ce. If I had choice of all the surnames
and of all the lineage in the world, I would still choose the name of
Poe, and to be the son of David and Elizabeth Poe, players!"

The boys were silent. The school bell was ringing and Edgar Poe, still
pale and trembling with passion, turned on his heel and strode, with
head up, in the direction of the door. Rob Stanard and Rob Sully walked
one on each side of him, while Dick Ambler and Jack Preston and several
others among his adherents, followed close. A little way behind the
group came the other boys, their still half-dazed leader in their midst.
Good Mr. Burke (who had succeeded Mr. Clarke as school-master) guessed
as they came in and took their seats that there had been an altercation
of some kind, and that his two brag scholars had been prominent in it;
but he was wise in his generation and allowed the boys to settle their
own differences without asking any questions unless he were appealed to,
when his sympathy and interest were found to be theirs to count upon.

The afternoon session was unsatisfactory, but the master was in an
indulgent mood and apparently did not notice what each boy felt--a
confusion and abstraction. There was a palpable sense of relief when the
closing hour came.

* * * * *

At dinner that day Edgar was silent and evidently under a cloud, and
scarcely touched his food. Frances Allan looked toward him anxiously and
her husband suspiciously. When his lack of appetite was remarked upon,
he, truthfully enough, pleaded headache. Mrs. Allan was all sympathy at
once.

"You study too hard, dear," she said. "You may have a holiday tomorrow
if you like, and go and spend the day in the country with Rosalie and
the Mackenzies."

"No, no," replied the boy. "I'll just stay quiet, in my room, this
evening. I'll be all right by tomorrow."

"What have you been eating?" demanded John Allan, gruffly.

"Nothing, since breakfast, Sir," was the reply.

"Headaches are for nervous women. When a healthy boy complains of one,
and declines dinner, it generally means that he has been robbing
somebody's strawberry patch or up a cherry-tree, stuffing half-ripe
fruit," he said in the acid, suspicious tone that the boy knew. It was
beyond John Allan's powers to imagine any but physical causes for a
boy's ailments.

* * * * *

Not until the door of his own little bed-room was closed behind him did
Edgar Poe e