aps they would be glad to change places with us before they are
through with it, though," observes Blandford.

"Never knew such a beggar for grinding as Bland is turning out," says
Harker. "He takes the shine out of me; and I'm certain he'll knock me
into a cocked hat at the matric.."

"You forget I've lost time to make up," replies Blandford, gravely; "and
I'm not going to be content if I don't take honours."

"Don't knock yourself up, that's all," says Reginald, "especially now
cricket's beginning. We ought to turn out a good eleven with four old
Wilderhams to give it a backbone, eh?"

And at the signal the four chums somehow get together in a corner, and
the talk flies off to the old schooldays, and the battles and triumphs
of the famous Wilderham Close.

Meanwhile Booms and Miss Crisp whisper very confidentially together in
another corner. What they talk about no one can guess. It may be
collars, or it may be four-roomed cottages, or it may be only the
weather. Whatever it is, Booms's doleful face relaxes presently into a
solemn smile, and Miss Crisp goes over and sits by Mrs Cruden, who puts
her arm round the blushing girl and kisses her in a very motherly way on
the forehead. It is a curious piece of business altogether, and it is
just as well the four young men are too engrossed in football and
cricket to notice it, and that Gedge and Waterford find their whole
attention occupied by the contents of the little bookcase in the corner
to have eyes for anything else.

"Jolly lot of books you've got," says Waterford, when presently the
little groups break up and the big circle forms again. "I always think
they are such nice furniture in a room, don't you, Mrs Cruden?"

"Yes, I do," says Mrs Cruden; "especially when they are all old
friends."

"Some of these seem older friends than others," says Waterford, pointing
to a corner where several unbound tattered works break the ranks of
green-cloth gilt-lettered volumes. "Look at this weatherbeaten little
fellow, for instance, a bit of a _Pilgrim's Progress_. That must be a
very poor relation; surely you don't count him in?"

"Don't I," says Reginald, taking the book in his hands, and speaking in
a tone which makes every one look up at him. "This little book is worth
more to me than all the rest put together."

And as he bends his head over the precious little relic, and turns its
well-thumbed pages one by one, he forgets where he is, or who is looking