sings in the choir. Most of the boys are afraid to speak to her, she's
so distant. She just says 'Yes,' or 'No,' when you ask her anything.
She's religious--goes to prayer meeting and Sunday school. About a dozen
boys go to prayer meeting just because she goes and sings. Her folks
live in Waverly, but she boards with her aunt, Mrs. Brown. Now, that's
all I can tell you about her. She's in some of my classes, but I dassent
talk to her."

"Jack, she's the best and grandest girl I ever saw. I'm going to write
to her."

Jack wistfully replied: "I wish you was out o' here, old man."

Harold became suddenly optimistic. "Never you mind, Jack. It won't be
long till I am. I'm going to write to her to-day. You get a pencil and
paper for me quick."

Jack's admiration of Harold was too great to admit of any question of
his design. He would have said no one else was worthy to tie Mary's
shoe, for he, too, worshiped her--but afar off. He was one of those whom
women recognize only as gentle and useful beings, plain and unobtrusive.

He brought the pad and pencil and sat by while the letter was written.
Harold's was not a nature of finedrawn distinctions; he wrote as he
fought, swift and determined, and the letter was soon finished, read,
and approved by Jack.

"Now, don't you let anybody see you give that to her," Harold said in
parting.

"Trust me," Jack stanchly replied, and both felt that here was business
of greatest importance. Jack proceeded at once to walk on the street
which led past Mary's boarding place, and hung about the corner, in the
hope of meeting Mary on her return from school. He knew very exactly her
hours of recitation and at last she came, her arms filled with books,
moving with such stately step she seemed a woman, tall and sedate. She
perceived Jack waiting, but was not alarmed, for she comprehended
something of his goodness and timidity.

He took off his cap with awkward formality. "Miss Yardwell, may I speak
with you a moment?"

"Certainly, Mr. Burns," she replied, quite as formally as he.

He fell into step with her and walked on.

"You know--my chum--" he began, breathing hard, "my chum, Harry Excell,
is in jail. You see, he had a fight with a great big chap, Clint Slocum,
and Clint struck Harry with a whip. Of course Harry couldn't stand that
and he cut Clint with his knife; of course he had to do it, for you see
Clint was big as two of him and he'd just badgered the life out of Harry
for a