Squeers was jealous of the influence which his man had so soon acquired, and his family hated him, and Smike paid for both.

Nicholas saw it, and ground his teeth at every repetition of the savage and cowardly attack.
He had arranged a few regular lessons for the boys; and one night, as he paced up and down the dismal schoolroom, his swollen heart almost bursting to think that his protection and countenance should have increased the misery of the wretched being whose peculiar destitution had awakened his pity, he paused mechanically in a dark corner where sat the object of his thoughts.
The poor soul was poring hard over a tattered book, with the traces of recent tears still upon his face; vainly endeavouring to master some task which a child of nine years old, possessed of ordinary powers, could have conquered with ease, but which, to the addled brain of the crushed boy of nineteen, was a sealed and hopeless mystery.

Yet there he sat, patiently conning the page again and again, stimulated by no boyish ambition, for he was the common jest and scoff even of the uncouth objects that congregated about him, but inspired by the one eager desire to please his solitary friend.
Nicholas laid his hand upon his shoulder.
'I can't do it,' said the dejected creature, looking up with bitter disappointment in every feature.

'No, no.' 'Do not try,' replied Nicholas.
The boy shook his head, and closing the book with a sigh, looked vacantly round, and laid his head upon his arm.

He was weeping.
'Do not for God's sake,' said Nicholas, in an agitated voice; 'I cannot bear to see you.' 'They are more hard with me than ever,' sobbed the boy.
'I know it,' rejoined Nicholas.