longer. It was
a shade of deceit to connive with his room-mate for the custody of his
carpet-bag and the few socks and collars and the one shirt and summer
coat which did not visibly affect its lankness when gathered into it
from his share of the bureau-drawers; but he did not know what else to
do, and he trusted to a final forgiveness when all the facts were
considered by a merciful providence. His board was fully paid, and he
had suffered long. He argued with his room-mate that he could do no
good by remaining, and that he would have stayed if he could have
believed there was any use. Besides, the food was undermining his
health, and the room with that broken window had given him a cold
already. He had a right to go, and it was his duty to himself and the
friends who were helping him through the seminary not to get sick.

He did not feel that he had convinced his room-mate, who took charge
of his carpet-bag and now sat with it between his feet waiting the
signal of the fugitive's surreptitious return for it. He was a
vague-looking young man, presently in charge of the "Local and
Literary" column of the one daily paper of the place, and he had just
explained to the two other boarders who were watching with him for the
event that he was not certain whether it was the supper, or the
anxiety of the situation, or just what it was that was now affecting
his digestion.

The fellow-boarders, who sat on the edge of the bed, in default of the
one unbroken chair which their host kept for himself, as easier than a
mattress to get up from suddenly, did not take sides for or against
him in his theories of his discomfort. One of them glanced at the
broken window.

"How do you glaze that in the daytime? You can't use the bolster
then?"

"I'm not in, much, in the daytime."

It was a medical student who had spoken, but he was now silent, and
the other said, after they had listened to the twitter of a piano in
the parlor under the room, "That girl's playing will be the death of
me."

"Not if her mother's cooking isn't," the medical student, whose name
was Wallace, observed with a professional effect.

"Why don't you prescribe something for it?" the law student suggested.

"Which?" Wallace returned.

"I don't believe anything could cure the playing. I must have meant
the cooking."

"You're a promising young jurist, Blakeley. What makes you think I
could cure the cooking?"

"Oh, I just wondered. The sick one gets paler eve