One morning when Ned came in from school looking pale and white,
gave random answers to questions, and even, to the astonishment
of the class, answered Mr. Porson himself snappishly, the master,
when school was over and the boys were leaving their places, said:
"Sankey, I want to have a few words with you in the study."
Ned followed his master with an air of indifference. He supposed
that he was going to be lectured for the way he had spoken, but as
he said to himself, "What did it matter! what did anything matter!"
Mr. Porson did not sit down on entering the room, but when Ned had
closed the door after him took a step forward and laid his hand on
his shoulder.
"My boy," he said, "what is it that is wrong with you? I fear that
you have trouble at home."
Ned stood silent, but the tears welled up into his eyes.
"It can't be helped, sir," he said in a choking voice, and then with
an attempt at gayety: "it will be all the same fifty years hence,
I suppose."
"That is a poor consolation, Ned," Mr. Porson rejoined. "Fifty
years is a long time to look forward to. Can't we do anything before
that?"
Ned was silent.
"I do not want you to tell me, Ned, anything that happens at home
--God forbid that I should pry into matters so sacred as relations
between a boy and a parent!--but I can see, my boy, that something
is wrong. You are not yourself. At first when you came back I
thought all was well with you; you were, as was natural, sad and
depressed, but I should not wish it otherwise.
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