Life in London | Page 5

not waste so much time in play, you might be independent of any help that I can give."
It was a source of great pleasure to his parents to hear from time to time, through Dr. Seaward, some good account of his conduct; and when he returned home at the holiday seasons, generally laden with prizes which he had victoriously borne off, they did not feel a little proud of their only son.
George remained at the school at Folkestone for five years, during which time he rose from the lowest to the highest form. It was the intention of his parents then to place him in a college for a year or two, in order to give him in opportunity to complete his education, and have the means to make a good start in life. But this purpose was frustrated by an event which happened only a month before George was to have been removed.
One day, when all the boys were out in the playfield, busily engaged in marking out boundaries for a game at hockey, Dr. Seaward was seen coming from the house towards the field. This was an unusual event, as he rarely interfered with them during play hours. "Something's up," said the boys; and waited expectantly until the Doctor came up to them.
"Call George Weston," said he; "I want to speak to him."
"Weston! George Weston!" shouted one or two at once; and George came running up, nothing abashed, for he knew he had done nothing wrong.
"George," said the Doctor, laying a hand on his shoulder, "I want you to come with me; I have something to tell you;" and they walked together away from the field.
"What is it, sir? You look pained: I hope I have done nothing to offend you?"
"No, George," replied the Doctor; "few lads have ever given me so little cause of offence at any time as you have. But I am pained. I have some sad news to tell you."
"Sad news for me, sir? Oh, do tell me at once. Is anything the matter at home?"
"Yes, George; a messenger has just arrived to say that your father has met with a serious accident; he has been thrown from his chaise, and is much hurt. The messenger is your uncle, Mr. Brunton; and he desires you to return at once to London with him."
George waited to hear no more; he bounded away from the Doctor, cleared the fence which enclosed the garden at a leap, and rushed into the room where Mr. Brunton was anxiously awaiting him. No tear stood in his eye; but he was dreadfully pale, and his hands trembled like aspen leaves. "Oh, uncle!" was all he could say; and, throwing himself into a chair, he covered his face with his hands.
"Come, George, my boy," said Mr. Brunton, tenderly; "do not give way to distress. Your poor father is seriously hurt, but he is yet alive. We have just half an hour to catch the train."
That was enough for George; in a moment he was calm and collected, ran up to his room to make a few hasty arrangements, and in five minutes was again with his uncle prepared for the journey.
"Good-bye, Dr. Seaward," he said as he left the house.
"God bless you, my young friend," said the kind-hearted Doctor; "and grant that you may find His providence better than your fears."
George thought he had never known the train go so slowly as it did during that long, wearisome journey to London. At last it arrived at the terminus, and then, jumping into a cab, they were hurried away towards Stamford Hill as quickly as the horse could travel.
"Now, George," said Mr. Brunton, as they came near their journey's end, "we know not what may have happened while we have been coming here. Be a man, and recollect there is one who suffers more than you."
"Do not fear, uncle. I will not add to my mother's grief," was all he could reply.
We will not pry into that interview between mother and son when they first met; there is a grief too solemn for a stranger's eye.
Mr. Weston was still alive, and that was all that could be said. The doctors had pronounced his case beyond human skill, and had intimated that there were but a few hours for him on earth.
As George stood beside the bed of his dying father, the tears which had been long pent up came pouring thick and fast down his cheek.
"Don't give way to sorrow, George," said his father, in a low voice, for he had difficulty in speaking; "it will be only a little while before we meet again; for what is life but a vapour, which soon vanisheth away?"
"Oh, father, it is so sudden, so sudden!" sobbed George.
"Therefore, my boy, remember that at all times