one of the ushers. They were both in love with Julia Rippenger. It was
my fortune to outrun them in her favour for a considerable period, during
which time, though I had ceased to live in state, and was wearing out my
suits of velvet, and had neither visit nor letter from my father, I was
in tolerable bliss. Julia's kisses were showered on me for almost
anything I said or did, but her admiration of heroism and daring was so
fervent that I was in no greater danger of becoming effeminate than
Achilles when he wore girl's clothes. She was seventeen, an age
bewitching for boys to look up to and men to look down on. The puzzle of
the school was how to account for her close relationship to old
Rippenger. Such an apple on such a crab-tree seemed monstrous. Heriot
said that he hoped Boddy would marry old Rippenger's real daughter, and,
said he, that's birch-twigs. I related his sparkling speech to Julia,
who laughed, accusing him, however, of impudence. She let me see a
portrait of her dead mother, an Irish lady raising dark eyelashes, whom
she resembled. I talked of the portrait to Heriot, and as I had
privileges accorded to none of the other boys and could go to her at any
hour of the day after lessons, he made me beg for him to have a sight of
it. She considered awhile, but refused. On hearing of the unkind
refusal, Heriot stuck his hands into his pockets and gave up cricketing.
We saw him leaning against a wall in full view of her window, while the
boys crowded round him trying to get him to practise, a school-match of
an important character coming off with a rival academy; and it was only
through fear of our school being beaten if she did not relent that Julia
handed me the portrait, charging me solemnly to bring it back. I
promised, of course. Heriot went into his favourite corner of the
playground, and there looked at it and kissed it, and then buttoned his
jacket over it tight, growling when I asked him to return it. Julia grew
frightened. She sent me with numbers of petitions to him.