e glass. "Fo' de Lawd! I
can't understand it." (G. W. was beginning to put the "d's" and "g's" on
words now.) "I don't lie, and I ain't afraid of nothing--and I wouldn't
do a mean thing any sooner dan dey! It's jes' my skin, and my skin's
only a different color on the _outside_, de inside is jes'--is just de
same." Poor little G. W.

"An' I'se getting 'long fine in my classes." (So he was, and at the cost
of terrific strain and study.) "An' I likes--I like the--boys first
rate--but nawthing in dis education's going to git de black off dis
skin!"

There was one hour in the school-day that George Jones--he was "G. W."
only to Jack Austin, and that in private--enjoyed thoroughly.

This was an evening hour when one of the younger professors took the
smaller pupils into a library and told them history stories; stories
dealing with valiant deeds. There was a flavor of camp life and
soldiering about many of the tales that George Jones understood far
better than the other boys. In the glow of his interest he generally
forgot to notice if any boy edged away from him when he chanced to
forget his "color" and drew too near; but Colonel Austin's son always
noticed it, and his loyal heart ached.

"Oh! if I were only sure that Daddy would think this was a good time to
speak out!" Jack often muttered between his teeth. "I wish these fellows
knew how awfully white G. W. is inside!"

But the Colonel had warned Jack against "speaking out" unless
indignities to little G. W. should become unendurable.

During one of these story hours in the library, G. W. had remained in
the study-room to conquer a particularly knotty problem in addition,
while Jack, eager for the tale, which was to be an unusually splendid
one, ran on ahead. It happened that when G. W. reached the room he was
the last, and the others were clustered around Professor Catherwood.

G. W. paused a moment to look for Jack, but among those dark and light
heads grouped close he could not distinguish him. Just then the story
plunged into the thick of interest, and G. W. took the nearest empty
chair. Unfortunately it was beside Tom Harding, a very quick-tempered
but warm-hearted boy, who had, perhaps, more than any other pupil, made
G. W.'s life at "Oakwood" a grim experience. He glanced around as G. W.
sat down. "Please take another seat!" he said.

For a moment the silence vibrated. G. W. arose and stood rigid, with
downcast eyes. The master, too much disturbed to speak,