hid mouth and chin made it seem paler still. But the nose was
straight and smooth as Freddy's own. The silver-streaked hair fell in soft
waves over a broad handsome brow. And there was a white scar on the left
temple, that throbbed with the low breathing. Somehow, that scar held
Freddy's eye. Surely he had seen a V shaped scar like it before, where or
when he could not think; perhaps on one of the big football players at St.
Andrew's.

"Ah, if good Brother Tim were only here now!" thought Freddy hopelessly,
as the picture of the spotless stretch of infirmary arose before him. The
rows of white beds so safe and soft; the kind old face bending over the
fevered pillows; Old Top waving his friendly shadow in the sunlit window;
the Angelus chiming from the great bell tower; the merry shouts of the
ball players on the green below,--all these memories were in dire contrast
indeed to the present scene.

If Dan would only come back! But he wouldn't--he couldn't--for hours. And
maybe this big, strange man might die while he was gone,--die with only a
little boy beside him,--a little boy to help him, to pray for him.
Freddy's thoughts grew more and more solemn and awesome. People always
prayed by dying beds, he knew. Oh, if Dan would only come with a doctor
and perhaps a priest! For Freddy felt that big men who wandered around the
world with dogs and guns were likely to need higher spiritual
ministrations than a small boy could give. In the meanwhile he would do
his best; and, drawing out his silver-mounted rosary, he began to say his
beads.

And perhaps, as the young watcher had been an early riser this morning, he
was nodding a little over his decades when a sudden movement of his
patient roused him. Mr. Wirt was awake, his eyes fixed steadily on
Freddy's face.

"Still here," he murmured,--"still here? Boy,--little boy! Are you real or
a death dream?"

It was a startling question; but Freddy had learned something of fever
vagaries during the measles, when even some of the Seniors had lost their
heads.

"Oh, I'm real!" he answered cheerfully. "I'm a real boy all right. I'm
Freddy Neville, from St. Andrew's College--"

"My God!" burst in a low cry from the pale lips.

"Yes," said Freddy. "It's time for you to say that,--to say your prayers,
I mean; because--because--you're very sick, and when people are very sick,
you know, they--sometimes they die."

"Die!" was the hoarse echo. "Aye, die as I have lived,--in darkness,