aying good-bye to old Christmas," Michael volunteered.

"He's a topper," said Lantern-jaws. "The best old boy that ever lived. I
wish I was going to be in his form again next term."

"So do I," said Michael. "We had a clinking good time. So long. Hope
you'll have decent holidays."

"So long," said the lantern-jawed boy lugubriously, dropping most of his
mathematical books. "Same to you."

When Michael was at home, he took a new volume of Henty into the garden
and began to read. Suddenly he found he was bored by Henty. This
knowledge shocked him for the moment. Then he went indoors and put For
Name and Fame, or Through Afghan Passes back on the shelf. He surveyed
the row of Henty's books gleaming with olivine edges, and presently he
procured brown paper and with Cook's assistance wrapped up the dozen odd
volumes. At the top he placed a slip of paper on which was written
'Presented to the Boys' Library by C. M. S. Fane.' Michael was now in a
perplexity for literary recreation, until he remembered Don Quixote.
Soon he was deep in that huge volume, out of the dull world of London
among the gorges and chasms and waterfalls of Castile. Boyhood's zenith
had been attained: Michael's imagination was primed for strange
emotions.

Chapter V: _Incense_

Stella came back from Germany less foreign-looking than Michael
expected, and he could take a certain amount of pleasure in her company
at Bournemouth, For a time they were well matched, as they walked with
their mother under the pines. Once, as they passed a bunch of old ladies
on a seat, Stella said to Michael:

"Did you hear what those people said?"

Michael had not heard, so Stella whispered:

"They said 'What good-looking children!' Shall we turn back and walk by
them again?"

"Whatever for?" Michael demanded.

"Oh, I don't know," said Stella, flapping the big violet bows in her
chestnut hair. "Only I like to hear people talking about me. I think
it's interesting. I always try to hear what they say when I'm playing."

"Mother," Michael appealed, "don't you think Stella ought not to be so
horribly conceited? I do."

"Darling Stella," said Mrs. Fane, "I'm afraid people spoil her. It isn't
her fault."

"It must be her fault," argued Michael.

Michael remembered Miss Carthew's admonition not to snub Stella, but he
could not help feeling that Miss Carthew herself would have disapproved
of this open vanity. He wished that Miss Carthew were not now Mrs. Ross