that I won't know
that I'm crazy. Craziness is like everything else--it's all right if
you have enough of it!"

"Stanley is not what any one would call crazy," said one of the
Stoppers; "the only thing I can see wrong with him is that you always
know what he is going to say, and he is too polite, and every one can
fool him! He certainly is a good worker, and there's another place he
shows that he is queer, for he doesn't need to work and still he does
it! He likes it, and thanked me to-day for letting him clean my team;
and as a special favor I'm going to let him hitch them up when I am
ready to go!"

Stanley busied himself about the house, and was never so happy as when
he was rendering some service to some one. But even in his happiest
moments there was always the wistful longing for home, and when he was
alone with Mrs. Corbett he freely spoke of his hopes and fears.

"It may not be so long before they begin to think that they would like
to see me; do you think that it is really true that absence makes the
heart grow fonder--even of people--like me? I keep thinking that maybe
they will send for me after a while and let me stay for a few days
anyway. My mother will want to see me, I am almost sure,--indeed, she
almost said as much,--and she said many times that she hoped that I
would be quite happy; and when I left she kissed me twice, and even
the governor shook hands with me and said, 'You will be all right out
there in Canada.' He was so nice with me, it made it jolly hard to
leave."

Another day, as he dried the dishes for her, assuring her that it was
a real joy for him to be let do this, he analyzed the situation
again:--

"My father's people are all very large and handsome," he said, "and
have a very commanding way with them; my father has always been
obeyed, and always got what he wanted. It was my chin which bothered
him the most. It is not much of a chin, I know; it retreats, doesn't
it? But I cannot help it. But I have always been a bitter
disappointment to him, and it really has been most uncomfortable for
mother--he seemed to blame her some way, too; and often and often I
found her looking at me so sadly and saying, 'Poor Stanley!' and all
my aunts, when they came to visit, called me that. It was--not
pleasant."

Every week his letter came from home, with books and magazines and
everything that a boy could wish for. His delight knew no bounds.
"They must think something of me," he said over and o