Mr. Moore and Henry Sympson were together in the school-room: the tutor was waiting for a lesson which the pupil seemed busied in preparing.
"Henry, make haste! the afternoon is getting on."
"Is it, sir?"
"Certainly. Are you nearly ready with that lesson?"
"No."
"Not nearly ready?"
"I have not construed a line."
Mr. Moore looked up: the boy's tone was rather peculiar.
"The task presents no difficulties, Henry; or if it does, bring them to me: we will work together."
"Mr. Moore, I can do no work."
"My boy, you are ill."
"Sir, I am not worse in bodily health than usual, but my heart is full."
"Shut the book. Come hither, Harry. Come to the fireside."
Harry limped forward; his tutor placed him a chair: his lips were quivering, his eyes brimming. He laid his crutch on the floor, bent down his head, and wept.
"This distress is not occasioned by physical pain, you say, Harry? You have a grief:—tell it me."
"Sir, I have such a grief as I never had before. I wish it could be relieved in some way: I can hardly bear it."
"Who knows but, if we talk it over, we may
