Roger at once among the
saints, let it be added that he took his place in as genuine a bad
temper as a strong mind and a weak body between them are capable of
generating.

"Roger, my dear boy," said the captain mournfully, as became the weeds
he wore, "you are looking poorly. You need a change. We both need one
after the trouble we have been through. I think a run up to London
would brace us up. Would you like it?"

"I don't know," said Roger shortly. "I don't think so."

"It is trying to you, I am sure, to remain here, in your delicate
health, among so many sad associations--"

"I'm quite well, thank you," said the boy. "Tom, how does the football
get on?"

"Oh," said Tom, rather taken aback by the introduction of so congenial a
theme from so unexpected a quarter, "I've not played very much lately.
Jill and I had a little punt about yesterday; but we did it quite
slowly, you know, and I had my crape on my arm."

Jill flushed up guiltily. The housekeeper, who since Mrs Ingleton's
death had assumed the moral direction of the young lady, had
expostulated with her in no mild terms on the iniquity of young ladies
playing football, even of a funereal order, and she felt it very
treacherous on the part of the faithless Tom to divulge her ill-doings
now.

She felt reassured, however, when Mr Armstrong smiled grimly.

"Nobody could see," said she; "and Tom _did_ want a game so dreadfully."

"We played Association," said Tom. "Jill got two goals and I got fifty-
six."

"No, I got three," said Jill.

"Oh, that first wasn't a goal," said Tom. "You see, she got past me
with a neat bit of dribbling; but she ran, and the rule was only to
walk, you know, because of being in mourning."

"I really didn't run, I only walked very fast," said Jill.

"I should think you might allow her the goal," said Mr Armstrong.

Mr Armstrong was always coming to Jill's rescue; and if any of her
heart had been left to win, he would have won it now. Tom gave in, and
said he supposed he would have to let her count it; and was vastly
consoled for his self-denial by Roger's proposal to join him in a game
that very day.

Before that important function came off, however, Roger and his tutor
had a somewhat uncomfortable talk in the library.

"You are feeling out of sorts, old fellow," said the latter when they
were left alone.

"I've had a letter," said Roger.

"Another?"

"Read it, please."

"If you wish it, I will. Last