"You will do better, poor fellow," replied Nicholas, shaking his head mournfully, "when I am gone."
"Gone!" cried the other, looking intently in his face.
"Softly!" rejoined Nicholas. "Yes."
"Are you going?" demanded the boy, in an earnest whisper.
"I cannot say," replied Nicholas, "I was speaking more to my own thoughts than to you."
"Tell me," said the boy imploringly. "Oh do tell me, will you go—will you?"
"I shall be driven to that at last!" said Nicholas. "The world is before me, after all."
"Tell me," urged Smike, "is the world as bad and dismal as this place?"
"Heaven forbid," replied Nicholas, pursuing the train of his own thoughts, "its hardest, coarsest toil, were happiness to this."
"Should I ever meet you there?" demanded the boy, speaking with unusual wildness and volubility.
"Yes," replied Nicholas, willing to soothe him.
"No, no!" said the other, clasping him by the hand. "Should I—should I—tell me that again. Say I should be sure to find you."
"You would," replied Nicholas, with the same humane intention, "and I would help and aid you, and not bring fresh sorrow on you as I have done here."
The boy caught both the young man's hands passionately in his, and hugging them to his breast, uttered a few broken sounds which were unintelligible. Squeers entered at the moment, and he shrunk back into his old corner.
CHAPTER XIII.
NICHOLAS VARIES THE MONOTONY OF DOTHEBOYS HALL BY A MOST VIGOROUS AND REMARKABLE PROCEEDING, WHICH LEADS TO CONSEQUENCES OF SOME IMPORTANCE.
The cold feeble dawn of a January morning was stealing in at the windows of the common sleeping-room, when Nicholas, raising himself
upon his arm, looked among the prostrate forms which on every side surrounded him, as though in search of some particular object.
It needed a quick eye to detect from among the huddled mass of sleepers, the form of any given individual. As they lay closely packed together, covered, for warmth's sake, with their patched and ragged clothes, little could be distinguished but the sharp outlines of pale faces, over which the sombre light shed the same dull heavy colour, with here and there a gaunt arm thrust forth: its thinness hidden by no covering, but fully exposed to view in all its shrunken ugliness. There were some who, lying on their backs with upturned faces and clenched hands, just visible in the leaden light, bore more the
