l-minded are apt to assume when conscious of being in the wrong or
of having committed an injury which the victim has received with credit
and the offender has not forgiven. It is so much easier to grant pardon
for an injury received than for one given!

Edgar's own friends were more emphatic in their devotion to him than
ever--racking their young brains for ways in which to show their loyalty
and frequently looking into his face with the expression of soft
adoration and trust one sees in the eyes of a faithful dog. Edgar was
touched and gratified, and his sweet, spontaneous smile often rewarded
their efforts; but his face would soon become grave again and the boys
were aware that the mind of their gifted friend was busy with thoughts
in which they had no part. This gave them an impression of distance
between them and him. He all of a sudden, seemed to have become remote,
as though a chasm, by what power they knew not, had opened between
them--making their love for him as "the desire of the moth for the
star." They knew that he was more often than ever before working upon
his poetical and other compositions, but these were seldom shown, or
even mentioned, to them.

Each boy in his own way sought to bridge the gulf that separated them
from their idol. Robert Sully missed his Latin lesson on purpose in the
hope that Eddie would stay in and help him. And Eddie did, but wore that
same detached air in which there was no intimacy or comfort. When the
lesson was learned Edgar took a slate from the desk before them, rubbed
off the problem that was upon it, and quickly wrote down a little poem
of several stanzas. He held it out, with a smile, to Rob, telling him
that while teaching him his lesson he had been practicing "dividing his
mind," and that while one part of his brain had been putting English
into Latin the other part had composed the verses on the slate.

The dumfounded Rob read the verses aloud, but before he could express
his amazement Edgar had taken the slate from him and, with one swipe of
the damp spunge, obliterated the rhymes.

"Write them on paper for me, please," plead Robert.

The brilliant smile of the boy-poet flashed upon him. "Oh, they were not
worth keeping," said he, indifferently. "They were merely an exercise."
And picking up his books and hat, he walked out of the door, whistling
in clear, high, plaintive notes one of the melodies of his favorite Tom
Moore.

The boy left behind looked after him