Tom had flung himself upon the grass, and was in an agony of crying, even before he had finished the words.
"Tom, Tom! what is the matter?
Have they been bullying you again?
Look up, and tell me--what is it?
You know I can stand by you still, if you'll only let me;" and Norman sat by him on the grass, and raised his face by a sort of force, but the kind words only brought more piteous sobs.

It was a long time before they diminished enough to let him utter a word, but Norman went on patiently consoling and inquiring, sure, at least, that here had broken down the sullenness that had always repelled him.
At last came the words, "Oh! I cannot bear it.

It is all my doing!" "What--how--you don't mean this happening to me?
It is not your doing, August--what fancy is this ?" "Oh, yes, it is," said Tom, his voice cut short by gasps, the remains of the sobs.

"They would not hear me! I tried to tell them how you told them not, and sent them home.

I tried to tell about Ballhatchet--but--but they wouldn't--they said if it had been Harry, they would have attended--but they would not believe me.