the crowd. Then he lay back in the chair with a
sigh. It seemed so long since he had lived in a world where there
were bright, friendly girls like Flip. The sight of these who had
been so near made him homesick for the old friends of his school
days, and he began to talk to old Jimmy about his sister and the good
times they used to have together.

"I wonder which one wrote this card," he thought, as he slipped it
out of the box. "I am sure she did. The handwriting is so light and
graceful, just like her. So her name is Avery. I might have known it
would be different from other girls'. Avery! Avery!" he repeated
softly, while old Jimmy stumped out into the hall for some water in
which to put the roses. "It's a pretty name. I wonder if I'll ever
know her well enough to call her that."

"Time to get back into bed now," said old Jimmy, coming in with the
pitcher. He placed the roses in it on a stand beside the bed.
"Mustn't overdo matters."

"No, indeed," said Alec, with a new note of determination in his
voice which did not escape old Jimmy. "I've got to get well in a
hurry now, and go back to work." Then he settled himself on his
pillow, and lay smiling happily at the roses.

CHAPTER IV.

If the calendar over Alec's mantel could have told the history of the
next few weeks, it would have been the record of a hard struggle with
homesickness and discouragement. There was a heavy black cross drawn
through the date of his return to work. He had come in that night
when it was over weighed down with the fact that his wages had been
stopped in his absence, and that it would take a long time to pay the
debts incurred during his illness.

There was a zigzag line struck twice across the calendar below that
date. "That much goes for the doctor!" he exclaimed, fiercely
checking off the time with a stubby pencil. "And that much to old
Jimmy, and that much for fire and extras. It'll take way into the new
year to get straightened out. Luckily I am nearly through with my
debt to Aunt Eunice."

Later there was a tiny star drawn in the corner of one date. It
marked the Sabbath evening he had gone to the Christian Endeavour
praise service and heard Avery Windom sing. He had been introduced to
half a dozen of the boys and girls, and been invited to come again,
and had gone back to his calendar to count the nights until the next
meeting. Ever since he had left home, he had longed with a longing
that was like hunger for the co