“Well, Cheviot wanted me to send up for him at dinner-time,” said Harry; “for as soon as we sat down in the hall, June turned off giddy, and could not stay, and looked so horrid, we thought it was all over with him, and he would not be able to go up at all.”
“And Cheviot thought you ought to send for papa!”
“Yes, I knew he would not be in, and so we left him lying down on the bench in the cloister till dinner was over.”
“What a place for catching cold!” said Flora.
“So Cheviot said, but I couldn’t help it; and when we went to call him afterwards, he was all right. Wasn’t it fun, when the names were called over, and May senior at the head! I don’t think it will be better when I am a post-captain myself! But Margaret has not heard half yet.”
After telling it once in her room, once in the nursery, in whispers like gusts of wind, and once in the pantry, Harry employed himself in writing--“Norman is Dux!” in immense letters, on pieces of paper, which he disposed all over the house, to meet the eyes of his father and Richard on their return.
Ethel’s joy was sadly damped by Norman’s manner. He hardly spoke--only just came in to wish Margaret good-night, and shrank from her affectionate sayings, departing abruptly to his own room.
“Poor fellow! he is sadly overdone,” said she, as he went.
“Oh!” sighed Ethel, nearly ready to cry, “‘tis not like what I used to fancy it would be when he came to the head of the school!”
“It will be different to-morrow,” said Margaret, trying to console herself as well as Ethel. “Think how he has been on the strain this whole day, and long before, doing so much more than older boys. No wonder he is tired and worn out.”
Ethel did not understand what mental fatigue was, for her active, vigorous spirit had never been tasked beyond its powers.
“I hope he will be like himself to-morrow!” said she disconsolately. “I never saw him rough and hasty before. It was even with you, Margaret.”
“No, no, Ethel you aren’t going to blame your own Norman for unkindness on this of all days in the year. You know how it was; you love him better; just as I do, for not being able to bear to stay in this room, where--”
“Yes,” said Ethel, mournfully; “it was a great shame of me! How could I? Dear Norman! how he does grieve--what love his must have been! But yet, Margaret,” she said impatiently, and the hot tears breaking out, “I cannot--cannot bear it! To have him not caring one bit for all of us! I want him to triumph! I can’t without him!”