chool when he
was found sleeping that afternoon in the garden. The little fellow was
laid to rest in a country churchyard, at some distance from the school,
by the side of the mother whom he had so loved.

No one in the school, with the exception, perhaps, of Mr. Weevil, missed
him so much as Paul did. He had a great pity for Hibbert, and that pity
had grown to love. He never forgot that last scene in the garden--in the
warm sunshine, with the shadows creeping over it, and the Great Shadow
of all drawing nearer and nearer, until it at last rested on the boy's
head.

Nor did he forget the interview he afterwards had with Mr. Weevil, when,
with tones that were strangely uneven for Mr. Weevil, he had questioned
him about all that Hibbert had said in those last moments before he had
fallen asleep. When Paul told him what the boy had said about his
mother--of his dream, and the awakening--the master's eyes blinked as he
had never seen them blink before.

"Ah! He has his wish; he is with her--with his mother," said the master,
as one speaking to himself rather than to Paul. "He is at rest
and--happy."

Then he remained silent for so long, as one buried in deep thought, that
he seemed to have quite forgotten the presence of Paul. Paul knew of
whom he was thinking; that he, too, was thinking of the boy's
mother--the sister whom he had loved and reverenced; so he stole
quietly from the room.

During this time Paul saw nothing of Hibbert's father. He wondered
whether he was still carrying on his schemes in the cave, or whether the
death of his son had altered his plans in any way. In any case, Paul
felt no cause for alarm. The letter of Mr. Moncrief had removed all
cause for anxiety. None the less he could not help feeling anxious as to
what had become of the letter itself. Where had it gone to on that day
it had fallen from his pocket? Into whose hands had it fallen? Had it
fallen into the hands of the enemy, Newall and his lot? If so, what use
were they making of it?

He was still left pretty much to himself, so he was able to put the
finishing touches to his essay on "The Invasion of Great Britain," a
subject, as the reader knows, which had occupied some share of his time
and attention. Then the essay was sent in with others for the
competition.

The breach between him and Stanley, as may be imagined, had not been
lessened by what had happened between them in the common room. Stanley
avoided him as much as possible,