prove that a glorious deed had been done at the cost of a gallant life.
England was thrilled because the hero happened to be the son of a
popular Minister. The name of Desmond rang through the Empire. John
bought every paper and devoured the meagre lines which left so much
between them. It seemed that a certain position had to be taken--a small
hill. For the hundredth time in this campaign too few men were detailed
for the task. The reek of that awful slaughter on Spion Kop was still
strong in men's nostrils. Beauregard and his soldiers halted at the foot
of the hill, halted in the teeth of a storm of bullets. Then the word
was given to attack. But the fire from invisible foes simply
exterminated the leading files. The moment came when those behind
wavered and recoiled. And then Desmond darted forward--alone, cheering
on his fellows. They were all afoot. The men rallied and followed. But
they could not overtake the gallant figure pressing on in front. He
ran--so the Special Correspondent reported--as if he were racing for a
goal. The men staggered after him, aflame with his ardour. They reached
the top, captured the guns, drove down the enemy, and returned to the
highest point to find their leader--shot through the heart, and dead,
and smiling at death. Of all the men who passed through that blizzard of
bullets he was the youngest by two years.

Warde told John that the Head Master would preach upon the last Sunday
evening of the term, with special reference to Harry Desmond. Could John
bear it? John nodded. Since the first breakdown in Warde's study, his
heart seemed to have turned to ice. His religious sense, hitherto strong
and vital, failed him entirely. He abandoned prayer.

* * * * *

Evensong was over in Harrow Chapel. The Head Master, stately in surplice
and scarlet hood, entered the pulpit, and, in his clear, calm tones,
announced his text, taken from the 17th verse of the First Chapter of
the Book of Ruth--

* * * * *

"The Lord do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee and
me."

The subject of the sermon was "Friendship:" the heart's blood of a
Public School: Friendship with its delights, its perils, its peculiar
graces and benedictions.

"To-night," concluded the preacher, amid the breathless silence of the
congregation, "this thought of Friendship has for us a special
solemnity. It is consecrated by the memory of one whom