in which his guilty act, and his obstinate
concealment of it, had involved him. “ What misery
would it have spared me,” said he to himself, “if
I had confessed what I had done when Dr. Young
first questioned me on the subject. How easy
would it have been to have done it then, and why
did I again refuse yesterday, when he spoke so
kindly to me, and warned me of the wickedness of
withholding the truth? And what have I gained by
it? I was afraid I should not be allowed to keep my
birth-day, and a pleasant birth-day I am enjoying!

and I was afraid of losing my prize, and much

chance have I of getting one now ! and what should


| replied Harry, “and I dare say by to-morrow I

THE EXAMINATION, 117 |

I care for a prize if I did get one? No one wishes
me success; I have offended the whole school by !
my ill-temper; and I would rather lose a dozen
prizes than quarrel with Charles, and Seymour,
and the other boys. But I cannot go on in this
miserable way any longer. I will tell the Doctor
every thing, and beg him to forgive me. I wish he
were here now.”

His reflections were interrupted by a low tap at
the door. Mertoun started. It is curious how
chagrined we frequently are, when a wish we have
been entertaining for some time without much
prospect of attaining it, is suddenly granted. Our
hero’s desire to see Dr. Young vanished with the
rap at the door, and his relief was great when little
Walter entered.

“Well, Harry,” said the child, “how are you
now? Mrs. Young has given me leave to come
and sit with you until you are tired of me. I am
so sorry you are ill, brother;” and he threw his
arms round Mertoun’s neck as he spoke.

“Thank you, Walter, I am better already,”



shall be quite well again.”

“Oh yes! you must be quite well by to-morrow,
brother. There will be such fun to-morrow.
The carriage will come for us, and the prizes wil!


118 THE CHERRY-STON#S.

ne

be given away, and you will be sure to have the —

very best. It is only because they are envious of
you that they say you will not get a prize,” added
Walter, nodding his head very knowingly. “Is it
not so, ILarry ?”
Mertoun made no reply; and Walter, somewhat
downeast at finding that his brother did not enter

into his raptures, also relapsed into silence. Nothing |

was said for several minutes on either side. At
last Walter again broke silence. “ Brother Harry,”

said he, “is it not very naughty to say one is ill |

when one is not? Is it not telling stories ?”

“To be sure it is, Walter,’ replied Mertoun, a
little startled at the abruptness of the question.

“Do not people deserve to be punished very
badly for telling stories, brother?” pursued the
child, half talking to himself.

“No doubt they do,” said Harry uneasily ; “but
what makes you ask that?”

“T was thinking,” said Walter, “what would be
done to Edward Sharpe for telling stories.”

“Edward Sharpe!’ ejaculated Mertoun; “ has
he been telling stories P”

Walter nodded.

“What about, Walter?”

“Why, he said that once upon a time, some one



pretended to be ill, in order that it might not be ~
| Harry; I did not want to give him any cake, but |

THE EXAMINATION. 119 |;

found out that he could not do his ciphering,”
replied Walter: believing, in the simplicity of his
heart, that he had cleverly concealed from his
brother that it was himself of whom Sharpe had
been speaking. “I do not like Edward Sharpe,

Charles Warbeck told me I ought to give him
some, because he was in the first class, and I had
given some to all the other first class boys.”

“So,” said Mertoun to himself, as he tossed

" yestlessly in his bed, “Edward Sharpe has been

, insinuating that I pretended to be ill, for fear he |
: should beat me in the ciphering examination! |

I declare I never heard of any thing so mean. I

_ would not be so mean as he is for all the prizes
' in the world!” In this strain Harry proceeded,
forgetting in the plenitude of his indignation the

’ bitter self-accusations to which he had given vent

not ten minutes before. But it is wonderful how

. keen a sense of injury we feel, when we are charged

- unjustly with any offence; even when we know

‘ ourselves to be guilty of something quite as bad, |

and perhaps not very unlike it.
The longer he continued to reflect on his rival’s
ungenerous conduct, the greater his excitement

became, and the ciphering prize, so valueless before, |
became now an object of eager desire; not that |




120 THE CILERRY-STONES. i

he particularly wished for it himself, but he was
anxious to prevent Sharpe’s obtaining it. “I dare |
say he is hoping he will have it now,” thought he, |
. “since I was prevented from getting any marks at
the examination. And perhaps he may; but, at
‘ all events, I will not do any thing that will help to

_ give it him. I cannot be obliged to confess my
| fault, in order that he may reap the fruits of my |
' confession. If I do not deserve the prize, I am |
‘ sure he does not. It was he who first prompted .
: me to take the cherries ; I should not have thought
| of it but for him.”

As these thoughts passed through his mind his

restlessness increased. His determination to stand
between Sharpe and the ciphering prize of course ,
put an end to his resolution of confessing his .
fault to Dr. Young; and he now dreaded the im-

pending visit, which a short time before he had so
eagerly desired. At last he sent Walter to Dr.
Young to tell him that he trusted he would excuse

the freedom he was taking, but that he continued |
too unwell to be able to see him that afternoon; '
and that he hoped, if he was left quite alone, he |
should be able to procure a little sleep. It was |
not without difficulty he brought himself to take

this step, for he felt that he had now been :
; guilty of a direct falsehood. But the downward


THE EXAMINATION. 121

path of deccit is a short and easy one, and we are
seldom long in reaching the bottom, when once we

; enter it.

|

His resolution, however, was taken; and being |

taken, he endeavoured, as well as he could, to

persuade himself that he was doing nothing wrong |

in withholding the avowal of his guilt from Dr.
Young. It was not a school offence, he argued,

that he had committed. It was not an offence ;
against Dr. Young. It was not an offence in

which Dr. Young was in any way concerned. He
did not see, therefore, what Dr. Young had to do
with it. Besides, he doubted whether he was not

vexing himself a great deal about a very triflng ,
matter: and, at any rate, his father was the only :

person to whom he was bound to make any con-
fession.
Such were the specious arguments by which

Mertoun endeavoured to satisfy himself that he :

was justified in continuing silent on the subject of
the offence which he had committed. He felt,

indeed, in his heart, that his reasoning was false |

was not yet sufficiently habituated to guilt to be
able to stifle its remonstranccs altogether; and he
therefore endeavoured to reassure himself by spe-

j and hollow; but he was resolved not to take the -
, only course which his conscience approved. He |
, 122 THE CHERRY-STONES.



cious reasonings, which, in truth, only increased his

difficulties.

If any of my youthful readers are ever thus
tempted to seek for fair-seeming arguments to
justify their neglect of some painful duty, or pursuit
of some unholy wish, let them be warned how
they yicld to these insidious whisperings of the

_ Tempter. If they endeavour thus to darken their

_ vision, whenever it is painful to them to see the
. light, who can say that the dulness of sight, which

they thus wilfully occasion, may not become lasting ?
‘Who can say how soon the time may come when
they will be indeed unable to distinguish between

- the counterfeit and the reality, and sigh in vain
. for that clearness of sight which they once pos-

- gessed, which their own wantonness has destroyed,

and destroyed for ever ?

|




CHAPTER IX.

THE MYSTERY SOLVED.

“Midsummer holidays now draw near,
Let your hearts be free from fear;
Let your hearts be merry and gay,
For to-day is breaking-up day.
Monday, Tuesday, packing-up ;
Wednesday, Thursday, breaking-up ;
Friday, Saturday, going away :
All for the sake of a holiday.
‘Good bye Latin, good bye Greek ;
No more of you for many a week.
Books and slates we'll cast away,
For to-day is breaking-up day.
Monday, Tuesday, packing-up ;
Wednesday, Thursday, breaking-up ;
Friday, Saturday, going away :
All for the sake of a holiday.”

Sucu were the sounds that broke Henry Mer-
toun’s slumbers on the morning succeeding the ,
124 THE CIIERRY-STONES.

events related in the last chapter. Mertoun sat

up in his bed, and looked vacantly about him. Al

the boys were gone down stairs, and their trunks —
were packed and corded. The clock struck ten. |
“Bless me,” exclaimed he, “how sound I must
have slept. The boys had not come up to bed
when I fell asleep.” In fact the anxiety by day
and the sleeplessness by night which the boy had
undergone, together with a slight opiate which Mr.
Millar had given him in his medicine, had caused
him to sleep through the noise which his school-
fellows had made in getting up and packing their
boxes ; and he would probably have slumbered on
for some hours longer, had not the chorus, imme- —
diately under his window, with which the boys |
were celebrating their approaching departure, dis-
turbed him. But the noise of five-and-thirty treble
voices, maintaining the most noble independence
of time and tune, would have been too much for a
narcotic far more powerful than the one which -

had been administered to Harry. His drowsiness
vanished in an instant, as the well-known sounds
of the breaking-up song saluted his ears. He
bounded out of bed, and, flinging open the window,
joined most energetically in the last lines of the -
chorus, concluding with three hearty cheers, which :
afforded the most satisfactory evidence that, what- :


po te eee : ve ne ee

THE MYSTERY SOLVED. 125

ever his illness might have been, he was again
' himself. His appearance was greeted with uni-

versal applause. Boys never remember a grudge
' for any length of time ; besides which, the last day
i of a half-year is always an occasion for a general
‘ amnesty. “ Harry for ever!” “Good morning,
- Harry.” “How do you find yourself this morn-
ing ?”’ resounded from all parts of the play-ground.

“Good morning, good morning,” shouted Harry
in reply; “I am all right again, thank you.”

“ Mr. Millar gave orders that you were not to
' be disturbed,” said Warbeck, “so we got up and
_ packed our boxes as quiet as mice, and—”

“Now come and roar like bulls under my
window,” said Harry, laughing; “ well, never mind,
I am glad enough to be awake, and it will not be
long before I am with you.”

“‘ Make haste,” said Seymour, “and we will not
' begin our game until you come. We have an
' hour and a half good, before the prizes are given
| away.” Harry hastily withdrew his head from the
window as he heard these words. The joyful
excitement of going home, and the general delight
of his school-fellows, had, for the instant, banished
the remembrance that he had another scene to go
: through before he quitted Charlton; but it was
‘ now recalled. Oh, that those prizes were given
126 TIE CHERRY-STONES.

away and done with! If he were only quietly at

- home with his father and mother, how gladly would -
he forego all his chances of success. But the wish :

was useless. Go through the ordeal he must, and

he endeavoured to nerve himself to mect this last

trial boldly. Once clear of Charlton all would go
well.

It will easily be believed that he had now no
inclination to join his school-fellows in the play-
ground. He dreaded their allusions to his chance

' of getting a prize, and their inquiries as to the

cause of his strange embarrassment whilst con-
struing the Virgil. He lingered over his toilet,
and then over his packing, but the minutes dragged
wearily on. The merry voices of the boys, who,

after one or two impatient summonings, had begun |

- their sport without him, and had soon forgotten his

' absence, struck painfully on his ear. Ie arranged
' and re-arranged his clothes; fidgetted about the |
room; and at last took up a book, and, seating ~
himself on his bed, set himself determinedly to read
. it. Nearly two hours passed in this manner; his °

suspense was becoming insupportable, and he had
resolved in despair to go down into the play-
ground; when there came a sudden lull in the
noise below, and, with a tap at his door, the well-

_ known voice of Sally announced “ The boys are all




THE MYSTERY SOLVED. 127 |

in the school-room, master Mertoun; and master
has sent me to fetch you.” Mertoun shook from
head to foot. He even meditated sending a mes-
sage to say he was too unwell to come down, but
he remembered that this would certainly bring
Dr. Young.

“Tam coming,” he exclaimed, and putting the
key of his box into his pocket, he ran quickly
down,

The school-room was filled with a crowd of
anxious faces as he entered. In front of the head
master’s desk, which stood on a raised platform
against the wall, was placed a table covered with a
green cloth, on which were arranged in goodly
show the prizes about to be distributed. The
Doctor was already in his place; the ushers were
seated on either side of him; and the boys stood
in a deep semicircle in front. All eyes were turned
on Mertoun as he entered.

“Good morning to you, Mertoun,” said Dr.
Young, “take your place. I sent for you because
I wished that all the boys should be assembled,
before I announced to whom the prizes were
awarded.” Harry muttered a few unintelligible
words, and shrank into a corner, as far removed
from public notice as possible.

Dr. Young rose from his chair. “The prize




128 THE CITERRY-STONES. |

_ for good behaviour,” said he, “among the lower
boys, is gained by Walter Mertoun, who, although
this is his first half-year, has been uniformly
orderly and diligent, and has conducted himself to |
my entire satisfaction.”

Little Walter’s face crimsoned with delight and
surprise. He get a prize! A little boy like him
| get a prize! How amazed he would have been, if
any body had told him half an hour before that
such a thing was possible. Many hands were
thrust out to congratulate him, for his simplicity
and good temper had made him a general favourite ;
but to Walter’s great disappointment, his brother
did not join in the general expression of sympathy.
“ Are not you glad, brother Harry, that I have got
a prize ?”’ said he, timidly looking up into his bro-
ther’s face. Mertoun started. His own fears and
disquietudes had so entirely engrossed his atten-
tion, that his little brother’s success had been
‘ searcely noticed by him. He was, however, imme-
' diately sensible of his neglect.

“Yes, Walter,” he said, taking his hand, “I
am, indeed, very glad. You have well deserved it;
‘ and I am sure both papa and mamma will be
' greatly pleased with you.’ And then, patting him |

on the head, he turned again, with irrepressible '
' anxiety, to listen to the forthcoming announce- |


|
|
|



THE MYSTERY SOLVED. 129

ments. Walter felt chilled and repelled. Harry’s
manner was constrained, and he did not seem in
his heart really to care much about his brother's
success. The little boy was almost ready to cry,

: and his joy at getting the prize was for the moment
‘ more than balanced by the pain he felt at his

brother’s coldness. How much misery do our

. evil acts occasion to others as well as to our-

selves !
While the above conversation was passing

‘ between the brothers, the names of the successful
i competitors in the fourth, third, and second classes,
' had been announced. There now remained only
' the first class prizes in classics and ciphering to be

declared. Dr. Young made a momentary pause:

. excitement was raised to its highest pitch. ‘“ The
, contest,” at length he said, “for the prizes in the
i first class has been unusually severe, and the issue
' doubtful to the last. When I began to add up
' the marks yesterday evening, I was quite uncertain

what would be the result; and perhaps it may
surprise you, as it certainly did me. In classics
the names and numbers of the three first’ boys
are

Mertoun . 295

Warbechk . =. 289

Seymour . - 218


130 THE CHERRY-STONES.

and in ciphering,

Mertoun . . 132
Sharpe : . 131
Warbeck . : 95

' Mertoun, therefore is the successful candidate for

both the first class prizes. I should observe, that
he was much more in advance of both his com-
petitors, until within the last few days; but he has,
notwithstanding, fairly won his high position,

: and his diligence and general good conduct has

been such, as to make me rejoice sincerely at his

_ success. You know, however, it is not my prac-
' tice to allow one boy to receive two prizes: and
' the question now is, with reference to the claims

of Warbeck and Sharpe, which prize I ought to

. assign to Mertoun. Considering, however, that
: Warbeck approaches him so nearly in the one, and
. Sharpe in the other department; and that both of

them are so far in advance of all other competitors,
I think their claims to a reward are equal. I
intend, therefore, to give prizes of less value to
Warbeck and Sharpe, while I intend Mertoun to
receive one which will commemorate his double

. victory in classics and ciphering.”

As Dr. Young concluded, there was a general
murmur of applause, and the successful candidates
were instantly surrounded by a group of applauding
THE MYSTERY SOLVED. 131

friends. Harry, in particular, was the centre of
general admiration. Congratulations poured in on
every side. “ Harry, I wish you joy most sincerely,”
said Warbeck, stepping up to him, and shaking
him warmly by the hand, “you have well deserved
the prize, and I am heartily glad you have gained
it.” Harry tried to acknowledge his kindness with
equal cordiality, but his voice failed him, and he
was obliged to lean for support upon the desk
behind him.

How bitter now were his self-reproaches! It
is true that by a few marks he had headed both
his competitors, but he knew that by his conduct
he had forfeited all claim to distinction: and that
the first prizes in truth belonged to Warbeck and
Sharpe. He was now about to cheat his best friend
of the one, and had yesterday descended to the
meanness of a deliberate falsehood, that he might
injure his competitor for the other. Dr. Young

also had spoken of his general good conduct, and |
he was going to receive a token of his highest |

approval, when he knew he merited nothing but
disgrace.

As these thoughts whirled through his head, he
was startled by the mention of his brother’s name.
“Walter Mertoun,” said the Doctor, “come and
take your prize.” Walter obeyed, and received a

kK 2


132 THE CHERRY-STONES.

a few kind and approving words, which brought
tears into the little fellow’s eyes. Harry watched
the flush of mingled modesty and pleasure with

which he listened to Dr. Young; and his eager |
delight as he turned over the leaves of his newly- |

acquired treasure. What a bitter contrast to his
own feelings! It was the first time he had ever

| felt the difference between guilt and innocence, and

learned what a hollow mockery is worldly success,

_ when our hearts condemn us. But there was not

time to dwell on thoughts like these. He looked on,

. as boy after boy was called up to receive his prize,

with the feelings of a criminal, who sees his com-
panions brought up in succession to receive their
punishment, knowing that his own turn will shortly
arrive.

Warbeck was now called for, and as he came
forward, Dr. Young having put into his hand an
octavo volume, thus addressed him. “Charles
Warbeck, I have much pleasure in presenting you

' with the life of Bishop Ken. It is the history of a

good man; of one who, though exposed to many

trials and temptations at every turn of his life, was

faithful to his conscience. I trust: you may have
grace to follow such an example, and I have good

‘ hope, Warbeck, that you will do so. I have

niccly bound copy of sop’s Fables, together with |


THE MYSTERY SOLVED. 133

observed your habitual diligence, and your straight-
forward, honest behaviour with sincere pleasure.
Indeed, were it otherwise, you well know I would
bestow no reward upon you. ‘Truthfulness and
honesty are indispensable qualities in any one who |
is to receive a token of approbation from me.”
Charles bowed respectfully, and withdrew from the |
| table. |
| Henry Mertoun,” said the Doctor, and at the |
summons Harry advanced with unsteady stepsfrom «
amongst the crowd of boys. Every word of his |
master’s address to Warbeck had penetrated him ;
with shame and remorse. The lie he was about to |
act glared on him in all its deformity. Wavering,
and uncertain what to do, he moved slowly towards
the table. He endeavoured to look up to the
Doctor’s face, but he could not meet his calm, |
stedfast gaze. Confused and abashed, he cast .
his eyes downward, but as he did so, they
encountered an object which made him start as
though a serpent had stung him. In the middle ~
of the table, on the spot from which Charles -
Warbeck’s prize had just been removed, there lay
—could he really believe his senses ?—the seventh
cherry-stone! He stood for a moment amazed and
. silent—then, with the air of one whose resolu- |
tion was at last made up, he took the cherry-


134 THE CUERRY-STONES.



stone in his hand, and walking with a firm step
to Dr. Young, exclaimed in a low but distinct
tone, “Dr. Young, you must not give me the prize
you intended for me. I have done that which
makes me unworthy of your esteem. This,” he
added, laying the cherry-stone on the table before
him, “this is all that I deserve. I must not receive
any thing else from you.”

A murmur of astonishment ran through the
room, followed by a profound silence. Dr. Young

himself partook of the surprise, but he did not lose |

his composure. “Harry,” he said, “you know I
have told you that if you have done any thing
wrong it is your duty to confess it.” “T will, Sir,”

: eried the boy, and then leaning against the table

_ related the whole history of his guilt, from his first _

for support, in a voice almost choked by tears, he

getting over the wall to fetch the lost cricket-ball,
to his falsehood on the previous afternoon, in
sending a message to tell Dr. Young that he was
too unwell to see him. He omitted no cireum-



stance, and attempted no extenuation. He seemed

like a person who was ridding himself’ of a heavy _

burden, and who was desirous not to leave the ,

slightest portion remaining to cause him further
distress. The boys listened with breathless interest
to his confession, and as he coneluded all bent
a a
'



THE MYSTERY SOLVED. 135

eagerly forward to hear what the Doctor would
say.

Before, however he had time to speak, there
was a sudden stir among the boys, and Frederick
Seymour stepping forward, took Mertoun by the
hand.

“ Oh Harry, pray forgive me!” said he; “ I little
thought how unhappy I was making you.”

“ Am I to understand then, Seymour,” said Dr.
Young with some severity, “that it is you who

have occasioned your school-fellow all the annoy- ;

ance he has been speaking of ? His fault was
indeed great, but it gave you no right thus to
torment him.”

“T am sorry, Sir, very sorry, for what I have
done. I have acted wrongly ; but I had no inten-
tion of causing Harry so much sorrow. If you
will permit me, Sir, I will tell you the whole truth.
On the morning spoken of by Harry, I was awoke
by a noise on the back staircase, as if some one
was going cautiously down stairs; and some
minutes afterwards I heard Juno barking in the
play-ground. I then began to think something
must be the matter; and at last I got up and
went to the passage window which looks out in
that direction. The light of the moon was so
clear that I could see distinctly what was going






186 THE CHERRY-STONES.

on below; and I perceived Harry, whose back was
towards me, engaged in burying something in a
corner of the play-ground. Soon afterwards he
took something else from his pocket, put it on the
top of the buttress, and then returned into the
house. My curiosity was raised, and as soon as
every thing was quiet, I went into the play-ground.
I looked first on the buttress, and there perceived
the marble. I then searched in the corner, and
to my surprise found seven cherry-stones. The
thought that Harry had got over the wall and
taken the cherries never occurred to me. Indeed
I did not recollect at the time that there was a
cherry-tree in the orchard. At first I thought

| Harry had been buying fruit without leave, which

you know, Sir, is strictly forbidden; but then I

| could not understand about the marble, or why he

should get up in the night and bury seven cherry-
stones. I was a good deal puzzled, but at last it
oceurred to me that Harry had done all this in
order to play some trick upon us at the breaking-
up, and that it would be good fun to turn the joke
against himself; and with that intention I placed a
cherry-stone on the buttress, and when Harry was
asleep put the alley into his jacket pocket, aud one
of the stones into his shoe.”

“ Go on, Seymour,” said Dr. Young, as the boy




THE MYSTERY SOLVED. 137



paused in his narrative; “there is yet much to be
explained. Did you put the other cherry-stones
into his way also?”

“Some of them, Sir, I did. I had no intention

' of doing so at first, but Harry’s perplexity, when

he found the one on the wall and the other in his
shoe, amused me, I am ashamed to say, so much,
that I contrived during the day to put a third into
his bed; and the next morning I dropped another



| into the tea-cup, when Warbeck left it for a few

minutes in the hall. I had no intention of teasing
him any further, but I happened to be present
when he unpacked his hamper, and I thought he

: would be so perplexed to find another of the stones
' in his present from home, that I was tempted,

whilst he was putting the different packages into
his box, to make up the fifth of them into a small

parcel, and changed it for the one directed to him,

which he had overlooked. The real enclosure I
put into the desk behind some books, where he
will find it. This is all that I have done, and

| indeed, Sir, I should not have done what I did

' if I had known how much pain I was causing.”

“Well, Seymour,” said the Doctor, in a milder

' tone, “you are not so much to blame as I had

|

supposed. I am no admirer of practical jokes.

. They are always unkind, and often do serious mis-


138 THE CHERRY-STONES.



chief, But whilst I do not approve of what you
have done, I must in justice say you are not answer-
able for the pain and misery which has fallen upon
Henry Mertoun. He owes all that he has suffered
to his own misconduct. Had his conscience been

void of offence, your jokes might have perplexed and

teased him, but they could have caused him no real
pain. It was the sense of guilt, and the disquietude
which guilt always produces, which created all the
idle alarms which caused him to bury the cherry-
stones, and which gave the real sting to your fool-
ish jests. Forget, therefore, both of you, all that
is passed. Shake hands, and be friends.”’

Mertoun turned round, with a smile once more
on his face. “Oh, most readily, Seymour. I am
sure you did not mean to pain me.”

Dr. Young looked at them with evident satisfac-
tion; then, after a pause, he added, “ But there is
still much to be explained. If I understood you
rightly, Seymour, you only put five cherry-stones
in Mertoun’s way, and had nothing to do with
the placing of the other two ?”

“Tt is so, Sir. I know nothing of the two
last,’”’ replied Seymour.

“Then I must discover who put the sixth cherry-
stone in the Virgil yesterday, and the seventh on
my table this morning. Their appearance could


i
i
1
!
|
i
|
|
j
i
i
\



THE MYSTERY SOLVED. 139

not have been accidental, and the motives of the

party must, I fear, have been very unworthy.” A |

deep silence prevailed. “Seymour, did you com-

municate to any one the tricks you were practising

upon Mertoun ?”

“Not at first, Sir; but one of the boys saw me
change the parcels in the hamper, and made me
tell him all about it.”

“Did you tell him also that you did not mean :

to carry the joke any further, because you found

; how unhappy you had made your school-fellow ?”

“T did, Sir; and, at the same time, flung away
the other two cherry-stones.”

“ And who was the boy to whom you told this ?”

Seymour hesitated. “I hope, Sir, you will not
oblige me to answer you. I would much rather
take the whole blame on myself.”

“Well, Seymour, I will not press you on the

| point, if you are unwilling to give me the informa-

tion. There is, however, no reason why I should
not try to find out the truth myself. Edward
Sharpe, stand forward !”

Sharpe obeyed. He endeavoured to assume an |
appearance of surprise; but it sat awkwardly upon |
him, and it was evident to the whole school that —

he was ill at ease.
“J wish to ask you, Sharpe, if the two cherry-


, 140 THE CHERRY-STONES,

| stones were placed in the Virgil and on my table

by you?”
Sharpe remained silent for a few moments. At

- last he said, “I do not see, Sir, what reason you

have for suspecting me more than any one else.”

“T will tell you, Sharpe. It is but fair that

. I should give you my reason for selecting you
‘ from the other boys, and putting this question

to you. I noticed that it was you who, at the
examination yesterday, handed me the Virgil in
which the cherry-stone was found: and although
it does not follow that you put the stone into the
book, it is a sufficient reason for singling you
out for inquiry. Moreover, Sally has told me
that she found one of the pupils in the school-
room, contrary to my express orders, when she

_ went in, shortly before the examination began,

to see if the arrangements for giving out the
prizes were complete. J do not wish, except it be
absolutely necessary, to make Seymour a witness
against his school-fellow ; but I shall certainly send
for Sally, if I do not receive from you an imme-

; diate and direct answer.”
“Yes, then, I did do it,” replied Sharpe sullenly, .

“but I meant no harm—no more than Seymour

- did. I did not know, any more than he did, that

Mertoun had stolen the cherries.”
|
THE MYSTERY SOLVED, 141
.
“Edward Sharpe,” replied the Doctor, in his
' severest tone, “I cannot accept your excuse. You
have acted in a most unworthy manner. You
knew that your school-fellow was made unhappy by
these tricks; yet; you continued to practise them

upon him. But this is the lightest part of your
offence. Mertoun and yourself, as you were well
aware, were running very close for the ciphering
prize. To do any thing which would agitate and
embarrass him under such circumstances was
unfair, if not actually dishonest; and yet you
chose the moment when he was faltering in his

examination, to overwhelm him entirely by an
unworthy artifice. At any rate, a generous boy
- would have confessed what he had done, when he

‘ saw the effect it had produced on his antagonist.
. Above all, to repeat the annoyance this morning,
. before the assembled school, and on such an

occasion, was most unfeeling. I do not seek to
inquire further into your motives; but after what

has transpired I cannot give you your prize. It

has always been my principle to refuse any reward :
to a boy who has been guilty of a serious offence,
- and in no other light can I view your late conduct.
Retire, now, to your own room, and remain by
yourself until you return home. I trust your soli-

_ tude will be rightly employed.”
|

Ln a et


' 142 THE CHERRY-STONES.

Sharpe turned sullenly away, and left the
room. The Doctor seemed relieved when he was
gone.

“And now, Harry,” he said, with more emotion

~ than was usual with him, “TI must say a few words

to you. You have, indeed, done very, very wrong ;
and I must withhold from you the prize which by
your talents you had won. It would be most
mistaken kindness to speak lightly of your sin.

' I trust the unhappiness you have undergone

during the last few days, and the shame you are
now suffering, will have their due effect in warning
you how you again yield to temptation. You have
now confessed your fault, tardily indeed—I wish it
had been otherwise—but you have confessed it,
and you have my entire forgiveness. But, remem-
ber, there is One whose displeasure outweighs all
others a thousand-fold, whose pardon you must

' yet implore, but who never refuses it to those who
_ seek it with true penitence. Let me entreat you
' to ask it humbly on your knees before you leave
. this house, and in His name for whose sake it is
| never denied.

“One word more before I quit this subject, |

never to return to it. In the present instance

_ the thoughtlessness of one of your companions,

and the unkindness of another, have had the
TILE MYSTERY SOLVED. 143



-
1
|

effect of rousing you to a sense of your guilt,
and led you to repentance. God has thus been
pleased to bring good out of evil. But in your
future life, should you again fall into sin, He may
not, and probably will not, vouchsafe you such
visible means of awakening your conscience. Be-
ware, then, of yielding to petty temptations, of
violating small duties, under the idea that it
signifies little whether you perform them or not.
Remember how far wrong a trifling act of dis-
obedience has led you, and how difficult you have
found it to return to the right path again. Ke-
member, also, that a slight deviation from that
one right path will, if persisted in, lead you
as far from the true end of your journey, as

though you had never trodden in the right path
at all.”

THE END.

Gitpert & Ruvineton, Printers, St. John’s Square, London.

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