trivet.'

'Of course you will, won't you, my dear?' Mrs. Knight demanded fondly of
her son.

Henry nodded weakly.

The interesting and singular fact about the situation is that these
three adults, upright, sincere, strictly moral, were all lying, and
consciously lying. They knew that Henry's symptoms differed in no
particular from those of his usual attacks, and that his usual attacks
had a minimum duration of twelve hours. They knew that he was decidedly
worse at half-past three than he had been at half-past two, and they
could have prophesied with assurance that he would be still worse at
half-past four than he was then. They knew that time would betray them.
Yet they persisted in falsehood, because they were incapable of
imagining the Speech Day ceremony without Henry in the midst. If any
impartial friend had approached at that moment and told them that Henry
would spend the evening in bed, and that they might just as well resign
themselves first as last, they would have cried him down, and called him
unfriendly and unfeeling, and, perhaps, in the secrecy of their hearts
thrown rotten eggs at him.

It proved to be the worst dyspeptic visitation that Henry had ever had.
It was not a mere 'attack'--it was a revolution, beginning with slight
insurrections, but culminating in universal upheaval, the overthrowing
of dynasties, the establishment of committees of public safety, and a
reign of terror. As a series of phenomena it was immense, variegated,
and splendid, and was remembered for months afterwards.

'Surely he'll be better _now_!' said Mrs. Knight, agonized.

But no! And so they carried Henry to bed.

At six the martyr uneasily dozed.

'He may sleep a couple of hours,' Aunt Annie whispered.

Not one of the three had honestly and openly withdrawn from the position
that Henry would be able to go to the prize-giving. They seemed to have
silently agreed to bury the futile mendacity of the earlier afternoon in
everlasting forgetfulness.

'Poor little thing!' observed Mrs. Knight.

His sufferings had reduced him, in her vision, to about half his
ordinary size.

At seven Mr. Knight put on his hat.

'Are you going out, father?' his wife asked, shocked.

'It is only fair,' said Mr. Knight, 'to warn the school people that
Henry will not be able to be present to-night. They will have to alter
their programme. Of course I shan't stay.'

In pitying the misfortune of the school, thus suddenly and at so
criti