ne shall be made good."

The man knuckled his forehead and withdrew. Jack was left alone with
his judge, and felt that the case was ended.

"Now, sir," said the latter, in a cold, rasping tone, "you have
succeeded in bringing public disgrace on the school, and I hope you are
satisfied. Go to the little music-room, and remain there for the
present."

There was something ominous in the brevity of this reprimand. No
punishment had been mentioned, but in the school traditions the little
music-room was looked upon as a sort of condemned cell. Every one knew
the subsequent fate of boys who had been sent there on previous
occasions; and in a short time the news was in everybody's mouth that
Fenleigh J. was going to be expelled. It was a grave offence to hold
any communication with a person undergoing solitary confinement, yet,
before Jack had been very long a prisoner, a pebble hit the window, and
looking out he saw Rosher.

"I say," began the latter dolefully, "I'm awfully sorry you've been
found out. If you like, I'll go and tell Westford I was with you."

"Of course you won't. What's the good?"

"Well, I thought perhaps you'd think I was a sneak if I didn't. I'm
afraid you'll get the sack," continued Rosher sadly. "It was awfully
good of you, Fenleigh, not to split; you always were a brick. I say,
we were rather chummy when you first came, if you remember; and then we
had a bit of a row. I suppose it don't matter now. If you like, I'll
write you when you get home."

It was something, at such an hour, to have the sympathy and friendship
even of a scapegrace like Rosher. The prisoner said "it didn't
matter," and so they parted.

For some time Jack wandered round the little room, swinging the blind
cords, and trifling with the broken-down metronome on the mantelpiece.
It was this very instrument that had been upset when he sent Rosher
sprawling into the fireplace; and yet, here was the same fellow talking
about keeping up a correspondence. A litter of torn music lay on the
top of the piano; among it a tattered hymn-book. Jack turned over the
pages until he came to "Hark, hark, my soul!" and then, sitting down,
played the air through several times with one finger. It was a tune
that had been popular on Sunday evenings at Brenlands, and the children
had always called it Queen Mab's hymn.

Jack shut the book with a bang. In less than a fortnight's time he
ought to have been with her again, and what wou