e since she had passed him in
the campus, and each time he had been very careful to avoid her. But one
morning he ran plump into her in the corridor of School Hall, so plump,
in fact, that he knocked the book she was carrying from her hand. Of
course there was nothing to do but stoop and rescue it from the floor,
and when that was done it was too late to escape. As he handed the book
back to her he looked defiantly into the blue eyes and said, "Good
morning, Miss Harriet." Strange to say, he was not immediately
annihilated. Instead the blue eyes smiled at him with a most friendly
gleam, and,

"Good morning," said Harry. Then, "Only I oughtn't to answer you for
calling me 'Miss Harriet'; you know I hate Harriet."

"Excuse me, I meant Miss _Harry_," answered Roy a trifle stiffly. It was
hard to forget that cut direct.

"That's better," she said. "You--you haven't been down to inquire after
the health of the baby since you rescued him."

"No, but I hope he's all right?"

"Yes, but Methuselah is awfully sick."

"He's the parrot, isn't he?" asked Roy. "What's wrong with the old
sinner?"

"He's got a dreadful sore throat," was the reply. "I've tied it up with
a cloth soaked in turpentine half a dozen times, but he just won't let
it be."

"Are you sure it's sore throat?" asked Roy gravely.

"Yes, his voice is almost gone. Why, he can scarcely talk above a
whisper!"

Roy thought to himself that that wasn't such a catastrophe as Harry
intimated, but he was careful not to suggest such a thing to her.
Instead he looked properly regretful.

"Don't you want to see him?" asked Harry, in the manner of one
conferring an unusual favor. Roy declared that he did and Harry led the
way toward the barn, her red hair radiant in the morning sunlight. On
the way they passed two of the boys, who observed them with open-eyed
surprise. Harry's favor was not easy to win and, being won, something to
prize, since she stood near the throne and was popularly believed to be
able to command favors for her friends.

Methuselah certainly did look sick. He was perched on the edge of his
soap box domicile, viewing the world with pessimistic eyes, when Harry
conducted the visitor into the enclosure and sent the pigeons whirling
into air. Harry went to him and stroked his head with her finger.

"Poor old 'Thuselah," she murmured. "Did he have a sore throat? Well, it
was a nasty, mean shame. But he's a naughty boy for scratching off the
bandag