e had been ill were willing to keep the baby; but Luke Matherson
claimed it, and would not give it up.

The babe had been given to him, if ever one had, he said; and, if no one
else loved it, he did. Of course, if anybody could prove a better claim
to it than his, he would be the last one to dispute it; but, if not, he
would keep the child and do the very best by him he knew how. He had no
folks of his own in the world, and was only too glad to feel that one
human being would grow up to care for him.

The farm-house people lost track of Luke Matherson when he left
Cincinnati. Thus when, some four months later, a broken-hearted man, who
had with infinite pains traced his wife and child to that line of
railroad, reached that part of the country, he could gain no further
information except that a baby, who might have been his, was saved from
the Glen Eddy disaster, but what had become of it nobody knew.

Chapter III.

A BOY WITHOUT A BIRTHDAY.

"It's no use, Glen," said the principal of the Brimfield High School,
kindly, but with real sorrow in his tone. "Your marks in everything
except history are so far below the average that I cannot, with justice
to the others, let you go on with the class any longer. So unless you
can catch up during the vacation, I shall be obliged to drop you into
the class below, and we'll go all over the same ground again next year.
I'm very sorry. It is a bad thing for a boy of your age to lose a whole
year; for this is one of the most important periods of your life. Still,
if you won't study, you can't keep up with those who will, that's
certain."

The boy to whom these words were spoken was a squarely built,
manly-looking chap, with brown curling hair, and big brown eyes. He was
supposed to be seventeen years old, but appeared younger. Now his cheeks
were flushed, and a hard, almost defiant, expression had settled on his
face.

"I know you are right, Mr. Meadows," he said, at length. "And you have
been very kind to me. It's no use, though. I just hate to study. I'd
rather work, and work hard at almost anything else, then I would know
what I was doing; but as for grinding away at stupid things like Latin
and geometry and trigonometry and natural philosophy, that can't ever be
of any earthly use to a fellow who doesn't intend to be either a
professor or an astronomer, I can't see the good of it at all."

"No, I don't suppose you can now," replied the principal, smiling, "but
you