grandmother of course kept her promise. That evening she read it
aloud.

"They were Ryeburn boys--Ryeburn boys to their very heart's core--Jack
and his younger brother Carlo, as somehow he had got to be called in the
nursery, before he could say his own name plainly."

"That's uncle Charlton, who died when he was only about fifteen,"
whispered Sylvia to Ralph and Molly; "you see grandmother's written it
out like a regular story--not saying 'your uncle this' or 'your uncle
that,' every minute. Isn't it nice?"

Grandmother stopped to see what all the whispering was about.

"We beg your pardon, grandmother, we'll be quite quiet now," said the
three apologetically.

"They had been at school at Ryeburn since they were quite little fellows,
and they thought that nowhere in the world was there a place to be
compared with it. Holidays at home were very delightful, no doubt, but
school-days were delightful too. But for the sayings of good-byes to the
dear people left at home--father and mother, big sister and little one,
I think Jack and Carlo started for their return journey to school at the
end of the midsummer holidays _very_ nearly as cheerfully as they had set
off for home eight weeks previously, when these same delightful holidays
had begun. Jack had not very many more half-years to look forward to: he
was to be a soldier, and before long must leave Ryeburn in preparation
for what was before him, for he was fifteen past. Carlo was only thirteen
and small of his age. He _had_ known what it was to be homesick, even at
Ryeburn, more than three years ago, when he had first come there. But
with a big brother--above all a big brother like Jack, great strong
fellow that he was, with the kindest of hearts for anything small or
weak--little Carlo's preliminary troubles were soon over. And now at
thirteen he was very nearly, in his way, as great a man at Ryeburn as
Jack himself. Jack was by no means the cleverest boy at the school, far
from it, but he did his book work fairly well, and above all honestly. He
was honesty itself in everything, scorned crooked ways, or whatever he
considered meanness, with the exaggerated scorn of a very young and
untried character, and, like most boys of his age, was inclined, once he
took up a prejudice, to carry it to all lengths.

"There was but one cloud over their return to school this special autumn
that I am telling you of, and that was the absence of a favourite
master--one of the young