It was a pretty little girl of about twelve or thirteen, with dark eyes
and hair like Jack's; but, unlike him, with a merry, sunny face, which
even under the eye of a photographer could not be made to look solemn.

"How jolly!" was my exclamation.

Jack looked as delighted with this unsentimental comment as if I had
broken out into all sorts of poetic raptures, and replied, in his
peculiar, solemn way, "Yes, she is jolly."

"Is she your only sister?" I asked, giving him back the portrait.

"Yes," said he.

"Was she very ill when you got down?"

"Yes; we hardly thought she was going to live," he replied.

"I heard how you were both getting on now and then from Mrs Shield.
She seems a very kind person."

"She's our old nurse, you know," Jack said, "and like a mother to Mary
and me."

He had never spoken like this about home before. Whenever we had
approached the topic he had nervously changed the conversation. Now,
however, he seemed almost glad to talk to some one, and there was quite
a tremble in his voice as he spoke of his sister and Mrs Shield.

"Then your own mother's not alive?" I asked. I had asked the same
question once at Stonebridge House, I remembered, and then he had almost
resented it.

"No, she died when Mary was born, fourteen years ago. I cannot remember
her at all."

"Just like me," I said. "I never saw my mother that I know of. I say,
Jack, let's look at that portrait again."

He was delighted to show it to me, and I was glad once more to get a
glimpse of that merry face.

"And your father," I inquired, presently, "is he dead too?"

"No!" said Jack, with a sudden return of his old abruptness.

I was perplexed, but it was no use, evidently, pumping my friend with
further questions in that direction. So we proceeded to undress in
silence, and were soon in bed.

Presently the other lodgers came up, and then there was no chance of
renewing our talk, even if Jack had been so inclined. But he seemed
evidently in no humour for pursuing it.

In due time all was quiet once more, and then, just as I was beginning
to feel drowsy, and was lying half awake, half asleep, fancying myself
back again at Stonebridge House in the old dormitory, I felt a hand on
my arm and heard Jack's voice whisper, "Fred, are you asleep?"

"No," I replied, moving over to make room for him as he slipped in
beside me.

"Fred," he whispered, "I'm afraid you think me a brute."

"No, I don't," replied I