bered what he had done with it.

Nothing more was done that evening. Study had helped to drive away
the smaller qualms of conscience the day before; but he was now so
sick at heart, that he remained with his head on his hand doing
nothing, puzzling himself in vain to remember what he had done
with the poem.

CHAPTER XXI.

It was Saturday night when the manuscripts were delivered to the
doctor, and it was not till Monday that the absence of Hamilton's
poem was discovered. As much of Sunday as he was able, Louis spent
with Casson, trying to discover what could have become of the poem,
and in devising all manner of schemes for its recovery and restoration.
Little comfort he received from his tempter--Casson alternately laughed
at his fears, and blamed his cowardice--and, in order to escape this,
Louis affected to be indifferent to the consequences, concealing his
heaviness of heart under assumed mirth and unconcern. He had lately
spent many cold, careless Sabbaths, but one so utterly wretched as
this he could not remember.

The boys had just left the dining-room on Monday, after dinner, when
a summons to the doctor's study came for Hamilton. As this was not an
uncommon occurrence, Hamilton betrayed neither curiosity nor uneasiness,
but quietly gave a few directions to his little brother, and then
leisurely left the room. He was soon in the presence of Dr. Wilkinson,
Mr. James Wilkinson, and an old gentleman who had a day or two before
been examining his class, and who usually assisted in the half-yearly
examinations. The countenances of these gentlemen were not very
promising, and he instantly saw that something unpleasant might
be expected. Before the doctor lay a number of folded papers, which
Hamilton recognized as the poems under consideration, and in his
hand was a blank sheet of paper, the envelope of which had fallen
on the floor.

"Mr. Hamilton," said the doctor, "I have sent for you to explain
this strange affair. Pray can you tell me what was in this envelope?"
He stooped, and, picking up the paper as he spoke, handed it to Hamilton.

"My poem, sir," replied Hamilton, quietly.

"You are sure that is your writing?"

"Quite," said Hamilton, confidently.

"I have been able to discover nothing more than this," said the doctor,
with something like annoyance in his tone. "I do not know whether you
have been writing with invisible ink. This is a mistake, Hamilton,"
he added, turning the blank sheet i