The Hawthorns | Page 5

exist for Nancy, and what she performed with a
laugh and no sense of fear, was to him often an occasion of trembling
apprehension. And then he was so afraid of the dark! That was a special
subject of derision from the others, for even Dickie was bolder in the
matter of dark passages and bed-rooms than he was. Ambrose was
ashamed, bitterly ashamed of this failing, and he made up his mind a
hundred times that he would get over it, but that was in the broad
daylight when the sun was shining. As surely as night came, and he
was asked perhaps to fetch something from the schoolroom, those

wretched feelings of fear came back, for the schoolroom was at the end
of a long dark passage.
Nancy, who was always good-natured, though she laughed at him,
would give him a nudge on such occasions if she were near him, and
say:
"Never mind, I'll go;" but Ambrose never accepted the offer. He went
with a shiver down his back, and a sort of distended feeling in his ears,
which seemed to be unnaturally on the alert for mysterious noises.
He always made up his mind before he got to the passage to check a
wild desire to run at full speed, and walk through it slowly, but this
resolve was never carried out.
Before he had gone two steps in the darkness there would be a sense of
something following close behind, and then all was over, and nothing
to be seen but a panic-stricken little boy rushing along with his hands
held over his ears. How foolish! you will say. Very foolish, indeed, and
so said all the other children, adding many a taunt and jeer.
But that did not do poor Ambrose any good, and he remained just as
timid as ever. Nevertheless there were moments of real danger when
Ambrose had been known to come gallantly to the front, and when he
seemed to change suddenly from a fearful, shrinking boy into a hero.
Such was the occasion when, alone of all the children, who stood
shrieking on the other side of the hedge, he had ventured back into the
field to rescue Dickie, who by some accident had been left behind
among a herd of cows. There she stood bewildered, holding up her little
pinafore full of daisies, helpless among those large horned monsters.
"Run, Dickie," shouted the children; but Dickie was rooted to the
ground with terror, and did not move.
Then Ambrose took his courage in both hands, and leaving the safe
shelter of the hedge, ran back to his little sister's side. As he reached her
a large black cow with crooked horns detached herself from the herd,
and walked quickly up to the children lashing her tail. Ambrose did not

stir. He stood in front of Dickie, took off his straw hat and waved it in
the cow's face. She stood still.
"Run back to the others, Dickie," said Ambrose quietly, and, Dickie's
chubby legs recovering power of movement, she toddled quickly off,
strewing the ground with daisies as she went. Covering her retreat,
Ambrose remained facing the cow, and walked slowly backwards still
brandishing his hat; then, one quick glance over his shoulder assuring
him of Dickie's safety, he too took to his heels, and scrambled through
the gap.
That was certainly brave of Ambrose; for though Farmer Snow told
them afterwards, "Thuccy black coo never would a touched 'ee," still
she might have, and for the moment Ambrose was a hero.
The children carried home an excited account of the affair to their
father, penetrating into his very study, which was generally forbidden
ground.
"And so it was Ambrose who went back, eh?" he said, stroking Dickie's
round head as she sat on his knee.
"Yes, father," said Pennie, very much out of breath with running and
talking, "we were all frightened except Ambrose."
"And why weren't you frightened, Ambrose?"
"I was," murmured Ambrose.
"And yet you went?"
"Yes. Because of Dickie."
"Then you were a brave boy."
"A brave boy, a brave boy," repeated Dickie in a sort of sing-song,
pulling her father's whiskers.
"Now I want you children to tell me," pursued the vicar, looking round

at the hot little eager faces, "which would have been braver--not to be
frightened at all, or to go in spite of being frightened?"
"Not to be frightened at all," answered Nancy promptly.
"Do you all think that?"
"Yes," said Pennie doubtfully, "I suppose so."
"Well," continued the vicar, "I don't think so, and I will tell you why. I
believe the brave man is not he who is insensible to fear, but he who is
able to rise above it in doing his duty. People are sometimes called
courageous who are