The pond was large enough to afford the boy a good pull with the oars. He enjoyed it immensely. The boat had glided from shore to shore several times, when Master Tommy Henning began to look for fresh excitement. Stealthily he began to pull stronger on one oar than on the other, and so gradually to near the mill-race.

“Oh, Tom! Tommy! look, look, we are getting near the dam,” shouted Ethel, very much frightened.

“That's nothing. There's no danger here,” said the boy. He made a turn, then came nearer than before to the dangerous spot.

“I'm so frightened! Tom, please, Tom, don't go so near,” pleaded Ethel.

“That's because you are a girl. If you were a boy you wouldn't be frightened a little bit.”

He rowed away for a little space, and soon in a spirit of pure bravado he pulled nearer a few feet. Ethel began screaming with fright.

“That's just like girls. They always scream at something or other,” said the ungallant Tommy.

Ethel was very much frightened. She trembled violently, but Tom affected not to see. With another stroke he went still nearer to the mill-race. At this Ethel gave a prolonged, agonizing shriek of fear, which made even her madcap brother feel a little uncomfortable, although he still persisted in teasing her, for he knew his strength and as yet had the boat under complete control.

“I'm going nearer yet, Sis,” he said to the greatly frightened little girl, and began to turn the prow of the boat a little.

She began one more wild shriek of terror, but stopped suddenly. She could scream no more. The horror of her perilous position rendered her mute. She could do nothing but shiver and tremble violently. Her eyes were wide and staring.

“What do you stop screaming for? You ain't out of danger yet. Girls always scream longer than that in one breath.”

There was no reply. Tom looked around to see his sister burst into a very torrent of tears. This was too much for the boy.

“Oh, come, Ethel. I was only fooling. Don't cry. There's no danger. See,”

He headed the boat in the opposite direction and began to row away from the dangerous locality. Ethel continued to sob convulsively, unable to restrain herself. She had been thoroughly frightened, and now she could not speak. Her eyes were staring wildly; the blue veins on her forehead stood out rigidly. She seemed choking as if half stifled with the horror she had felt. Tom was now heartily ashamed of himself, and heartily wished he had not disobeyed.

“Stop crying, Ethie, and I'll give you my new box of paints,” said he anxiously.

The magnitude of the inducement was the measure of Tom's anxiety. But with even this tempting offer of his greatest wealth, she could not refrain from weeping and sobbing.

“I never thought you would take on so, or I never would go near the old thing. I just did it for fun," urged the boy persistently. All his coaxing was of no avail and he became alarmed at her hysterical sobbing. To add to his confusion, as he neared the boat-landing he saw his mother standing on the bank. She had heard the screaming, and rushed down to the pond, fearing some accident had happened.

“What have you been doing to your sister?”she asked sternly.

“I thought I would scare her a little bit—only a little, though; that's all, Mama.”

“And you went near the dam?”

“Not very close—true if I did. There was no danger.”

Ethel's pale face and hysterical weeping told how near he had been.

“Go to the house, sir, and stay there for the rest of the day,” said his mother, in a tone Tommy knew from experience was not to be disobeyed.

This was a great punishment for Tommy, for, of all things, he loved to be out of doors in the free air of heaven. There was, however, a certain manliness about the little fellow, so he went to his punishment without a word. He could not understand why his sister had screamed so much, and more especially why she did not now stop crying.

Ethel did not easily recover from her fright. Her mother brought her to the house and laid her on a cushioned lounge, where she remained all the afternoon completely prostrated. Tommy was told to stay in the same room, which he did more or less sulkily. He thought his punishment excessive, and he showed his resentment to his sister by being a little bit cross to her. Early in the afternoon he worked himself into the belief that he was actually the injured one. All this was a proceeding most unusual with Tommy.

The little girl lay on the lounge quite weakened and very sick from her adventure. She did not move, but lay still and quiet, with an occasional hard sob, resembling the last muttering of a storm in the distance. Toward four o'clock of that long afternoon she said faintly to her brother:

“Tommy, I am so thirsty; will you get me a drink?”

Now Master Tom was still quite ill-tempered and, contrary to his usual custom, very much disinclined to oblige her. Seeing a glass of water on the table, he handed it to her, saying:

“Here's some. Drink this.”

She touched her feverish lips to it and said: “It's quite warm. It has been here all day. Mama brought it in this morning for the canary.”

“Well, it's good water, anyhow,” said Master Tommy, and he went back to his seat and sulked.

She sighed and closed her eyes without allaying her thirst. Presently Mrs. Henning came into the room, and saw, with alarm, that Ethel was in a high fever. She telephoned at once for the family physician, who was in his office when the message came. When he came he looked very grave, and declared that the child would not live more than twenty-four hours. The physician knew Ethel's constitution well. She had grown up an extremely delicate child. He gave no hope of her recovery. He declared the attack had been brought on by some unwonted exertion beyond her strength, or by some extraordinary strain caused by great fear or overwhelming grief. When told of what had occurred on the pond he shook his head ominously, and frankly told the mother to expect the worst, recommending, as a conscientious physician, that a priest be called without delay.

CHAPTER XXI

The little sufferer was now too far gone to care for water. Wishing to respond to her brother's kindness she took the mug and put it to her lips, as if drinking a long draught. But Tommy saw she was not drinking.

“Why, Ethel, you only make believe! Don't be afraid to drink. I'll keep on carrying in pitchers all night if you want 'em. 'Taint no trouble at all for me.”

Ethel saw his generosity of purpose and smiled again.

“Drink some more, Ethel. It's good.”She could not resist such importunity, and she drank some of the water, more than she needed, in order to please him.

Tommy exaggerated his fault in his own eyes. Now, in order to make amends, he strove urgently to make his sister drink, coaxing her at least every ten minutes to do so, until at last she was fain to tell him it was impossible for her to take any more. If he could not make her drink, he could, nevertheless, keep the water cool, so he changed it at least every fifteen minutes. Who shall say but what the angels carried these crude acts of reparation to the Mercy Seat, and brought back blessings for sorrowful Tommy?

Ethel realized that she was very ill. The doctor's grave face confirmed her worst fears. She did not fear to die. Had she not gone to confession every week for a year past, and although the pure little child knew it not, the good priest knew full well that for weeks together he scarcely found matter for absolution. She did not want to die, not yet at least, if it were the will of God, until she had made her First Communion. Her pure soul had not yet been strengthened by the Bread of Angels. How ardently for months she had longed for the day of her First Communion, and now it seemed so hard to die before that great event. Would not the sweet Jesus spare her at least until she could receive Him! Long and earnestly, on her couch of suffering, she prayed that she might receive this supreme happiness. She knew that she was dying. The frightful pain in her back told her, as she lay there in such helplessness, that her weakness could not long battle against so sudden and so violent an attack. But oh, to be deprived of the great privilege!

“Lord, I am not worthy! Lord, I am not worthy that Thou shouldst come to me! Come, oh, come, my Lord Jesus,” she repeated again and again, between her acts of contrition.

It was in this hour of supreme suspense and anxiety of her parents that Ethel's beautiful character shone forth. Patient, humble, thankful for the least kindness shown, or office performed for her, she fairly broke the heart of father and mother, who now realized, more completely than ever, what a beautiful treasure they were losing.

The priest was grieved to see this stricken one of his flock. Ethel's eyes brightened when she saw him. He heard the child's last confession and administered Extreme Unction. Long the confession lasted—those guileless self-accusations of an almost guiltless soul. When the family were re-admitted they saw that both priest and penitent had been weeping.

“Has the poor child told you her greatest desire, Father?”asked the grieving mother.

“Yes. I have no hesitation in giving her Holy Communion. She was sufficiently prepared a year ago. If you will make the proper preparations I will bring the Holy Sacrament and administer First Communion.”

Not until Tommy saw the priest visit the house, and learned that his sister had been anointed did he realize that she was dangerously ill. When the priest left, he rushed to the couch, and kneeling, took Ethel's hand and covered it with tears and kisses, crying passionately with heartrending sobs:

“Ethel, Ethel, Ethel! don't die, don't die yet! Ask God and His Mother to make you well again. You know they will if you ask them.”His cry was an unconscious tribute to his sister's goodness.

Ethel waited with joy and calmness the approach of her Lord. Very soon the priest, bearing the Sacred Host, arrived and the whole household assembled to honor the divine Visitor, and to pray for the departing soul.

Notwithstanding her intense pain, Ethel appeared to be in a transport of joy. Her calm, waxlike face was faintly flushed at the fulfilment of her ardent longings. As she lay making fervent acts of love and thanksgiving, she resembled an angel rather than a child of human clay. So thought her spiritual director as he gave her the last absolution and blessing and began to recite the prayers for the dying.

Tommy's grief became deeper and more demonstrative. His mother gently drew him into the next room, telling him it was for Ethel's good, as he was disturbing her recollection and happiness. With this assurance he became content, although he sobbed as if his heart would break.

Silently, and in helpless, though resigned, anguish the father and mother watched through the long night the flickering spark of life fade and expire. More than once during these long hours they believed the beautiful soul had flown to God, its Maker. Hoping against hope, they earnestly desired that she might last until Roy should reach home at seven, but about three the end came.

“Fetch the boy,” said the father, in a whisper. Mrs. Henning softly left the room. She found Tommy, his face all tear-stained, asleep on the mat just outside the door. Gently waking him, she told him to come to Ethel. The boy, alert in a moment at the sound of her name, came slowly into the room. Neither father nor mother spoke, but the latter led him to the couch where lay the lifeless form of his sister still holding the crucifix in her hand. Her pure soul had flown.

Seeing that she had passed away, the boy bent down and kissed her white forehead and her lips. His mother involuntarily moved a step nearer, intending to catch and console him in his first wild burst of grief. To her surprise the boy neither wept nor spoke. He took one long look at the placid face of his dead sister, and turned away, going out into the open air of the warm night. By the first gray streaks of dawn he wandered through the garden path down to the pond. There lay the boat as he had left it, half drawn up on the shore, and there, withered, lay the lilies she had gathered. The boy remembered how she had used all her little strength to pull up one large bud. She had, at length, laughingly succeeded, dropping it into the boat and letting the long stalk hang in the water.

As the gloaming of the sad day of the funeral drew on Tommy took his beads from his pocket. Then came the realization that he was alone to say them.

“Ethel! Ethel,” he cried, and the floodgates of his tears were open. Big, strong Roy caught him up in his arms as he would a baby. There Tommy, resting his tired little head on his big brother's breast, wept unrestrainedly.

On the day of the passing of Ethel Roy pondered long about sending a message to his friends at St. Cuthbert's. He could not decide to whom to send it. Bracebridge, Beecham, Shealey, Gill, and Jones, all were thought of, but he remained undecided. While thinking over this, his aunt, Andrew Garrett's mother, entered the room. Roy loved this good and beautiful woman almost as much as he loved his own mother, whom she was supporting and comforting in her sudden affliction.

“I am glad you received my telegram in time," she said. “You will be just now such a support and comfort to your mother and father, Roy, in their sorrow.”She kissed him on the forehead.

“When the sickness came to Ethel,” she continued, "they were both too distracted by grief to think of sending for you, so I wired in your father's name.”

Roy made up his mind about his message. He filled out a blank:

“Dear Andrew: Ethel passed away at three. Pray and get prayers for her. I know you will. Roy.”

For many a long day after, Roy Henning had reason to bless the influence which prompted him to send this message to his cousin, rather than to any one else. The message had the effect of working a wonderful change in Andrew Garrett, so that when Roy next saw him, he scarcely recognized him. Many strange things will happen before Roy again sees his cousin.

CHAPTER XXII

“H—um! So! I thought then that it was a mere passing fancy of yours, and that it would soon go. As you have asked for no more money than the small—yes, very small—allowance I settled on, I began to think—yes, I began to believe, that you had more of the Henning family spirit—yes, more of the real family spirit—than at first I gave you credit for. So far, so good. So you are determined, if possible, to become a priest?”

“Yes, sir,” said the young man firmly.

“Now tell me, my boy, how you have passed through the tests I set.”

Roy was silent. He thought of the many times he had experienced more or less bitterly rebellious thoughts against these tests.

“Don't be afraid, Roy. Speak plainly. Have you failed?”

“No, father,” he answered emphatically; “I have not.”

“That is good. I am very glad to hear that.”

“I confess that it was very hard. Frequently I felt like writing to you about the prohibition of sports and of my—my shortness of cash.”

“So most of your troubles came from lack of cash, eh?”

“Oh, no! Really the greatest test of obedience I have ever had was to follow your instruction strictly when you declared that I should engage in no sports except enough to keep a sound mind in a sound body.”

“Yes, I remember to have said that.”

“That, sir, was a hard blow to me. All the unpleasantness of the year has arisen from trying to be faithful to your command.”

“How so? Explain.”

“As you know, I am an enthusiastic and pretty good ball-player.”

“Yes, I have heard enough about that to be well acquainted with the fact.”

“And I am a good all-round athlete as well. As a consequence, I stood high in the councils of the college athletic circles. When I announced my intention of retiring from the football eleven, and the baseball nine there was a good deal of disagreeable talk. I must confess, father, this was the hardest thing I ever had to do in my whole life.”

“So?”

“Yes, and the worst of it was I was made miserable by insinuations and innuendos that I had betrayed the college teams. I was disloyal. I was acting out of pique or spite. This was all very hard to bear because I was actuated by the very best intentions. I wanted to prove to you that I was a dutiful and obedient son.”

“I never doubted that, my boy, never for a moment doubted that,”

“I thank you, sir.”

“Poor lad! all this is too bad; but tell me about the robbery. By the way, you never sent for that check; but tell me all about it, that is, as far as it concerns yourself.”

“I will, sir. Not being allowed to engage in any sports by your orders, I did not see why I could not make myself useful in some other way. Late in the fall there was much talk about the following season's games. In order to keep the team in practice it was decided to take up a collection among the boys and purchase a pitcher's cage, to be placed in the play-room, where indoor practice could be had all the winter. The boys appointed me solicitor and treasurer. I kept the money in the table-drawer in the committee-room off the playroom. From that drawer the money was stolen. What made my chagrin the deeper was that I had been warned by a close friend to place the money with the college treasurer for safer keeping. This I intended to do, but during the Christmas holidays it escaped my memory.”

“I do not see why you could not have written for that check. As far as I can see there is nothing in all this story to prevent you from replacing the money. Surely you and your cousin Andrew did everything in your power to trace the thief and get the money back?”

Here was a critical moment for Roy. Blood is thicker than water with the father as well as the son. Mr. Henning never dreamed but that Andrew would make this a family affair and exert himself with his cousin to recover the stolen money. It was a temptation for Roy. Should he expose Andrew's conduct? Should he permit his father to know that he had a nephew who was selfish and cowardly and mean, and not above trading upon another's reputation? Roy had to think rapidly in making up his mind what to do. His father's keen eyes were upon him. The old gentleman was awaiting an answer. Roy's good angel prevailed. The boy replied:

“Everything, I believe, was done that could be done to detect the thieves by myself and my friends, but without success. Had we found the thief and discovered that the money had been disposed of beyond recovery I should then have written gladly to you to replace it, after your generous offer.”

“That's right; that's right.”

“But,” continued Roy with some hesitation, which his father did not fail to notice, “affairs turned out so differently from what I expected. Whether from natural causes, or from design, I do not know, but there were two or three opinions soon prevalent about the robbery, and there was one party who—who gave it out that they—they suspected me.”

“Suspected you,” almost shouted the lawyer. "The scoundrels! Who were they, Roy; who were they?”

“Some whose names are not worth mentioning, and whose reputations are still worse.”

“Dear me, dear me! The rascals, to suspect my son,” fumed the old man. He walked excitedly up and down the room. By some occult process he connected these suspicions with his son's stringency of cash, and blamed himself in proportion to his indignation.

“My boy, my boy! this is all too bad, too bad! If I had allowed you your regular amount all this would not have happened. Such a thing could not then have happened.”

“I do not see that, father, unless by having plenty of money as usual I should not have undertaken the treasurership. I do not see how this consequence flows from the premises. Indeed I think it more than likely had matters been normal with me I should have been treasurer just the same.”

“Well, we must rectify all this. You want to go back to St. Cuthbert's, or do you wish to stay away?”

“I want to go back, sir, of course, and graduate. And please, father,” said Roy right loyally, “please do not think these few boys represent St. Cuthbert's. There are not a finer set of fellows in the world. These I spoke of are the exceptions.”

This remark thoroughly pleased the father who was himself an alumnus of old St. Cuthbert's.

“And besides,” continued the young man, “I want to go back and live down the ugly rumor—for that is all it is—and make somebody eat his words. I know, I feel certain it will come out all right. Matters always do. I want to be there. If I were to stay away now, would it not be, at least for some, a sort of tacit acknowledgment, or at least it might be so construed by some unfriendly to me, who might say I knew more than I chose to tell and so kept away as soon as I had a chance to do so?”

“You are right, my boy; you are right. Go back and fight it down. Suspected of dishonesty! A Henning, too, preposterous! Yes, yes, you must go back, boy. You must go back.”

“I am glad you look at it in that light, sir. I think it the best thing to do.”

Mr. Henning drew from his pocket a bunch of keys. Opening his desk he took out a roll of bills.

“You must consider your test, your trial, as over. It is over as far as I am concerned, and I am more than satisfied with you. You are free now to take up what sports you like, and spend, in moderation, what money you like, and in fact I leave your course of action entirely to yourself. I am sure I need have no fear for your prudence. Here, take this; you will need it.”

Mr. Henning handed over to his son a fair-sized roll of bills. How much he gave we will not state, but leave the amount to the imagination of the reader, merely remarking that Mr. Henning was a very rich man, did few things by halves, and, at the moment, was actuated by the most generous impulse. In giving Roy the money, he remarked: “Give your cousin Andrew twenty-five dollars, with my regards. I suppose schoolboys are never very flush at this time of the year. I never was.”

While Roy, with a bounding heart, was thanking his father, a loud ring of the door bell disturbed the quiet of the house. In a moment one of the servants brought in a telegram.

“For Master Roy, sir,” she said.

With a bow and a “Permit me” to his father, Roy opened the envelope and read:

“Come at once. Great news! St. C. 8. B. 3. Ambrose.”

The mystified boy showed the telegram to his father.

“Perhaps the first part refers to the robbery. You had better go. Can you bid your mother and aunt farewell and be ready at the depot by 7.30?”

“Yes, quite easily.”

“Very good. The carriage will be ready for you to catch the 7.30 train.”

CHAPTER XXIII

And Garrett! What a pity he was developing such undesirable traits of character! Could he not be weaned in some way from those companions with whom at present he seemed so infatuated? Roy was convinced that he was not really a bad fellow at heart. How could he be with such a mother as Aunt Helen? Was there ever a finer, more lovable woman, except his own mother? Her gentle touch, her womanly way, her wise and soothing words! What a treasure Andrew had, did he but realize it! No, he could not be really bad with her influence, and the memory of her, and her prayers for him!

These were some of the thoughts which passed through Roy's mind as the train sped along in the darkness. Then he remembered Bracebridge's telegram. He took it out of his pocket and read it again. He puzzled again over those words “Come at once.”What could they mean? Had the thief been discovered?

His heart gave a great leap at the thought. But what if, after all, his suspicions had been well founded! What if the thief should prove to be Andrew Garrett! The thought made him sick at heart; and yet—and yet! oh, he must be mistaken in that surmise! Ambrose would not have wired him to come at once had the guilt been traced to Garrett. He would certainly have been in no hurry to bring him back to so unpleasant a state of affairs. In that supposition it would have been “great news" indeed, but most disastrous news. No, it must be some one else, if the message meant what he hoped it did mean.

“And so the first great match has come off victoriously," he said to himself. “Good! good,”

He fell into a train of pleasant thoughts during which he looked so bright and so happy that an old lady on the opposite seat, who had watched him for some time, smiled kindly at him. Roy returned the smile. She was quite advanced in years and evidently traveled but rarely. She liked the look of the bright, handsome face before her, whose youthful sparkling eyes spoke goodness and enthusiasm, and whose clear skin at this moment showed a decided flush of joy.

“Are you going home?”she ventured timidly.

“No, ma'am. I'm leaving home.”

She looked puzzled. It was contrary to her experience to see children so happy on leaving home. Roy enjoyed her puzzled look for a minute, and then explained:

“I am not going home, but I have just left the best father and mother in the world, and am now going back to school to join the best and truest friends a fellow could find anywhere on this round earth.”

“Is that so! I am glad to hear it. If they are all like you they must be good boys.”

Roy actually blushed. Just then the conductor called the old lady's station. As she arose and with the assistance of Roy gathered her traveling impedimenta, she said:

“Keep that bright smile, my dear, and remember that no one can keep so bright a face unless he keeps a bright soul within. I am an old woman, and I know what I say.”

Now while Roy retires to his sleeper to get as much rest as is possible on the rail, we will hurry forward and learn why he was wired to come at once, and find out what has been happening during the last few days at St. Cuthbert's.

The Blandyke team arrived before noon on the day Ambrose had sent the message to his friend. Their manager told Gill that the condition of their coming was that they returned on the 3.50 train of that afternoon. The game, consequently, began at one o'clock. It was over by three, with the result already known.

The day had been extremely hot, with not a breath of air stirring. The atmosphere was stifling. All nature seemed to be in a dead calm. Even the dogs sought shady spots and lay still and panted. The afternoon seemed more oppressive than an August day, because so early in the summer every one was unaccustomed to the great heat.

As the game was finished by three o'clock on a recreation day, there were three vacant hours before supper time. Owing to the unusual sultriness few cared to tramp over the hills, or along the lower road of the valley. A few, however, started out, either to walk, or hunt black squirrels on the higher, wooded grounds in the rear of the college.

About four a slight breeze began to blow from the southwest, cooling the atmosphere very considerably.

“Ah, that's fine,” said Jack Beecham, as he faced the breeze and filled his lungs with the cooler air. "That's fine! My, but it was hot! Never knew it so hot in May before in my life. Oh, look, Ambrose," and he pointed to the direction from which the breeze was coming, “look at that queer-shaped cloud,”

Bracebridge looked toward the southwest. Dark, coppery clouds were forming and rapidly approaching. The temperature dropped suddenly many degrees. The cooler breeze became stronger and soon it was a wind. Before many minutes elapsed it was a very high wind in which it was difficult to stand steadily.

Suddenly a brilliant flash of lightning leaped from the now leaden sky. The boys could hear the electric discharge snap and crackle against the sides of the buildings. It was followed almost instantly by a deafening crash of thunder, tropical in its intensity. Down came the rain, not in drops, but apparently in sheets of water. Flash followed flash, peal succeeded peal, and the wind grew more furious every moment.

Bracebridge, Shealey, Beecham, and Harry Gill watched the terrific war from the Philosophy classroom window.

Ever and anon the downpour would cease, but the wind did not abate. At intervals could be seen the havoc the wind was doing. The air was thick with leaves and twigs and straw. In the lowlands the boys saw the rail fences carried away like matches and deposited over the fields. An old wooden windmill tower was toppled over. Boards and shingles and slates were flying everywhere.

All knew that such violent warfare must be brief. Already in the west there was a streak of light beneath the clouds. Before the storm had spent its fury the watchers at the window were to witness a remarkable sight.

Behind the college there was, as has often been remarked, thickly wooded high ground. The boys at the window were watching the hillside path, which every now and then was obscured by the rain. Suddenly a forked bolt struck the largest tree on the hillside, and hurled to the ground across the college walk at least one-third of it. The boys looked at each other in a frightened way. In the mind of each was: “What if the college had been struck,”

When the deafening thunder-crash had passed, Bracebridge, for the sake of saying something, remarked:

“It's lucky that none of us were out in such a storm.”

“We would have been nicely drenched, eh?”said Tom Shealey.

“No one of common-sense would be out,” said Beecham; “all would run to shelter somewhere.”

“But some may have been too far away to reach it. You know how sudden the storm was,” observed Bracebridge.

“What on earth is that?”suddenly exclaimed Tom Shealey, as he pointed to something or some one crossing the yard. After the last thunder-crash the rain had ceased suddenly. The wind dropped, and the storm, furious while it lasted, spent itself. The boys threw open the classroom window to get a better view of the yard. Some one had entered from the field gate nearest the woods. He was drenched; his hat was gone; his hair dishevelled. He was white and frightened. Although his clothes clung to his skin he was making violent, meaningless gestures as he ran, and appeared to be gibbering or muttering something as if in that stage of fright which borders on imbecility.

“It is Smithers,” shouted Shealey. “Let's go and see what's up. Hurry,”

“What's up, Smithers? What's happened?”asked Shealey, a moment later, hatless and breathless.

The frightened boy had a scared, wild look. He muttered something quite unintelligible. His lips were dry and white.

“Now be calm. Tell us quietly what has happened," said Bracebridge.

Smithers again gibbered something. The listeners could make nothing of it. They began to think the boy had lost his reason.

“—prefect—dead—struck—innocent,” were some of the words caught by the listening boys.

“Good gracious,” exclaimed Beecham, “the prefect is dead, struck by lightning, up on the hill walk. Is that it, Smithers?”

The one appealed to, not fully comprehending the question, and half beside himself, nodded assent.

“Gill, quick, go at once to the President. Then take care of this fellow. Send a priest as soon as you can up the hill. Jack and Tom, you come with me.”

Ambrose naturally assumed the leadership in the emergency. The three ran along the walk and up the hillside path as fast as their legs could carry them.

CHAPTER XXIV

As they were threading their way through the thick low growth on the upper side, Jack Beecham glanced into the dense mass of fallen foliage. His eyes were caught by something black beneath the green. Thinking it was perhaps an old log, blown there by the storm before the lightning damaged the oak, he was about to pass on, but gave a second look. The black thing under the leaves was surely not a bough! Again he peered into the tree-top.

“Great heavens! there he is under that oak,” he said.

The three pushing aside the boughs saw the bleeding, white face of some one who was apparently dead.

“Poor Mr. Shalford,” exclaimed Shealey.

“Nonsense! Don't you see that's not Mr. Shalford at all. It's one of the boys. Who can it be?”

They all looked again into the leaves, and were satisfied that it was not their prefect.

“Who is it?”asked Shealey.

“I believe it is—it is Stockley,” said Bracebridge.

“You don't say,” exclaimed Shealey, “at all events we must get him out of that tangle, dead or alive.”

“I don't believe that oak killed him, anyway," remarked Jack Beecham.

“Why?”asked Ambrose, in a whisper, for in the presence of death they were awed.

“Look here,” said Beecham, “no big limb has reached him. These twigs and leaves would give one a sharp switch when falling, and probably knock him down, but they are too small to break any bones.”

“Maybe that's true. Well, we shall soon find out," said Ambrose. “Now, boys, how are we to get him clear of that tree-top?”

They procured a strong stick, and while two lifted as many of the small boughs as they could, Bracebridge pushed the pole over the prostrate body. He then raised his end, the other being on the ground on the other side of the body. The two other boys took hold of Stockley's shoulders and successfully drew him from under the tree, as, fortunately, he had not been caught by any of the larger limbs. Gently as possible they drew him out from under the mass of foliage, but gentle as they were, they necessarily used some force. To their surprise—and satisfaction—they heard him groan. He was not dead after all, but undoubtedly badly hurt.

No sooner had Stockley been extricated than Mr. Shalford appeared. The boys who were bending over the prostrate body looked up.

“Oh, sir,” said Ambrose, “we thought it was you,” and he pointed to Stockley. There was love in the tone, making Mr. Shalford treasure the simple words for many a day.

“Why?”

“That stupid Smithers said so. I think he was too frightened to know what he was saying.”

The moving of Stockley restored him to a state of semi-consciousness, in which he talked incoherently. One arm hung loosely, evidently broken above the elbow. When touched in the ribs the suffering boy groaned aloud, so that it was quite probable that some were fractured. There was a cut on the forehead, and another on the lower lip. The injuries, as far as could be then learned, while serious, were not necessarily fatal.

A priest from the college having arrived, the rest withdrew some paces while the minister of God tried to elicit some act of conscious sorrow for sin. It seemed to the boys that he succeeded, for from the distance they saw him raise his hand and make the sign of the cross as in sacramental absolution.

“I do not think he will die,” said the priest as the others drew near. “See there, that is what must have done the mischief. He was caught up here in the wind-storm, and one of those dead limbs struck him. You say you found him beneath the tops of the fallen oak. Those twigs could not have inflicted these injuries.”

Intermittently Stockley muttered incoherent words. Bracebridge and Beecham knelt on either side of him, nervously anxious to catch every sound. Unknown to each other, both had simultaneously formed a strange suspicion. Once both distinctly heard the words: “Clear—Henning.” What could that mean? They caught the word “letter,” but to neither did this convey intelligence, because neither knew of the existence of the copy or draft of that letter which Roy Henning had written to some unknown friend. They heard other disconnected words, for instance, "sweater,” and “Garrett,” but these words had no meaning for them. They did not, for all that, lose a single word, but stored up everything in their memories, being sure that something would come of it in good time.

Harry Gill and others arrived with a wire mattress, the best temporary substitute for a stretcher. There was no lack of willing hands to convey the injured boy down the hill to the infirmary.

Gill's report of Smithers' frantic words spread like wildfire in the yard. Most of the boys believed the kindly prefect had been killed by a falling tree. Few had seen him after the report began, because he had at once started for the walk.

Notwithstanding the appalling nature of the accident, when the boys saw Mr. Shalford return safe and sound they could scarce refrain from giving a hearty cheer. One began to wave his hat and was on the point of opening his mouth. Mr. Shalford was immensely surprised at such a strange proceeding at such a solemn moment, never for a moment dreaming it was all for him. He stopped all noise with an imperative “Hush,”

All the boys clustered around the infirmary steps awaiting the reappearance of the prefect. In about half an hour he came. He told the boys the extent of Stockley's injuries, and said that it was the physician's opinion that none of the wounds were likely to prove fatal.

“Hurrah for Mr. Shalford,” shouted George McLeod.

“McLeod, are you taking leave of your senses? If you don't be quiet I'll send you back to Mr. Silverton to the division yard.”

But the boys took up McLeod's lead and gave three cheers for the prefect.

“And what on earth is that for?”he asked.

“Why, sir, don't you know? Smithers said you were killed,”

“Smithers was too excited to know what he was saying.”

“But you are not killed—that's the point. Hurrah!" In spite of himself the prefect was again cheered. Do what he would, put his fingers to his lips, point to the infirmary, wave down the noise with his hand, he could not stop the boys giving one more shout for his safety.

When Bracebridge and Beecham were again alone in their room, the former said:

“What do you make of it all?”

“I think it is very important.”

“I think so too.”

“You heard all he said?”

“Every word.”

“I am not sure,” said Jack, “but I believe there is a rift in the cloud for dear old Roy. Fancy, Brose! suppose this wounded boy should know all about the robbery,”

“And we could make him tell,” added Bracebridge.

“I tell you what I think,” continued Jack, “it is my conviction that he not only knows all about the thieving, but that he——”

“Oh, don't say that,” urged Ambrose. “I know what you think. I believe I think the same, but don't like to give it expression.”

“I don't mind doing so if it will lead to the clearing of Henning.”

“I wish I knew what he meant—what was on his mind when he mentioned Garrett and his sweater! And what could he mean by repeating frequently, 'letter, letter, Garrett.' It's all a mystery to me as yet. I do wish Roy was here. Maybe he knows what the words mean. Perhaps Roy could get Stockley to tell who the thief was, that is, supposing he really knows.”

“It seems clear to me,” said Beecham, “that Stockley knows something. But who can say what that something is? Say! Suppose you telegraph for Henning. Give him to-day's score, too. He'll want to know that.”

“That's a great idea. I'll do it,” said Ambrose.

“All right. Do it at once, so that he may get the message in time to start to-night and be here early to-morrow morning, should he consider the affair important enough.”

Thus the telegraphic message was sent to Roy Henning.

When Smithers had recovered from his fright sufficiently to be able to talk sensibly, Beecham and Shealey plied him with questions about the accident. He said, substantially:

“We were at the other end of the forest path when the storm came up—Stockley and I. We took shelter in the cave for some time until the water began to flow in from above and drove us out. Then we made for home. It was very dangerous. Sticks and limbs were flying in all directions. We had passed the big oak by about thirty feet when Stockley was struck by a piece of a branch about four feet long and as thick as your arm. It hit him on the arm and on the chest or side. He fell with a scream. At that moment there came a brilliant flash, and a bolt of lightning struck quite close to us, blinding me for a few seconds. I was about ten feet ahead of Stockley when it came. I was so frightened I thought I would go crazy. When I could see again I saw the oak tree falling right where he was lying. I never was so frightened in my life. Then I ran home, believing he was killed. I don't remember how I got down the hill, or what I said after.”

“Will you answer me one question, Smithers?" asked Beecham.

“If I can, yes. What is it?”

“When the accident happened were you two talking about Henning and the robbery last Christmas?”

“Yes,” he answered, “we were. I'm sorry now I had anything to do with it.”

“With what?”asked Beecham with a nervous start. Foolish fellow. He was not cool enough. The other fellow took immediate alarm.

“Oh, nothing,” and he refused to say anything more, and walked away.

“That was too bad,” said Beecham to himself, very much chagrined. “If I had been a little more diplomatic I might have wormed out of him all he knew of the matter.”

Now Jack was indeed sorely puzzled. Did Smithers mean that he was sorry that he had talked to Stockley about it, or did he mean that he was now, under the influence of a great fright, sorry that he had participated in the robbery?

Beecham sat a long time on a bench tilted against the wall, disconsolate and severely bringing himself to task.

“Here am I,” he said, “with conceit enough to imagine I have brains enough to become a lawyer, and at the very first opportunity for an important cross-questioning I make a decided goose of myself. Pshaw! I wish some one would kick me! I deserve it,”

When Beecham found Bracebridge and told him what he had done, the latter laughingly admitted the sentence which Jack had passed upon himself ought to be immediately executed, and volunteered to be the executioner.

“You did make a mess, of it, certainly. There's no telling what the boy knows—much more than he will ever reveal, I'm thinking. We can now only wait for Roy. He wired that he would be here to-morrow morning.”

“'Rah for Roy! He's the one we want,” shouted Jack with renewed enthusiasm.

CHAPTER XXV

“Yes?”answered Ambrose, quite ignorant of what the conditions might be. Roy saw that for all their talks, Bracebridge remembered nothing of the previous relations between himself and his father. He saw by his questioning “yes,” and by his eyes, which were nothing less than interrogation points, that his friend was curious to learn more, although he delicately refrained from asking.

“It's a long story, Brosie, old man. I can't tell it to you now on the platform here. I'll tell you some time to-day—after we have had breakfast. I am as hungry as a wolf. Let's go to a hotel and get breakfast.”

“No, the college carriage is outside waiting for you, and breakfast for four is to be ready by the time we get back.”

“For four?”

“Why, yes. Didn't I tell you that Harry Gill and Jack are waiting outside in the carriage? The ticket man at the gate wouldn't let them in. I was the least suspicious-looking of the three, I suppose.”

“Let's be off, then,” said Roy.

Both made a grab simultaneously at Roy's suitcase.

“No, you don't.”

“Yes, I do,” answered Ambrose, keeping hold of it. They both tugged for a moment or two, much to the amusement of two ladies in an opposite train who burst out into merry laughter at the friendly contest.

Warm greetings awaited Roy in the carriage. After the welcoming was over, and the delicate condolences tendered, Roy leaned over to Gill's ear and whispered something. Whatever the whispering was about it ended by Roy putting his finger over his lips as an admonition to remain silent.

The information conveyed to Gill must have been of a startling nature for he immediately proceeded to behave as if he were suffering from a fit. He threw up his heels into Bracebridge's lap, clutched the carriage strap with one hand and Beecham's coat collar by the other, and began to scream at the top of his voice. Roy held his sides at the other's antics. Ambrose guessed the cause of Gill's jubilation, but Jack Beecham was quite in the dark.

“Here! take this maniac off, or I'll soon be a physical wreck,” he shouted.

“By the way, Ambrose,” asked Henning, “what is the great news you wired you had for me? But first how did the great game come off?”

Then all three in their enthusiasm began to talk at once and independently of each other. Each described what he considered the beauties and fine points of the game.

In the midst of this jumble of words, from which Roy managed to pick out a deal of information about the game, the carriage drove into the college grounds.

The prefect at once hurried the four into the infirmary building where a somewhat elaborate breakfast had been prepared for them.

“Get along, boys. Clear out now. These boys are hungry. You can see Roy after breakfast. There is plenty of time to hear all the news, if he has any to tell. Now, John, let no boy into the infirmary this morning without my permission.”

“All right, Mr. Shalford. I'll keep them out, sure enough,” answered the kind old fellow who attended to the wants of the sick. This time he was as good as his word, for as soon as the four were fairly inside he shut the door and locked it.

During the breakfast—such a breakfast the infirmarian explained he had to get up once in a while to keep his hand in for convalescents who had to be coaxed to eat to get strong, an explanation readily admitted by the four—Henning's three friends told him of the wind-storm and of the accident to Stockley. They told him how through Smithers' incoherence of speech they had first believed that Mr. Shalford had been crushed by the falling oak; how Stockley had been found beneath the branches, and, finally, how when he had returned to semi-consciousness he had uttered some very strange words which might mean nothing at all or a great deal for Henning. Roy, as he gradually learned the full particulars became very much interested and finally intensely excited. Was he going to have the wretched affair of the robbery cleared up at last? Did this boy know who the thief was? Could he point him out? Would he do so? And what if, after all, his suspicions about his own cousin should prove correct!

While he was thus pondering, and listening to his friends' suggestions and information, Mr. Shalford came in.

“Henning,” he said, “you may be surprised that I did not let Garrett go to the depot to meet you. The fact is, these rascals here begged so hard that I could not find the heart to refuse them, and you know that the old-fashioned carriage will only hold four. To make amends I will send Garrett to you at once. He has asked several times to be allowed to come in, but I refused until you had finished your breakfast.”

A minute later Andrew Garrett entered, holding out his hand in sympathy to Roy, as he walked across the room. There was a wonderful change in the boy. He looked better than he had looked for months. The blotches and disfiguring pimples had disappeared. Healthy food, regular meals, and being much out of doors had effected that. But there was a change of countenance as well as of face. There was a look of candor not usually seen there of late. The eyes were steady and had lost much of their restlessness. There was at this moment a gratifying air about Garrett which plainly indicated that he wanted to repair any injustice and wrong which he had formerly done to his cousin.

Henning was very much puzzled at the change, which was more apparent to him than to the others who witnessed the meeting.

“Poor little cousin Ethel. Oh, Roy, I'm so sorry. She was such a charming child,”

Roy looked at him in surprise. Could this be the boy who had done him so much injury and had kept the secret all these months? What to make of the tone, the evident look of candor, the change in Garrett, Roy did not know. Sensible fellow as he was, he made the most of it, judging that if the present meeting were merely a piece of good acting on Andrew's part, he would sooner or later find out the true state of affairs. So he offered his hand to Garrett and it was pressed with genuine sympathy.

“And how does Aunty bear the shock?”

Roy told him.

“And mother? Did you see my mother?”

“I did, Andrew, and she grieves quite as much as my mother and father. She sends her love, and Papa sends this with his kindest regards to his nephew.”

Roy gave the sealed envelope, containing the elder Henning's present. Garrett did not open it at once. He said:

“I have several things I wish to say to you when we are alone. Of course you have heard by this time all about the accident to Stockley?”

He then whispered to Roy:

“There's more behind this than you think. Get rid of these fellows for a little while. I have a lot to say to you.”

“I can not just now,” Roy whispered back. “You see they are in a way my guests for the present. To send them away would not only offend, but it would be very unkind.”

“Very well then; as soon as you can be alone in the yard this morning?”

“All right.”

Garrett then joined in the general conversation around the breakfast table. Roy was much puzzled. He could not understand Andrew at all. Never during the whole time that Garrett had been with him at St. Cuthbert's had he acted in so cousinly a manner. Roy wondered whether the change had been brought about by Ethel's death. Yet unless Andrew was playing a much deeper game than his cousin gave him credit for being able to play, his advances—for they were in Roy's estimation distinct advances—were genuine. He gave up the problem as too hard of solution—and waited.

His cogitations were soon cut short. The physician came down stairs from his morning visit to the injured boy.

“No, I do not think the boy will die,” they heard him remark to the infirmarian, “I am sure he will not, although he thinks he is going to. He'll be all right in a few weeks. What? I told you last night—two ribs and his arm.”

“Can he see any one?”asked the infirmarian.

“He had better be kept quiet for a few days. By the way, he said something about wanting to see a Troy, or a Joy, or some such name—and some one else. Who was it, Denning, Heming, Henning—some such name.”

“It's all one person, doctor. It's Roy Henning he wants to see. May he see him?”

“Yes, I think it would be better to let him see this boy as soon as he wishes. There appears to be something important that he has to say which he wants to get off his mind. Yes, let him see this boy—a chum of his, I suppose. Perhaps it will do him good. Can not do any harm.”

“A chum of his! Ugh,” said Roy, sotto voce. There was really so comical a look of disgust on his face that the other boys, who were watching him closely, burst out laughing. The infirmarian came in:

“The doctor says ye can see the one with a broken arm, though what he do be wantin' ye for, I dunno. It's sorry I am to be hearing ye lost your sister, Master Roy, an' sure the Lord'll be having mercy on her.”

“Thank you very much, for your kind wishes.”

His friends now left him, wishing him all sorts of success in the interview. He thanked them, but did not go upstairs. Instead, he went to the window and looked out as if expecting some one. Some time later his friends were surprised to see him still standing there. Mr. Shalford thought that by this time the interview must be nearly over. He, too, was surprised to see Henning gazing out of the breakfast-room window. The prefect went over to him.

“Why are you not talking with Stockley?”he asked rather sharply.

“For two reasons, sir. I am a little nervous at present. You know how much depends for me on what that boy will say. I want to be cool, so I am waiting a little while. Secondly, I do not intend to go there alone.”

“Not go alone! Why! What do you mean? Are you afraid?”

“No, sir. But if this fellow should, and somehow I think he can, say something to exculpate me, what good would his statement, or perhaps admission, be to me without witnesses? I should be just where I was before.”

“You are right. You should have witnesses. Whom do you want?”

“Ambrose and Jack and Rob Jones, if you like, sir.”

“No; two are enough. I will send Bracebridge and Beecham to you at once.”