'Be a man; you
are nearly one by years, God help you.'
'By years!' cried Smike. 'Oh dear, dear, how many of them! How many of
them since I was a little child, younger than any that are here now!
Where are they all!'
'Whom do you speak of?' inquired Nicholas, wishing to rouse the poor
half-witted creature to reason. 'Tell me.'
'My friends,' he replied, 'myself--my--oh! what sufferings mine have
been!'
'There is always hope,' said Nicholas; he knew not what to say.
'No,' rejoined the other, 'no; none for me. Do you remember the boy that
died here?'
'I was not here, you know,' said Nicholas gently; 'but what of him?'
'Why,' replied the youth, drawing closer to his questioner's side, 'I
was with him at night, and when it was all silent he cried no more for
friends he wished to come and sit with him, but began to see faces round
his bed that came from home; he said they smiled, and talked to him; and
he died at last lifting his head to kiss them. Do you hear?'
'Yes, yes,' rejoined Nicholas.
'What faces will smile on me when I die!' cried his companion,
shivering. 'Who will talk to me in those long nights! They cannot come
from home; they would frighten me, if they did, for I don't know what it
is, and shouldn't know them.
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