did not prove so. As his real disposition
developed itself, the prejudice we had conceived
against him was completely justified. He was
as spiteful, savage, aud uncertain as the animal
he so much resembled; but his two leading
peculiarities were his inordinate appetite, and a
tendency to transports of passion, the more
appalling in their intensity from the slightness
of the provocation given. A single word, a
mere look, might induce one of his paroxysms,
and then, my lads, stand clear. Christian would
snatch up the first article at hand—no matter
of how dangerous a character—a heavy
inkstand, a stone, a knife—and launch it—not
intending to miss, but with deadly aim and purpose
—at whomsoever had affronted him. The escapes
I witnessed from some fatal injury were almost
miraculous. In the absence of any missile,
Christian would fly upon the offender with the
rage, and very much the action, of a tiger, and,
unless the victim could save himself by flight,
or some friend to humanity interposed in time,
kicked, tore, and buffeted him as if nothing
short of life would satisfy his revenge. For the
moment, the boy was like a very fiend.
Fortunately, the gust of passion was brief.

It was on one of these occasions that I
managed to incur that hatred on the part of Mr.
Bohné, whence arose the remarkable incident
that forms the subject of my story.

There was, in the lowest junior class, a little
creature called Murrell Sillito. He was as
pretty as a girl, and being fragile and delicate,
was treated among us with as much tenderness
as if he had been that twin-sister of whom he
was always talking, and who was understood to
have vowed self-destruction on finding she would
not be allowed to accompany him to school.

Like most pets, Master Murrell would
occasionally indulge in pertnesses. These were
little heeded. One would as soon have resented
the chirp of a tom-tit. Nevertheless, to the
horror of the playground, a loud shriek from
Murrell, one day, announced that he was in
trouble, and the child was seen flying, with all
the power of his little bare legs, before Christian,
who, with eyes blazing with maniacal rage,
and his great mouth agape, pursued him, grasping
a large jagged flint in act to throw.

Before any one could interpose, the missile
flew, whistling past Murrell's golden curls so
close that I almost expected to see them turn
red with the child's blood. With increasing fury,
Christian caught up a hoopstick, and renewed the
chase. Bohné took malignant aim, and was in
the very act of flinging, when, panting with
speed and excitement, I managed to throw
myself in the way. I heard a snarl like that of a
wild beast, felt a sharp pain across the brow, and
became blind. I was in collision with some one,
struck wildly forward, then reeled to the ground.
On being picked up, and the blood washed from
my eyes, it was shown that I had received a
severe graze on the forehead, but nothing worse.

My opponent was less fortunate. My blind
blow had done more execution than I intended.
As ill-luck would have it, my hoopstick was in
my hand, and the contact between it and
Christian's nose so injured that already depressed
organ, that the damage proved irreparable, and
Mr. Bohné—between whom and myself no
remarkable good feeling had before existed—
became my deadly foe. Although public taste
inclined to the opinion that anything that could
befal Christian's nose must be for its advantage,
that gentleman—attached to, if not positively
vain of, this appendage to his face—never
forgave the misadventure.

The first time we met in the schoolroom, his
now nearly level nose strapped and plaistered, he
put his face close to mine, and hissed in my ear:

"I should like to suck your blood. And I
will."

These were the last words he ever addressed
to me. Regarded as a threat, they made as
much impression as might a fly perching on my
nose; still, it is never pleasant to be haunted by
the undying animosity of a fellow with whom
one is perpetually in contact. I therefore made
one or two tacit advances towards reconciliation.
But in vain. Personally, I had no fear
of him; for, though full two years younger, I
was strong, and could use my fists.

It might be expected that Murrell Sillito,
whose little golden head mine had probably
saved, would have shown himself grateful for
the interference. This boy, from his affectionate
ways, had been my especial favourite—I might
say, confidant—for had he not been, since the
previous "half," in sole and singular possession
of that deep secret of my soul, of which I am
about to make wider confession? I was in
love! In the full delight of that strange sweet
emotion, without sensible beginning, without
predicable end—a boy's first passion.

As Murrell was in a similar position (the
object of his adoration was a bloated rabbit), it
was apt and natural that we should establish
relations of mutual confidence. I had never
repented of this step. The patience and
sympathy of Murrell were absolutely fathomless,
Neglecting that constant companion, his
whipping-top, of which he was madly fond, he
would sit beside me, sucking the highly
flavoured eel-skin lash, or thoughtfully rolling
the marbles in his pocket, his great blue eyes
fixed on mine, as he strove, with all his might,
to obtain some faint idea of the feeling that so
powerfully wrought within his elder friend.

My acquaintance with—and contemporaneous
worship of—the goddess Tseery (so Murrell
called and spelled Mademoiselle Desirée
Lamond) commenced on a dampish afternoon,
when, while stalking round the nearly-deserted
playground on my stilts, I heard a slight rustle
in the branch of a pear-tree above my head, then
a youthful voice, sweet but imperious,

"Hola, le p'tit! Mon volant, zat is, de
suttlecot!" pointing to a feathered object entangled
in the tree.

With some deliberation—for I thought the
command a trifle unceremonious—I recovered
the "suttlecot," and flung it over.

"Le petit!" "Petite" herself. The speaker