ROGER MANSFIELD, by virtue of his being a member of Phillips Academy (for the Board of Trustees being the same, theologues in the technical sense are only Academy boys in a later and therefore more highly developed state), and also by reason of his ability to catch "flies," was a member of the nine, and played center field.

As he took his position in the field well back of second base, he was not far from the fence that bounded that side of the old campus. John Calvin was no uninterested spectator and barked approbation with unwavering and undiminishing enthusiasm, whenever his master's side made a fine play.

When this contest began, Calvin was ordered on top of the fence, not far behind Roger, where he could inspect the game, squatting on his haunches with rapt intelligence.

At the moment when the umpire shouted his decisive "Play!" an instantaneous photograph might have been taken of the nine as they concentrated their energy in a strained and motionless rigidity. Thirty feet behind the bat was Lambkin, standing stiffly bent at the knees ready for the ball. Every muscle was in excited repose. John Strong faced him, the blood now surging back to his ears and temples. He was bent forward and both hands held the impatient ball at his right hip. Sunshine, the captain, guarded first base and intently eyed the batsman. Behind him Exeter yells endeavored to disconcert his play, but he did not hear them. He watched his men and the ball. Dalstan, the base runner, played short stop, and with legs astride and hands at his mouth he waited for his chance. Far behind was Mansfield, whose height and tremendous reach seemed to the boys sufficient to wrench a meteorite from the heavens.

"Strike- one!" The sound of the umpire's decision smote Exeter ominously.

"Don't yell, boys, yet," cried the Andover marshal. "Don't break him up!"

"Ball, one!"

Neither side uttered a sound. Each fixed his eyes on its representative and hardly breathed.

"Strike, two!" The umpire marked the ground with his cane.

"Now, boys, all together. Rata ---to--- thrat!" shrieked the Andover marshal. And the enthusiasm that had been pent up for fully five minutes thundered in the air.

"Rata --- to thrat --- to thrat --- to thrat!

Tara---to lix--- to lix---to lix!

Kick-a bah --- bah! Kick-a --- bah --- bah!

Andover, Andover, Rah-rah-rah! Stro-ong!"

"Exeter --- Exeter --- Ra-ra-ra!" repeated the opposing faction in antiphony.

"Ball, two !"

"Striker out!"

Who can describe how many times the "long Phillips" was given? The Exeter batsman threw his stick away in disgust and strode with a black face to his bench. One out. The next player at the bat; and the umpire called "high ball."

The sphere left Strong's hands like a musket shot. It sped straight for the plate. There was no curve in it. Exeter struck. He hit. See the ball rise! How he runs for his base in the first mad applause from Exeter! The ball flew a hundred feet in the air, over second. Every one watched it breathlessly in its flight. Roger turned about and ran back with all his might. Which would get there first, the ball or the theologue? Like an arrow it hissed through the air straight for the fence.

John Calvin eyed the approaching missile. He had been taught to play ball, too, and was accustomed to catch in his large jaws. The dog measured the distance like a general with his eye and rose to his fore legs.

"Out of the way, you brute!" shrieked Roger.

The theologue jumped. So did the dog. One stretched out a hand; the other opened his mouth agape. The disputed ball descended, and all three fell to the ground.

Out from the mêlée a hand appeared---"mystic, wonderful," holding the ball; but this was hidden from the spectators by the jaws of John Calvin which had closed about the fist instead of the ball itself.

"The dog's got it!" shrieked Exeter's coach. "Run her down to third."

"Hoo-ray, hoo-ray!" roared the Exeter crowd.

"I caught it --- he's out!" thundered Roger from his uncomfortable position. He did not move a muscle.

The umpire hurried to the scene. It was almost an impossibility for Roger to hold the ball; but there it was. John Calvin had in the meanwhile relaxed his grip of his master's fist and now licked it tenderly, and wagged his tail pleasantly as the umpire approached.

"I got the ball first. The dog closed on the hand by mistake. See his teeth along the knuckles. The ball never touched his mouth or the ground."

Roger showed the marks of teeth. His hand bled freely. The evidence was complete.

"Striker out," cried the umpire with decision.

Then Roger arose, tossed the ball to second, and resumed his position amid all the whoopings, bawlings and bellowings which were left on the Andover side, in recognition of his wonderful catch.

"I protest," the captain of the Exeter nine faced the umpire with quivering lip, "unless the dog is a member of the nine in good and regular standing."

"Play ball," said the umpire, motioning to the next batter to take his position.

"But I protest!" said the Exeter captain in white heat. "He took the ball from the dog's mouth."

The umpire, the Harvard junior, the captain of the Harvard Varsity, who with difficulty had left his own nine to umpire this game, turned sharply to the threatening lad.

"Look here, you go to your place and order your players up and don't waste time. I decide as well as I know how. He caught the ball and the player was out. The dog didn't get there quite soon enough. He meant to, but didn't have the practice. Now play ball."

"Two men out. None on bases; watch sharp!" said the Andover captain cheerily. Then John recovered himself for the final throws. These were wonderful exhibitions of trained accuracy and skill.

"Strike, one."

Lambkin smiled knowingly and rubbed his hands together in a peculiar way.

"S ---s --s---" hissed Exeter in vain attempts to break John up.

"Strike, two !"

Not a sound came from Andover. One more pitch might decide the game. Hats were slowly taken off to hurl in the air. The boys crowded closer together. The electric excitement thrilled them. Many shivered; some cried; but none spoke a word.

John Strong was deliberate. He stooped and rolled the ball in the dirt and patted it. His lips moved and his eyes were cast down. His emotion was great. Uncle Jim regarded him from a distance, vainly trying to hide his interest. Another pair of eyes followed the pitcher's motions. These peered out from under a blue sunshade tied with blue ribbons.

"O, Elva! Will he do it?"

"Hush! of course he will."

"Strike, three, and OUT!"

The umpire's work was done. The pent-up roar broke forth, and like a torrent hundreds hurled themselves- across the line and rushed to the victorious players.

"Andover, Andover, Rah-rah-rah!

"Three times three for Exeter!" cried Sunshine to his nine.

It is useless to say that the school joined in the courteous 'rahs with a proud vim.

"Up with them!" shouted all the boys. "Take the horses out and we'll pull them through the town!" Excited groups each grabbed a player.

"Easy with Strong there!" yelled Lambkin. "Remember he's lame."

So Andover won the great game, and Strong won the day.

"Give you ten dollars for your band," shouted a half-dozen exultant students to the Exeter delegates, whose drums and trumpets were sullenly silent. These defeated boys had huddled together and seemed disposed for a rush. Full fifty Andover fellows grasped the rope and pulled the old barge from the campus, and John Strong, who on his first appearance in Andover had been denied entrance to this time-honored vehicle, now sat on the top seat, the most popular, the most honored boy in the Academy.

After all this, the supper, and then the bonfire and the procession, the speeches from the delighted Faculty.

"Gentlemen," said Uncle Jim when his turn had come, "I am proud of your bones and your muscles. You've trained these well; but it is only a half of life; now give your brains a chance." And John Strong thought that the disciplinarian looked at him, and he was sad.

"Now, boys, one for Uncle Jim!" shouted a voice from the center of the crowd, and then started the familiar strain which was caught up by the mass and repeated in stentorious unison:

The great Principal bowed his acknowledgment to the obvious compliment, and the boys, delighted at the urbanity of their dreaded master, broke into another anthem, that referred to a famous and unpunished escapade some years old:

Again Uncle Jim bowed, and the young men, having paid their proper respects, with their torches, horns and drums, passed on to the next house to call out a congratulatory Professor and another speech.

That evening late, when John sat in his bare room, now so dear to him because he was to leave it soon, he heard people speaking outside, asking for him. Raising the front windows he looked out.

"Ah, Mr. Strong, I was looking for you," said a voice which he easily recognized as belonging to the umpire of the day. The Harvard athlete refused to come in, and lighting a cigarette leaned thoughtfully on the window-sill.

"Are you going to college, Mr. Strong?"

"I don't know; I hope so," replied John sadly.

"Harvard is a good place for you," suggested the Cambridge man lightly.

"I should like to go to Harvard above all places."

"If you are poor I know how you can support yourself easily at Harvard," continued the junior.

"How ?"

"The fellows never let a man starve who can pitch like you. Come and try for the nine. You're safe for it. There are very few who can pitch as cleverly as you do, and it is a great thing for a Freshman to get on the 'Varsity. You'd better come. I'm captain and will see you through. You'll be able to get support; never fear. Will you promise?"

"No!" answered John, after a moment's bitter thought. "I want to go to Harvard; but I go there to study, not to play ball. It takes too much time; I can't afford it. I didn't train to pitch to-day. It's my only exercise. I didn't mean to. They made me. I thank you, sir; you are kind. But I can't support myself by ball!"

The good-natured junior strolled away and told several fellows laughingly what a jack that phenomenal pitcher of theirs was to refuse such a chance at Harvard. But the idea haunted John Strong during those last few and precious days of school life.

At last the coveted honors had been distributed, and John Strong, who had taken no exercise of any sort since the momentous game, looked haggard enough to excite pity after the announcement. His share had only been a tenth oration, "a very respectable position indeed for one who went into athletics and that sort of thing," said the under-classmen looking admiringly at him. The unusual combination of scholar and ball-player in one seemed to them heroic, one might say Homeric; but his classmates and especially Lambkin began to suspect that their new Senior deserved a much higher position.

No one was now prompter and more accurate in the exhausting and final reviews than Strong. The confinement due to this last vindicating spurt told upon the boy and the sympathies of the class. The teachers of Latin and Greek, and even Unde Jim himself had been seen to look upon John compassionately; at least, so the more observant students thought. But John was unconscious of all this and worked with a heavy heart, struggling bravely to hide the bitterest disappointment he had ever had. John suffered during these days. The poor fellow forgot that the moral grandeur of self-sacrifice and the salvation of health were compensation enough for nominal rank. He felt sore, and hurt, and misunderstood.

"Come in!" The big voice echoed throughout the brick building known as the Principal's house.

John Strong walked slowly in and stood before the desk. Uncle Jim had merely glanced up and now bent to his work for a moment. John waited. At last the leonine head shook itself and turned upward toward the Senior's face.

"I have finished raking the garden, sir, and the bulbs are all planted out. What shall I go at now?" John still did promiscuous work for Uncle Jim at three dollars per week and had amply earned the sum that paid his board.

"Your health is better than when you came," said the Principal, taking him in critically from top to toe.

"Yes, sir."

"Base-ball did you good, sir!"

"Yes, sir," firmly.

"Your rank in school is creditable. Your work this term has been satisfactory."

"I hope so, sir." John wondered what was coming.

"You have done well, but you might have stood better in the class. I have nothing to say. My work has been conscientiously attended to."

"I am glad, sir."

"You will need all your time from now on, and you are excused from work with me from to-day."

"I am willing ---I want to go on," gasped John.

"Certainly, sir, I understand, but your pay will continue just the same. I employ you to work for yourself."

"Thank you-you are too kind, but I'd rather" ---

"Tut, tut, tut! is there anything more?"

John plucked up courage.

"I wanted to ask you about the scholarship at Harvard you promised to look up for me. I must have something to depend on. I haven't a cent."

The boy bit his lips to control his emotion. His whole future seemed to hang upon the Principal's help. John knew little about "pulling wires" to help himself. He had no influential friends. He didn't know how to get the college assistance which he must have to start him along. If Uncle Jim failed him, hope was gone. The beads of perspiration stood out upon his broad forehead. The Principal eyed him keenly, but his heart hardened within him. He still distrusted a boy who pitched like the wind. The lad before him should have given up ball and stood at least second in his class. He had the ability, and therefore ought to have done it.

"I am sorry, Mr. Strong, that I am not able at present to help you in this. There are so many applications for the limited number of scholarships that"---

The great doctor blinked and started from his chair. Without a word, the boy before him, tortured almost beyond the power of concealment, turned, leaving the Principal in the midst of his explanations, and rushed out of the house.

CONACOOT, N. H., June --- , 18--

MY DEAR SON:

How can I write it?. Do you think it is wise to make preparations to be away from me next year? I cannot tell you now all of the pain it gives me to say that your mother needs you. Her strength is almost exhausted with the lonely struggle. You know I would bear all I could to help you through, but I do not, I cannot earn enough to buy my food and I am becoming feebler every day. A loving welcome awaits my brave boy when he comes.

MOTHER.

John Strong read this letter as he walked from the post-office through Main Street, up the hill, past the huge brick Academy building to his room. Never before had Andover Hill seemed so steep or so long. He panted past the big, white boarding-house on the corner of Main and Phillips Streets, kept at that time by the most kind-hearted landlady Andover ever knew. None mothered the homeless Commons boys as she did. Now that hospitable building is gone to make room for the house of the genial Professor of elocution. John stopped at the pump beyond, for a drink to moisten his feverish lips. He hurried to his house, scuttled into his room, locked the door, and pulled down the cambric curtains.

John mechanically put his elbows on his knees and the palms of his hands on his forehead and bent to the blow. He could not believe it. It was too much. It was too cruel. He had thoughts of managing and hopes of getting to college somehow. But his mother! "Poor, poor mother!" he said this to himself over and over again. He had never dreamed but that she would go on just the same as ever. What a thoughtless boy he had been ! Poor, poor mother! Her poverty, her loneliness, her suffering pricked him to the heart. And this was the end of the whole story.

However deeply a disappointment cuts, a live boy rarely needs hospital treatment and ligatures to heal the wound. John turned immediately to his oration which was to be delivered in a very few days. He was comforted that his theme happened to be "The dynamic force of duty." Here was a chance for him to become a working example of his fine theories and to resolve himself into a silent power. John accepted this opportunity with more than usual self-control. Most people love to talk about their misfortunes. John craved sympathy with his whole nature, but he shrank from, burdening others with a story that, as he thought, would prove uninteresting and even tedious.

So when, during the last days of school, he was asked what college he intended to elect, he invariably answered that he had made up his mind to spend the next year at home. He added no reasons. Lambkin alone understood the situation and guarded his friend's confidence, feeling as he did so, savagely impotent before a desperately hard and insoluble problem.

It was under that superb Gothic arch of overhanging elms that John Strong for the last time in his Senior career met Elva Selfrich; this was a day or two after he had received his mother's letter. The two had not seen each other since the ball game. Involuntarily both stopped and shook hands. John felt almost as if she were an old friend. They walked for a few yards under the whispering aisle looking down toward the white spires of Lawrence that formed the vista between the pillared elms far beyond.

"And what college will you go to this fall ?" asked his companion with a grave smile.

"None," answered John simply.

"Why not? You ought to go," said the girl impulsively.

"Yes," the boy spoke slowly, "I am sorry, but it can't be helped. My mother needs me. I am afraid she has suffered this year. We are too poor for college. I must take care of her first."

John looked tenderly up at those magnificent boughs as if to impress their beauty upon his memory for the last time. The two stopped at the cross path that leads one way to the Seminary buildings, the other towards Latin Commons. But the girl was breaking rules. She must not walk with an Academy boy in the street, and he lingered at the turn of the path, prettily intimating that they must part.

"Have you told Mr. Mansfield about it?" inquired Miss Elva anxiously.

"O no! he can't help. He mustn't be bothered with my affairs; he's done enough already."

John reluctantly turned to go.

"Mr. Strong, I don't know when I may see you again," said Elva Selfrich a little sadly. "I can't stay till the end of the term, but I am coming back to finish next year. My father has had me excused to go home. We are going to take a little trip out West with my, brother, father and I, and leave him there, if father can find a good business. Dick is trying to do well, and father says we must encourage him all we can. He says his whole life may depend on it. I think," added Elva hesitatingly, "Dick is sorry for what he did to you." The girl started to go, and turned impetuously. "You are a noble fellow and I know you will succeed splendidly somehow."

Elva Selfrich without another look turned ---and walked hurriedly away, seeming half-' ashamed of herself as if she had said a forward, unmaidenly thing. But John's heart took great courage because this beautiful and modest girl believed so thoroughly in him.

To a Phillips Senior the last days of the last term trip like a bustling dream. The excitement spreads beyond the Academy walls into the sleepy old town and wakes it with an acceptable vengeance. The Principal, with his. corps of teachers and tutors, rush the final examinations, to the terror of the whole school, and engineer the commencement ceremonies, both indispensable adjuncts to the close of a dignified and renowned fitting Academy. At this time Preps. aspire to the responsibility of the Junior Middle year; Junior Middlers begin to acquire the dignity of upper class men; Middlers strut with all the airs that the privileges of approaching seniority cast upon them; while the Seniors, with the exception of the inevitable unlucky shirk or dunce who is dropped at the eleventh hour, consider themselves as actual rather than potential P. A. Alumni, and already behave like college Freshmen. Only to John Strong, the broader life seemed unwilling to open. He felt like a marionette that had been taken from its box and allowed one brief action upon the eager stage, and then shut up again and the lid fastened down, who knows for how long a season?

John passed these last days as a conscious somnambulist might have done. He had little feeling, but much automatic motion. His abstraction was remarked upon by his classmates who also noticed that his lameness increased; they attributed it to the heavy strain of the great Exeter game. Lambkin looked at him and wondered whether this last blow would put him out at the home plate or not. This devoted friend never left John except when he had to. They walked arm in arm to the Milktoast Club, where the food began to "brace up" in proportion as the days of the term grew few; they sauntered to recitation together and sat in each other's rooms, and the elder boy heard the other's oration and gave his few valuable criticisms as a last friendly office. John Strong was grateful for these attentions, but puzzled old Lambkin considerably by maintaining a cheerful, uncommunicative silence about his future affairs.

The fact is, John was at his wit's ends. He was terribly short of money. There were a few term debts, such as laundry, clothing and books, that must be paid, and after he had given his weekly earnings for his board he was literally bankrupt. He hadn't even a new coat to speak in on the commencement stage; of course not. How could he afford it? So he mended and inked his old black one up and laid it away carefully for the final exhibition. He had but two coats, two vests and one pair of trousers.

"Mr. Locks," he said the day before the exhibition, "I want you to buy back everything I got of you last year. What will you give me for the lot?"

Mr. Locks knew everything about the Commons boys and all the school gossip. Every well-regulated janitor has at least those accomplishments due to almost miraculous ubiquity. He was really troubled about John's poverty and his pathetic struggle. The keeper of Commons laughed in an off-hand way, swinging his bunch of keys with a pleasant jingle.

"I'll tell you what, Mr. Strong, I'll give you ten dollars for the lot and you hand me the keys to your room when you go. We'll be sorry to lose you; I'll miss you, Mr. Strong."

"But I didn't pay much more than that," insisted John, thinking the astute dealer had made a mistake.

Mr. Locks, who was likely to make all that was good for him out of the graduating class, replied:

"I guess you hadn't better say anything more; a bargain's a bargain. You take this ten dollar bill --- there! You ain't hurt these things a mite. You sing out when you go an' I'll help you if I have the time."

The janitor, who in his own way was fond of John and hated to see him leave, swung his portly form out of the door and hurried to the next house.

John now hastened to pay what to many boys whose fathers back them up would seem a ridiculously, small number of bills; but these few took within a half-dollar of all of his money. At any rate, his debts were paid, and many an Andover tradesman would bless the day when every graduate should have as fine a sense of honor. Duns could not flaunt themselves in his face; and the lad whose poverty and pride were intimate friends was comparatively happy.

Now the last events chase each other with the rapidity of a hundred yard dash.

"Philo," that time-honored debating society, closed its season after a heated and enthusiastic discussion as to "whether the Faculty has any moral right to compel students to attend an afternoon Sunday service." This was gravely decided by the honored President in the negative on the "merits of the question," rather than of the debate.

Who can forget the Senior party, where "untheologued" and unrestrained Seniors of the Academy and the Fem. Sem. met with strict rules cast to the willing winds? If the calendar and the hostess agreed, this festivity was held at the full of the moon. With what delight the emancipated Seniors promenaded the moonlit paths! Some few couples have been known to lose themselves for as much as an hour between the library and the mansion of their indulgent hostess. They tripped good-naturedly over many a snare laid by envious Middlers. Life was supremely blest at those moments, we old boys think. But John did not go to the Senior party. He felt too shabby and too sad.

With what airs the boys escorted their partners to old Abbott Academy, the longest way round! How they lingered to say good-night, and how at last, perforce, the sweet Fem. Sems. hurried from the glamour of this first liberty to their rooms, not to sleep quite yet --- O no!---but to wait.

"Toot-toot-toot!" just as some tired head which had been dressed for its last Senior party many years ago thanks her stars that those wild *.boys have done at last, the welkin rings with horrid clang. Tin-horning has begun. The sound re-echoes from venerable brick piles to modest wooden houses (for instance, the eleven Commons buildings; they are modest enough. Could any one accuse them of being otherwise?), and fresh visitors at the Mansion House arouse with thoughts of wide-spread conflagration. Fine clothes have been hastily exchanged for Gym, shirts, and the fun begins. The motto of the departing class is virtuously stenciled on pavement, fence and building. The last two numerals of the graduating year are burnt upon grass, painted upon boards, and pressed with pebbles into asphalt walks. Here and there Seniors and Middlers get up a final friendly scrimmage, and many an unsuspecting Senior discovers that his room is "stacked" in the most unaccountable manner.

And now flare the torches that were used at the last presidential campaign; the Middlers' bonfire flashes on the campus ; now spout the last speeches over the barrel of cider, unsampled even by a "tootor." Strong took his part in all these ceremonies so necessary to a Phillips diploma.

"I think that you boys had better go home now; you've had it out."

Uncle Jim's parental voice broke in amid a lull in the frolic. The tar barrels have burned low, and the cider has been dispatched to where good cider must fain make its pilgrimage.

"One more long Phillips, boys!" cried the class president. The Ra! Ra! Ra's! died away, and twinkling lights from staring windows told that the Seniors had turned in from their last midnight jollification.

No, not all. A dark band of ten or more steal towards the Fem. Sem. The cuckoos and the nightingales of the Academy are the last to seek their boarding-houses. John Strong had followed them mechanically, and for the sake of his heavy bass was gladly included among the warblers.

And now the soft serenade bursts forth, and electrifies every girl in Abbott Academy who boasts an acquaintance on the grass below.

"There! there! there!" It was the flickering glow of a match shining unsteadily at a dark window that caused this rapture.

The dainty white outline of an arm cast a blue-ribboned bouquet of violets amid a violent scramble for this delicate recognition. Others followed rapidly, until each Orpheus has snatched a favor from his Eurydice.

The plaintive air died away with the elated tramp of a dozen pair of heels, and Abbott Academy sighed like a bird, and turned to sleep amid a confusion of fluttering recollections. Such delicate gallantries go to make the relation between young people a beautiful fact and a beautiful memory.

This year, and on the following Sunday, the Baccalaureate sermon was delivered by President Strong of Buncome College, and John was fain to deny a dozen times at least, any possible relationship to this eminent man.

The Seniors marched to the Chapel with preternatural sobriety and erectness, each with a cane in his hand, and all marshaled by Sunshine. For once, these boys were allowed to come in late without a mark, and the crowded Chapel turned as if to see them walk to their doom.

But this proved Dr. Strong's Waterloo; for the boys, in the face of friend and foe and future liberty, clicked their watches with a vim, to the astonishment of the orator, who had reached the thirty-minute limit without halting for nepenthe or for breath.

If any divine cares to make a lasting impression on the Phillips boys, let him cease, though it be a violent wrench of self-renunciation, when he has talked half an hour; after that, watch out! It is the boys' well-forfeited turn, and they take it.

There is an unwritten tradition that a missionary gave his geographical experiences for more than ninety minutes, despite the warning of a hundred watch lids as they clicked accompaniment to the monotonous drone. Since that time foreign missionary stock among those youthful bears has had a tumble.

"Heigh-ho!" yawned the Senior class that bright June morning. Hurry up to breakfast, my boy, the last day of school! But to John the light brought a sense of suffocation. He was as cheerful as a Roman in the last hours of Pompeii.

At last the great hall in the Academy building was crammed to suffocation. The Salem Cadet band held a position of prominence, and their music mingled with the flutter in a minor key. Uncle Jim and a dignified corps of blackstóled teachers and trustees filled the platform. The Senior English and Senior Latin mottoes hung on banners decorating the rear of the stage and superciliously criticised each other.

The Senior speakers sat in the ante-room in uncomfortable chairs, in more uncomfortable clothes, in most uncomfortable attitudes. The rustle of the dresses, the odor of the flowers, and the solemnity of those old portraits of the pious founders, as they blinked down upon the same familiar performance that they had witnessed year after year, would have disconcerted Cicero himself.

John Strong spoke in his turn eloquently and with force; and by virtue of his modest manner, his earnest thought, and the little reputation he had acquired, created perhaps as favorable an impression as any. It is doubtful whether any one noticed the quality of his clothes; certainly his matter was not loose and patched. He received one handsome bouquet with no card attached. The writer is the first to let him know that Lambkin sent it in order that his friend might not be the only unflowered orator. For Strong was the one graduate who was not blessed with a mother or a cousin or even a friend who had come to town to, see him perform. Boys who have felt this kind of loneliness on Exhibition day do not need to be told how this unnamed bouquet comforted the lad. When his name was called, John walked up amid the generous applause; so warmly given to each graduate in that crowning moment, and received his sheepskin, tied with broad, baby-blue ribbon; bowed and retired. He did not look at Uncle Jim.

"An alumnus of Phillips Academy! Dear old Phillips !" he said, looking over his diploma as soon as he had returned to his room and was alone. "It's about as much honor as I'll ever get, I'm afraid. Who knows but that I'll have to cobble shoes or teach a district school the rest of my life ? "

Then that prosaic lad who had stood disappointment so bravely, broke down and actually kissed the girlish-looking roll, and then tucked it carefully in his old bag.

While his classmates joyously showed their lady friends the sights and lions of the town, John picked his room up preparatory to an early start the following morning. He burnt, the ragged things that he couldn't wear. He made his books in an express parcel to be left with Mr. Locks, addressed, and ready to be sent on demand. He packed in his old bag the few things he owned and needed to take. The trunk was useless, as there was not enough to fill it. He made up his mind to donate it to the institution. It was his father's, but he was too poor to carry it. Finally he swept his room clean and then escaped to Pomp's pond in order to be alone.

"If I only could see Calvin!" he thought; but the Seminary had closed a week ago and Mansfield had somehow with natural carelessness slipped away, sending his only good-bys to his cousin by postal card written at the rate of fifty miles an hour.

"You're early this morning, Mr. Strong. Here, you, Kitty, set the milk down there next to his plate."

It was John's last breakfast at the Milktoast Club and he was the first one at the table. The tall landlady peered at him as he sat alone. She looked as if she wanted to say some kindly thing and didn't know how.

There was less white, nicked crockery on the tables. Dishes always are short at the end of the year. The barrel of unreplaced broken wares was ready to be rolled to the back of the garden for future use as an economical fertilizer.

"You're going away to-day?"

Mrs. Grooge knew it as well as he, but it was a part of her politeness to speak as if he were a guest, not a boarder.

"Yes, ma'am," said John slowly as he crumbled bread into his bowl of milk.

"Well, I'm sorry, I am. You've been prompt to pay and you ain't got none too much, I know. There ain't every one does that. Now there's Landor. He's as promising as some of those cabbage heads out there, that don't top out," indicating with a jerk of her thumb over her shoulder, the Milktoast garden. "And Dalstan ---but I won't tell you no tales."

The hard and deeply wrinkled face looked at John tenderly and Kitty glanced shyly that way too. When John had found a hair-pin in his apple pie one day, he didn't tell of it and yell like the rest of the boys. Kitty had recovered her missing property after dinner, carefully wiped and tucked under his plate, and she respected him.

"Are you going home to-day? Your mother will be glad to see you. Do you go by cars?"

Mrs. Grooge smoothed her immaculate hair across her forehead.

"The train runs to Conacoot," said John evasively, laying down his napkin and rising.

You have been very punctual, Mr Strong; Can't I help you before you go?" There was real meaning in those words. They touched the boy.

"Thank you, Mrs. Grooge. You have been very good to me. I start as soon as I get to my room. There the boys come! Good-by, Kitty; good-by."

He rung the hard, bony hand that his landlady held out; he had a "look like as if he was a-going to jump into the Shawsheen River at the next crossing," as Mrs. Grooge expressed it to Lambkin later.

John hastened to his room, abstractedly saluting the few boys he passed. With hurried desperation he resolutely grasped his bag, took his stout cane from the corner, shot one more, look into the bareness, then closed and locked the door and entrusted the key to the Prep. opposite with strict orders to give it to Mr. Locks.

Then John couldn't resist the impulse, and peered into Latin Commons 2, Room 2, through the window panes. Pictures of his year's experience flashed in that moment across his brain.

He thought of Doc. Shelby and his long illness. "I'm glad I did it, anyway," he ejaculated. The sound of his own voice awoke him from his brief reverie. He looked up and cast a long, tender glance upon the row of surly sentinel boxes, and felt that he had been on stainless duty during that bitter, successful and disappointing year. He turned, and his year's home was behind him. Somehow he couldn't say good-by to Uncle Jim, and he didn't. He passed on the other side. Then John Strong started bravely down Main Street to walk to Conacoot.

"WHOA--- Shsst -Want a ride, you?" Pete looked down upon our pedestrian from the height of his ancient coach, whose motto seemed sadly in need of repair. That old landmark has disappeared from Andover along with the Mansion House and many other undisputed historic connections of George Washington and the "Founders."

"Walking to the train? I'll take you down. Get up here, can't you?"

"I'll try."

John unconsciously made the same reply he did when he first rolled in at the station and the stage was full. Pete seemed to remember this coincidence, for he shifted his quid of tobacco and said':

"There you are! You can walk fine now. You us'n't to when you fust came, now did you?" triumphantly he added. "Andover air agrees with you. It does with 'em all. I guess you're sorry to go home. How you whollopped those Exeter fellers! This ride sha'nt cost you nothin'. I'm goin' down to the train anyhow."

"But I'm not going there," said John, as merrily as he could.

You hain't?" Pete gave an incredulous whistle that made the jaded horses start ahead with a feeble jerk. "Ain't you a-goin' home with yer verlise?"

"Yes, Pete. Let me down here, please."

The stage had just swung around the corner from the post-office.

"Whoa --- whoa there, shsst!" Pete reined the steeds up with a disappointed air.

"Thank you, Pete. I'm going to take a walk. Here are ten cents. I wish I had more to give you. Take it."

"I'll be danged if I will. Here's your verlise. Where are you a-goin' ?" Pete looked as if John had lost his wits.

"I'm going to take a walk. Good-by. Thank you."

Pete watched the boy trudge slowly down the Lawrence turnpike.

"Danged if he hain't a-goin' to foot it! I'll be gee-hawed if he hain't!"

Pete drove down his hill to the train, shaking his head and growling at his tired horses.

But John walked on steadily down around the curve towards home, and never turned to look behind.

"I suppose, my love, you will see Strong when he comes to take his leave to-day," said Uncle Jim that morning at the breakfast table.

"Oh! dear, yes," answered his wife wearily, "he's been a very good boy, one of the best we have ever had."

"Is that the one whom I have heard pitched such a famous game against Exeter?" asked a Reverend visitor with momentary interest.

"Yes, the same," replied his host curtly; and conversation passed easily on to the rumor that a new President would soon be appointed to Buncome College.

The distinguished disciplinarian and Principal sat in his study chair after that breakfast and breathed a sigh of relief. He felt the pleasing glow of a successful school year passing over him. He yielded to the agreeable sensation and recalled numerous flattering compliments. Never had the school been so prosperous. Never had his authority been more unquestioned or his system better sustained. He was not pleased to be disturbed in these congratulatory reflections by a decided knock at the door. Recollecting himself that it might be a parent or a Trustee, his decided voice rolled out a softened "Come in." Before the last inflection of his tones had died away, Lambkin walked in with a resolute stride.

"Ah, Mr. Lambkin. Take a seat, sir. Coming to say good-by? That's right. I have watched you during your four years' course. It's a long time " ---"No, sir," broke in the new alumnus intrepidly. Whether his emancipation from recent and stringent authority had turned his head, or whether he had been drinking, Uncle Jim couldn't say. He stared at the interrupter and was about to speak again when Larnbkin burst forth.

"No, sir, I didn't come to say good-by. I'm 'looking for Strong, John Strong, the best fellow in the class. His room is locked and he's gone, and he hasn't money enough in his pocket to get home. Do you know where Strong is ?"

"I, sir?" gasped the great man as if he had been struck between the ribs. "I, sir? This is very extraordinary, sir, for you to come to me in this tone. Of course I am ignorant of Strong's whereabouts."

Uncle Jim raised himself in his chair and glowered at Lambkin who stood unflinchingly before him. Lambkin was safe, and both knew it. He couldn't be expelled whatever happened, but the old instinct of obedience was upon him, and he retrieved himself. "Excuse me, sir, I'm troubled about Strong. I'm the best friend he's got, and he's given up his room and left without a word to me or to any one else. I don't know where he is. Nobody knows where he is. I thought you would. I don't believe he's got fifty cents in his pocket."

"If he had only come to me and told me his troubles I would have lent him what he needed." Uncle Jim interrupted hastily.

"He couldn't," Lambkin broke in, "he's too proud. He felt that you misunderstood him and I don't know but he's right."

"What do you mean, sir?" blazed the Principal.

"You thought he shirked his lessons. He didn't." Lambkin involuntarily clinched his fist in his coat sleeve, and if we may say so, respectfully blazed in return. "He was a trump to Doc. Shelby. Of course you knew he nursed him, but you didn't know how that sick fellow clutched him every minute, day and night --- all that night-watching --- no sleep ---wouldn't have any one else --- how could he study? He didn't have a chance. I'd---I'd--I'd -I'd stump the Trustees and the whole Andover Faculty to do any better than he did " exploded Lambkin.

This outburst of courage turned him very red in the face. Uncle Jim had begun to redden too. In his embarrassment he wiped his glasses and wished devoutly for a Trustee to come in and relieve the situation. He evidently was trying to think what he could say.

"He---Strong didn't tell me," said Dr. Tyler nervously, with a faint suspicion that "some one had blundered."

"Of course he didn't. Strong's too proud. He'd eat his heart out first," went on Lambkin, the thermometer of his pluck marking 120 degrees pressure. "You didn't like his pitching and thought he cut work to play ball. Not he. I did that. If he hadn't gone to the Gym. to practice a half an hour a day to get away from that stuffy sick room he would have gone clean under. He pitched for life, not for rep.[NOTE: P. A. abbreviation for reputation] He wanted strength, not popularity. I made him go in and win the Exeter game. He didn't even know he was a substitute. He refused to play a dozen times. He couldn't take time from study to practice. You ought to be proud that he beat Exeter with such odds against him! Excuse me, sir---I don't mean to be disrespectful, but I can't stand it. The fellow has been misunderstood too long."

"That's so! " piped a shrill voice.

It was Mrs. Grooge, the landlady of the Milktoast Club. Mrs. Grooge advanced on Uncle Jim. Her wrinkled face wore a stern expression. She looked resolved. Mrs. Grooge had come from the country, even beyond Wilmington junction. She was not a minister's widow, and she lacked the advantages of education and correct and elaborate speech that the present Andover landladies possess. Mrs. Grooge was not a member of a reading club or even of a Browning Society, and her grammar became confused in proportion as her earnestness, increased.

"I'm glad you're here, Mr. Lambkin. You kin back me up." Lambkin looked a little alarmed and involuntarily backed up to the wall.

"He's paid up, Mr. Tyler. I ain't got no complaint ag'in him. The sperrit was on me. I hed to come. That young man is clean wore out with discouragement. I hear the boys talk, He's too poor for college, and them's a-goin' who don't hold a candle to him. He never complained about his vittles, not he. He could have gone. Didn't that Harvard chap offer to pay all expenses if he'd play for 'em? I heerd it all from my boys. There ain't nothin' goin' on I don't know."

The worthy lady stopped for breath.

"Who ?"

The Principal put in this interrogation at the most favorable moment, but his heart sank within him.

"Who? Who do yer think I'm a-talkin' about? Who but Strong --- John Strong ---the lame boy--- the sick nuss-- -the boy that pays his debts and larns his lessons--- is impoged upon and never lets on---who but the Saint Ebenezer of Phillips Academy!"

At the sound of Strong's name the Principal had collapsed entirely, but recovered himself at the mention of the last candidate for canonization enough to suggest dryly:

"Perhaps, Mrs. Grooge, you intended to substitute the name of St. John!"

"It's all true," said Lambkin disconsolately.

He had a chance to play on the team at Harvard and get through college that way; but he said he meant to go to study, and he wouldn't do it. He's as poor as ---as --- He's the poorest boy in Phillips Academy."

"He's as poor as Job's Christmas turkey," said Mrs. Grooge; and to many a student who had spent that holiday at the Milktoast Club, the argument would have clinched the matter.

Dr. Tyler made no reply, but threw his head back with the grand motion that a gladiator might have made when he had received his first staggering blow in the face. The Principal who prided himself upon his accurate insight into character was humbled, but was great enough not to be ashamed to own it. The tide of his disfavor had turned, and he felt an eager overflow of sympathy toward his wronged pupil.

A rap at the door distracted his thoughts. The newcomer proved to be Pete, the coachman.

"I saw the flag out, sir. Are any one going down?"

"No, Pete," answered the Principal. "I want you to mail these letters for me, now that my boy has gone. By the way, have you seen anything of Strong this morning?"

All three looked at Pete, who stood with the red flag in his hand, rolling it up.

"Seed him?" Here Pete lifted his hat and twirled it on the flag staff. "Well, I guess I have. I took him an' his old verlise down not more than a half an hour ago. I'll be danged "---

"Pete!" said the Doctor impressively.

"Beg parding, Doctor; but it riled me to glory to see that weak critter with no legs and all arms footin' it with that bag to Frye Village. I'll be danged " ---

"Pete!!" Uncle Jim's voice expressed grief and surprise at the free use of this heretical epithet.

"'Scuse me. But I'll bet he's too poor to ride an' is a-walkin' hum."

"Oh!" groaned Lambkin.

"Lord-a-massy!" ejaculated Mrs. Grooge; while Uncle Jim turned his face as if searching for the letters, and hastily brushed a truant tear from his cheek into the waste paper basket.

Pete's hand was now on the latch and he was putting the letters into his pocket when a scratching sound startled the mourners.

The door was flung open, and in dashed John Calvin, prancing like a panther and emitting barks of joy. But when the high-spirited animal saw those four dejected countenances, his exuberance fell and he regarded the inmates critically. When his eyes at last encountered the stern gaze of the great boy-tamer, the, dog's courage oozed out of his tail like electricity out of an uninsulated wire. His caudal end dropped between his legs. With unnatural humility he backed, away until he reached the wall. He sat down upon his haunches and uttered a deep sigh. Then Calvin opened his jaws, pointed his nose at the ceiling and howled lugubriously.

"Calvin, you scamp, come out of that!"

His master's voice recalled Calvin to the proper perspective of life, and the too fashionable theologue bowed himself into this solemn atmosphere as if he had come to an evening party.

"Ah! Dr. Tyler, I am delighted to see you. I hope I don't interrupt. Down, sir --- or go right out. Do you hear? But can you tell me," he continued politely, "where I can find my cousin, John Strong ?"

There was something in this cheerful urbanity that struck the others as both ridiculous and pathetic, and the four exchanged significant glances. Roger proceeded with unusual embarrassment. "I've just run up from New York. I must find him. His room is empty. A friend of mine--- a---a young lady wrote me some facts about my cousin which I didn't know. I ought to have. I've come out to do something. Where is he?"

"Oh!" groaned Uncle Jim. "Another!"

"He's gone!" wailed Mrs. Grooge.

"Gone?" echoed Roger, turning as pale as birch bark. "When did he die?"

"He ain't dead," said Pete, waving the red flag. "It's wuss; he's gone to Lawrence."

"He's walking to Conacoot, that's all," said Lambkin laconically. "He's so poor as that."

"I had some good news for him," said Roger. "My father is going to take care of Mrs. Strong. She is his first cousin. He sent me on to say so. I've got a two-hundred dollar check in my pocket for 'em. Now the thing is to get John to college. His mother needn't keep him. He's got to go."

The theologue triumphantly raised his pocketbook, which John Calvin immediately grabbed, under the impression that a base-ball match was going on between his master and Dr. James Tyler.

"Confound my luck, I'm too late," said Mansfield.

Uncle Jim broke the perplexed silence that followed with these manly words.

"I have made a sad mistake. I misinterpreted the lad. I acknowledge it frankly. He's a noble fellow and we must get him back."

"South Lawrence ain't Mexico," interposed Pete dryly, "nor yet Pattygony. I guess my hosses could match him."

Uncle Jim sprang to the proposition.

"Mr. Peter," he said impressively, "I will charter your vehicle."

"Wall," assented Pete, patting the flag tenderly. "I guess I can skip a trip. It's vacation. There ain't many folks take the 11.09."

In no time at all, Roger Mansfield and John Calvin took the coach --- Roger on the box with Pete, and Calvin spurting ahead. Uncle Jim started for his hat to represent the passengers, but Roger respectfully suggested that he stay at home and keep cool, as it was ninety in the shade. There was an early dinner at the Milktoast Club that day, and Mrs. Grooge, having done her duty, disappeared from the scene. Lambkin wrung her hand warmly on the threshold. "Three cheers for the Milktoast Club!" he cried. "Three more for our landlady, with a kind heart ! "Besides," he muttered, "she gave as good as she was paid for."

Then Lambkin heroically staid to comfort the dejected Principal.

If any summer boarder had been stunned by the furious pace of the venerable coach as it thundered down Main Street on its mission of consolation, he would also have observed a natty young man beside the driver trying to write on a fly-leaf of his note-book in spite of bumps and jerks. The case stood as follows:

John Calvin was one of the best trained dogs in New England. The duties of an errand boy were performed by this intelligent dog with skill and alacrity. It had long been his daily task to bring the morning paper from the office a mile away to Roger Mansfield's boarding house at breakfast time. He had even been known to evade the authorities and deliver notes at the Fem. Sem. successfully. Now, as Roger Mansfield scribbled on his shaking knee, he whistled peremptorily to the dog who was bounding gaily ahead. Calvin stopped, stood to one side like a soldier ready to be reviewed, and waited for the stage.

"Fall back, sir! Behind there. I may need you any minute!" The master spoke with a gesture of authority, and the dog, wondering what rule he had now disobeyed, took up his dusty position in the wake of the creaking coach.

Pete chose the left-hand road to Lawrence, for, as Pete said, "If he's a-goin' to foot, it to Conacoot, he'll strike the North Lawrence track."

Never had this conservative coach left the village before. When had the horses been put to such a speed? Down the old turnpike, across the track, dashed the pursuing horses, coach and dog. Mill-wives stopped frying bacon, for their husbands and stared at this unheard-of sight. Frye Village, the blacksmith's shop, the old small-pox hospital, the oak woods, were soon left behind. Now the historic mills of Lawrence loom up. Another half-mile, and the eyes of the two scan the winding road, searching for the runaway lad. John Calvin is as eager in the chase as anybody, and understands it quite as well.

"There! Ain't that him?"

Pete reined up the panting horses to get a better look. A figure far ahead, carrying something on his shoulders, stood against the sky for a moment like a silhouette, and then dropped out of sight. Mansfield hastily jumped down and called his dog.

"Here, Calvin, now! Take this! So! Don't you drop it for your life. Run ahead now. Hurry up. Give it to him. Find him! Hurry up, sir!"

The dog gave one look at his master and one down the road to Lawrence.

"Yes, he's there. Hurry up and take it to him!"

Realizing then his part of the programme, Calvin darted ahead likea startled deer; and soon only the faint cloud of falling dust in the distance betrayed that the messenger had passed.

Patter, patter, patter ! - pant, pant, pant! -what was the noise behind? Poor John Strong did not look around. He did not care. Body and soul, he was tired out. His back ached. His leg ached. His hands and shoulders ached under the leathern bag,. and his heart ached. Was it his fate to toil through life, a dusty tramp like this? His eyes filled. Trees and road were blurred before him as he thought of the congenial and intellectual world which he had left behind forever.

To the reader who is choked with highly spiced plots palpitating with danger and hairbreadth escapes, this story of John's struggle may seem singularly simple. But to John Strong these events were of terrific moment. Boys and girls are not apt to cast a calm look beyond, and the failure of an immediate hope seems to their young vision the failure of a life. Disappointment always brings its corresponding misery. The ratio is the same whether it overtakes one in youth or in maturity.

Patter, patter, patter! - pant, pant ! - yap! yap! yap!

"It sounds like John Calvin," said John Strong drearily; but of course that could not be. Calvin was in New York. John set his eyes on the Pacific Mills and pushed ahead. Still he did not look behind him.

"Ow! What's that?"

It was a pair of dusty paws. It was a cold, damp nose. It was John Calvin who had taken the boy in his arms like a grizzly bear. John Strong dropped his bag and hugged the dog with all his might in return. To tell the whole truth, he put his head on John Calvin's shoulder and cried. This was too much for Calvin. He couldn't stand it. He bent his great head and kissed those rare tears away. This he did, and dropped the note. Now the miserable lad could not help seeing the piece of paper, which he snatched and read.

They bundled him in indeed, and took him back. It was a glorious rescue, and John Calvin, in honor of his prominent part in the exploit, rode inside the coach, and spent his time in tumbling off the seat and alternately kissing with unprecedented moisture the happy cousins. Pete stuck the red flag up straight in the box seat, and at intervals waved' it triumphantly. Back through the oak-trees, through Frye Village, past the blacksmith's shop, past the crossing, the post-office, and up Andover hill the vehicle thundered. The idle postmaster, the sober tailor, the pleasant newspaper man and two straggling Professors stared and wondered. With the flourish of the season the coach rolled up to Uncle Jim's door. Dazed and weak with. emotion, John followed his cousin into the house. There Lambkin stood and gripped him with both hands.

"Hooray!" yelled Pete, "we've fetched him."

"Come in," said Lambkin at the threshold, "he expects you."

Roger pushed the study door open, and the three young men walked in. Uncle Jim was, standing. He came straight up to John Strong and held out his hand.

"Mr. Strong, sir; my dear boy! I wronged you. I mistook you, and I apologize, sir; do you hear? Report yourself at Harvard next fall."

"How can I?" stammered John.

"I'll answer for a dozen scholarships. Leave that to me." John tried to answer, but choked and couldn't.

"Gentlemen, you will all stay to dinner." Uncle Jim changed the subject by giving this invitation in the same tone he used after prayers when he said, "The following gentlemen are requested to remain." This time the boys remained without a murmur.

"But my dog?" said Mansfield in despair.

Then did the Principal of Phillips Academy cap the climax of his generosity by inviting John Calvin to dine in the kitchen. But John Calvin with an aristocratic sniff declined. What was good enough for his master was about par for him. So he sat in the vestibule and tried to dispose of a plate of scalding tomato soup which Dr. Tyler, with the ignorance of a dogless man, sent out to his particular guest. Calvin regarded this smarting kindness with perplexity.

The dog was not the only member of the Institution who had asked himself the question whether Uncle Jim were so formidable, after all.

ITseemed incredible to John Strong that he was a member of Harvard College ---and so comfortable a member too. His entrance examinations had been passed with brilliancy; We should own that there was one exception. He had been conditioned in geography; he who had taught the science of the earth's surface to scholars twice his age under the hills near Conacoot. When asked the name and dimensions of the island at the mouth of the Amazon, and the direction of the current through the Straits of Magellan, John had failed to answer. But these important questions, testing his intellectual fitness to enter Harvard University, were quickly mastered, and the heavy condition was passed off with the first week.

Now he was in the full swing of a college career. Homer and Livy and "Trig," the three pontes asinorum of the Freshman class, had succeeded to Virgil, Zenophon and Algebra. John Strong studied to know, and he did such intelligent work that the mathematical tutor, just graduated, trembled before every recitation, and shivered under many of John's thoughtful questions. But John did not know that, and was the last in the class to suspect it. This was just as well.

If you had seen our hero in those days, walking, briskly, almost like any other fellow, from his room to recitation and back, you would have seen entirely a different boy from the one who had shouldered his bag and drearily started to walk from Andover to Conacoot. He entered college without a hindrance, unless poverty is to be considered one.

And now John's memory of Phillips Academy was not marred by a feeling that he was distrusted. Uncle Jim, with the generosity of a great nature, had more than atoned for his mistake, by a tender interest in John's new life, which touched the poor boy beyond words.

Was it not, the magic of the Principal's pen that brought the scholarship? And when applications for tutoring poured in, so that the lame Freshman could fully support himself, his gratitude to his Andover master took the form of a deep and real affection. The fact was, that John, for the first time in his life, was thoroughly happy. For one thing, he was no longer harried and worried about his mother. Roger. Mansfield's father was thoroughly taking.care of his long-neglected relative, and meant to do so, until such time as her son should leave college. But John did miss Lambkin, who had gone to Yale. That was his one sadness.

John, as we say, was working. His distinction as a magnificent pitcher had attracted some attention to him, at first, among Harvard athletes; but that went only as far as such things go. The position that comes with scholarship is more important and more lasting. John, at the beginning of the winter's term, was already pointed out, as a sure winner of the Freshman mathematical prize.

But now he had been away from Andover nearly six months. What old Phillips student does not look forward feverishly to his first return? Especially if he has done something for his Academy to be proud of. Uncle Jim, the terrible disciplinarian, had no longer a place in John's heart. Uncle Jim, the friend, had usurped it. John turned to this once dreadful man for advice as a son turns to a father. He had tasted of the gentleness of that inexorable character, and henceforth nothing could undeceive him about its real quality. Uncle Jim was like so many disciplinarians, who, when their boys leave them, show for the first time, the other side of an imperious nature. Then see how quickly boyish distrust and fear can swing over into reverence and love.

And oh! dear old Phillips! Oh, for the Commons, the Milktoast Club, the gleaming autumn, the spring, whose colors will never fade from John's memory! Oh, for the campus, and Lambkin, and the cobwebbed Gym! It was thus one Friday morning that John mourned. And it happened that on that very day, a letter came in Roger Mansfield's nonchalant hand:.

The temptation was too much, and next morning, with an excuse from the Dean of the college, John Strong found himself swallowing the familiar blasts of the Andover depot by the mouthful. This trip was a great event for John. He was the only Freshman who had been tacitly allowed by the Sophomores to carry a cane; but to-day in his pride, that cane was left behind. Andover was to see the new John, not the old.

"I'll be gee-hawed if it hain't Strong! I'm glad to see yer back. I'll be goll-whizzed if I hain't!"

Who could mistake Pete's original greeting?

"Bow! yelp! yow! How are you? Down, sir!"

But Calvin, being in a Shakespearean mood, would not down, and it was a question for casuistry which got to John first, the dog or the master.

"Bless you, old fellow! Here, Pete ! Down, you brute! Put him in the back seat! Charge, sir! Give him the biggest buffalo! Obey, when I speak, sir! Up to Bartlett Hall! Get behind there, sir! Be a little more dignified, you rascal!

John Calvin and Pete did their best to. disentangle their appropriate orders, and obey them.

It was a cold Saturday in February. The air was penetrating, and the snow lay sullenly on the ground. Here and there Pete's sleigh cut through to the bare earth and the old horses shook their heads disconsolately. Andover was not in her best clothes to-day.

Pete drove up the back way, past the old South Church and the Fem. Sem. Calvin, who had been prancing ahead, stood attention at the gate leading to a well-remembered door.

"At his old tricks!" said John, laughing. Roger blushed.

"Yes. Our friend is there yet. She often asks about you. She will be glad to see you."

It was John's turn to flush, and the sleigh crunched on.

It was well after dinner when John found himself in Uncle Jim's study. Roger and Calvin took him there; but this time the dog, doubtless civilized by the memory of his tomato soup, behaved himself discreetly. Roger had no need to present his cousin this time with protecting affability, for Uncle Jim rose from his chair and greeted the Freshman with a hearty welcome.

"My dear boy!" said the Principal, "I am glad to see you, sir."

John Strong stood before Uncle Jim with trembling lips. What could he say? Words choked within him. Perhaps Roger saw his cousin's emotion, and that was why he slipped so quietly away.

John was deeply moved, more so than at any other time in his life, except the night when Doc. died, or perhaps we might add, the hour of his reconciliation with Uncle Jim, when John Calvin, Pete, the old coach and Roger brought him back. Perhaps the teacher thought of that last scene between his pupil and himself, but his manner betrayed no unusual feeling. After all, John was only one of hundreds to him, but our hero had the advantage of being the last in the sequence. Then, the circumstances attending John's departure had given a peculiar cast to the Principal's attitude toward the boy. He trusted the lad thoroughly now. John felt this in Uncle Jim's first look that afternoon, and he could have laid down his life for him. Oh, the loyalty that is born in a boy's heart for the school of his youth, for the teacher of his first manhood! John may live to be a very old man, long past the time of boyish feelings, but he will never be too old to love Andover, or to adore her great Principal.

"Well, Strong," Uncle Jim's piercing eyes dwelt softly upon the Harvard Freshman, "I am glad, sir, that you have not forgotten the old place."

"How could I, sir?"

"Tut, tut, sir. That is what they all say.

"But- you are not like the rest." John flushed and looked down. He was about to reply, when Uncle Jim, putting the forefinger of his right hand up to, the bridge of his spectacles, and giving John a pleasant look, went on:

"Sir, my boy, I have watched your career in Harvard and I am pleased with you." This was a great deal for Dr. Tyler to say. John was satisfied.

"I wanted to come up and tell you" --- he faltered. His eyes spoke the rest. Uncle Jim laid his hand on the lad's shoulder with a fatherly and affectionate touch. He was as tender as a woman, but it was a part of his theory of discipline not to let any one suspect it if he could help it. Such a slight demonstration as this was rare, even for a returned pupil to experience. John arose. His eyes filled with tears. The teacher coughed and bustled a little; he spoke abruptly:

"I am busy now, John; and you will want to see the old boys and the old place. You stay till Monday? Then I hope to see you at my Biblical to-morrow morning, as usual, sir."

He gave the boy a hearty hand-shake and waved him away. The Principal stood straight by his desk looking as vigorous and as uncompromising and as severe as ever. But John knew now what Uncle Jim was.

That evening, as the theologue and the Freshman were walking slowly up from their theological supper, with John Calvin half a mile ahead yelping after a yellow cat, Roger asked his cousin in the most casual manner:

"What do you say? How would you like to run down for a few minutes and call on ---er--Miss Marks? She said she would be happy to see you when you came. She will never forget your gallantry in the woods---one might almost call it gall-errantry." Roger laughed at his atrocious pun, and John had nothing to do but to join in merrily at his own expense. John had been thinking a little about the Fem. Sem., but his thoughts had not embraced Miss Marks. In the meanwhile John Calvin, whether through some subtle process of mind-reading not expected of canine psychology, or from a pious Saturday evening habit, had given up the cat, and had started down the road to Abbott Academy. It was not hard for either young man to "right about face" and follow the dog's intelligent lead.

Of course John had thought much of Miss Elva. How could he help it? But call upon her? He would as soon thought of sending up his card to the mistress of the White House. Really, this simple courtesy never occurred to him as possible to him. That modest schoolgirl seemed as far out of his way as any queen of society in the great world.

Miss Marks appeared without delay, and welcomed John with unusual warmth of manner. She herself suggested that she should call in Miss Selfrich, who would be pleased to see him in Andover. Then Elva glided in, charming in a white woollen house dress. She stood smiling at John and glancing with just the least embarrassnent at Roger and Miss Marks. It is. to be feared that Elva was the only one in Andover who was thoroughly surprised at John's visit. But she took it very kindly. How bright she looked! How white! She seemed to shine like an altar candle before the perplexed boy. But Elva herself was not wholly at her ease.

"Oh! how you have improved, Mr. Strong. Hasn't he?" she said hurriedly, turning to Roger. Calvin yapped to help on the conversation, and licked her white hand. And then, feeling that she had said just the wrong thing --- for what boy after a certain age likes to be told that he has grown, or that he has a mustache, or that he is improved ?---she apologized, and said he hadn't, which made matters considerably worse. She then supported her original statement, and Miss Marks, seeing her well-bred pupil confused for the first time in her life, came to her relief, and asked John if he had killed any more constrictors in Cambridge. They laughed, and chatted, and laughed again. John was the hero of the evening. They drew him out, and made him talk about himself, until. the shy boy felt ashamed of his compulsory egoism.

"And I am sure you will come and see us the next time you come to Andover. We expect great things of you," said Miss Marks.

Miss Marks had never been so gracious to any Academy boy. within the memory of that race of Fem. Sems. John bowed in dazed delight. And now for the first time in their acquaintance, Elva, in bidding him good-by, gave him her hand. He fancied that hers lingered for a brief second. in his, perhaps as a sister's might.

"I'm a better fellow for knowing her," thought John, as he followed his gayer cousin silently out into the winter night. "I wonder why?"

Sunday morning dawned clear as a clarion, but very cold. The sun did his best, but nothing melted. The ice turned a gray cheek to the sky. The trees had a slight glaze; their, coat of icicles was thin, and would not outlast noon, but it was burning bright. The snow was crusted and blazed. The broad Seminary grounds looked like the Sea of Glass.

John Strong, with the imagination of a religiously educated boy, thought of this on his way to the Academy at nine o'clock. He had accepted Dr. Tyler's invitation to the "Biblical," and went happily enough now that he did not have to go. This was quite another matter. He wondered that he ever found it such a drag. But this Bible lesson was considered by the boys the least bore of all the compulsory Sunday services. John ascended the two flights of stairs in the great brick building to the chapel. The whole school, being obliged to attend, climbed with him. Here the timid "Prep." who used to room opposite to John, shook hands quite boldly, for he was now a junior Middler. And here the Seniors to a man greeted the returned P. A. boy. John had been very popular with them when they were Middlers, for the sake of Doc., and everybody was glad to see him. And here and there a new "Prep." nudged an upper-class-man and inquired who that strange fellow was.

"Why, that's Strong, the famous pitcher. Won the Exeter game. Great dig, too! Bones for rank! At Harvard now. Look at him---plucky chap---born lame."

John entered the large hall with quickly beating heart, and took a back seat. The sun glittered through the white glass windows and seemed to him, to lift those three hundred restless students out of the real into a quiet dream.

Then there came a sudden hush. It meant a mark to be found chatting when Uncle Jim mounted the platform. The Principal's eyes swept the assembly. They did not seem to the Seniors on the front seat as inexorable as usual. They quickly singled John out, and a gentle but authoritative gesture bade him come up on to the platform. This was quite an ordeal for John. The two teachers, flanking the Principal, arose, shook hands, and offered him a red-covered chair. This invitation to the platform is a courteous honor that Andover still pays to its returning graduates. The school now broke into a low ripple of applause, which was speedily checked by the well-known motion of the Principal's hand. John's welcome to Andover was an ovation on a small scale, but as sincere as, and more spontaneous than, many a public demonstration offered to some showy political candidate.

Uncle Jim was always absorbed in his Sunday morning "Biblical." He believed in it enthusiastically as an educational power. Sitting in his chair before the whole school, with one hand upon the open Bible, and with the other emphasizing his talks with terse gestures, he became to hundreds of boys during his long Principalship an inspiring force, a stimulus, a Moses to lead them to the land of achievement and of promise.

John Strong was not the only one that morning who was deeply touched. The boys felt that the exercise was somehow different from the usual lesson. They could not have explained how or why. It was remembered long afterward that they were especially moved by his manner and by his tone; The students looked with awe, and many with deep affection, upon the Arnold of America. They felt that day a peculiar sympathy with the great heart, which at the time they could not comprehend.

John listened to his master with the kind of docility which only great gratitude lends to a boy's mind. Perhaps he had grown to idealize his teacher a little. He thought not; but if he did, it was better than to underrate him, as some have done. The relation between these two had now reached its best and highest level, and, to the fatherless boy his old teacher was the noblest man he knew.

The Sermon on the Mount was Dr. Tyler's subject that winter's morning. It was remembered that he dwelt long on the verse, "Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God." The boys listened to that lesson; some of them made high resolves ---a few kept them. Uncle Jim was firm and exacting; but, give him a chance, he made men of his boys; and, after all, that is the test of a great teacher.

What was the matter with Uncle Jim's last prayer that morning? The boys could not help hearing it if they would. They were startled by its intensity. John was greatly awed. His face fell into his hands. The Principal departed from his usual forms, and prayed for the needs of his students as those august Academy walls had never heard him pray before. He prayed for the boys in their temptations; for strength in their struggles; that they might have pure hearts, and lead simple, manly lives. "And, Father, sanctify these my boys in the truth, that the love wherewith Thou loved'st Jesus may be in them and they in Thee. Amen."

The "Biblical" was over. With puzzled and gentle looks the boys moved apart, and feet that stamped upstairs, crept softly down.

The master beckoned to John Strong, who obeyed the signal with glad respect. The Principal seemed to be in a hurry to get away. The two walked quickly through the ante-room, and met the stream of boys at the head of the stairs. John walked close beside Uncle Jim; and as they emerged from the door the students parted with more than usual deference. The bitter winter air rushed up. It smote the Principal in the face, and he seemed to recoil from it.

"Your arm, John !" he said quickly.

John tenderly gave the strong right arm that had been trained in the Gym.

The Principal walked down the first flight of stairs unsteadily. At the foot, opposite the threshold of his own class-room, surrounded by his boys, and leaning on John, he fell, like a soldier shot.

"He's tripped!"

"Stand back!"

"Give him air!"

"Hold him up!"

"Send for the doctor!"

"He's hurt himself!"

"He's faint!

But John had laid his ear, trained at the side of poor Doc., upon the heart of the prostrate man. He lifted a face almost as gray as that other, and tried to speak firmly, but faltered, and broke down before them all.

"No, boys, no! he is not faint---he's dead.!"

When it was all over, and they had laid him to rest in the snow-clad chapel cemetery, John, with crape on his arm, returned to Harvard. It took the boy time to recover from the smiting stroke. But even the shocks of life have their own solemn place, which nothing else can fill; and through the gates of that youthful sorrow, John passed into the useful and happy manhood which his old master would have been proud to see.