the air above him and drop with a nasty thud at the edge of the last
mattress, of finding himself in the midst of a huge concourse of people,
who suddenly rose up with a great roar and bore down upon him, uttering
shriek after shriek,--and then, of coming miserably to himself again,
with his heart thumping and his head throbbing painfully, just as a
deathlike silence succeeded the uproar, and a voice like Miss Finlayson's
said something that sounded like 'Doctor!'

Some one had sprung from the platform with a flying jump the moment the
accident happened, and was forcing a passage through the throng of people.
There was not a sound to be heard in the great gymnasium as the Doctor
knelt down on the floor and put out his hand to the little still spot
of scarlet that lay on the edge of the last mattress.

CHAPTER XVI

THE LAST DAY OF THE TERM

In the annals of Wootton Beeches there had never been so dismal a
packing-day as the one that dawned on the morrow of the gymnastic
competition. Generally, packing-day was the most delightful day in the
term: it came just after the break-up party, and just before going home,
and everything that happened on it seemed filled with a peculiar interest
of its own. First of all, there was the joy of rushing up to the bedrooms
directly after breakfast, to put out all the clothes in tidy little
heaps, ready for packing later on; then, the less delightful business
of clearing the bookshelves and tearing up the old exercise-books--an
occupation which contrived, in spite of itself, to present a certain
amount of charm, simply because it belonged to the last day of the term.
And the nicest part of all was the indescribable feeling that it was the
last day of the term, that there were no more lessons to prepare and
no more penalties to avoid, no more scales to practise and no more
stockings to mend, and, best of all, no more rules to bother about, so
that Fraeulein and Mademoiselle could both be addressed, much to their
own distraction, in the British tongue, and anybody who pleased could
run up and down stairs to her heart's content without asking leave
first. All these privileges made packing-day, as a rule, something to
look forward to. But to-day nothing was happening as it usually did.

Breakfast had been gone through almost in silence, and the accustomed rush
to the bedrooms afterwards had taken place quite quietly and tamely. The
tidying of the bookshelves, which could generally