last evening."

"What's the matter with Nat Barclay?"

"He was once a pupil of mine, and he defied my authority, so I had to discharge him."

"That isn't what he says, Mr. Snowdon."

"What does he say?"

"He says that he found out you didn't know enough to teach him, and got his father to take him away from your school."

"Then the boy lied," said Mr. Snowdon, coloring deeply. "I'd like to thrash him."

"I dare say you would, Mr. Snowdon, but I don't think it would be exactly safe. Nat wouldn't stand it."

"He'd have to stand it, if I took it into my head to chastise him."

"If you had a scrimmage, I'd bet on Nat," said the bold pupil.

"Do you consider scrimmage a classical word?" asked Mr. Snowdon with a sneer.

"Well, not exactly. I suppose you know that Dryden uses it," said Bernard with a bold flight of imagination.

Now Mr. Snowdon was not sufficiently versed in English classical writers to know whether this statement was correct or not. So he equivocated to conceal his ignorance.

"Dryden is not always a correct writer," he added. "I never advise my pupils to imitate him. But that is neither here nor there. I have told you that I don't want you to go round with Nat Barclay."

"Why not? I am sure he is of good family. His father is a clergyman."

"It is from respect to his father that I did not chastise him when he was in my school."

"He says his father does not think much of your scholarship."

"It is because he has poisoned his father's mind against me by false and mendacious charges and statements. I can afford to look upon these with contempt since my alma mater bestowed upon me the honorary degree of P. D. at the last commencement."

"What does P. D. stand for?"

"Doctor of Philosophy," answered Mr. Snowdon in a lofty tone.

"Oh, I thought it might mean something else."

"What?" asked Mr. Snowdon suspiciously.

"Oh, it isn't material. I don't want to display my ignorance," said Bernard meekly.

"I am glad you are becoming sensible."

Mr. Snowdon did not press the question, as he conjectured that P. D., as understood by Bernard, would stand for something far from complimentary.

"I am going to the post-office, Mr. Snowdon. Can I do anything for you?"

"You may inquire if there are any letters for me."

"All right, sir."

Bernard was about to leave the room, when he turned as if struck by a sudden thought.

"May I inquire, Mr. Snowdon," he asked, "what authority you have for calling me 'a bad lot'?"

"I have the authority of Cornelius McCracken, your guardian."

"Does he say I am a bad lot?" asked Bernard, his brow contracting.

"Yes, he did."

"When did he say it?"

"In a letter I received last week."

"May I see the letter, Mr. Snowdon?"

"Yes," answered the teacher, "if it will give you any satisfaction."

"It will give me satisfaction to know exactly how he expresses himself in speaking of me."

Ezekiel Snowdon opened his desk, and took out a letter postmarked New York.

"There is the letter," he said, handing it to Bernard with a malicious smile. "Out of regard for your feelings I had not intended to show it to you, but since you desire it, I feel that I shall not be responsible for any wound your pride may receive." Bernard did not answer this speech, but taking the letter tendered him, opened and hastily read it. This was the letter:

"Ezekiel Snowdon, Esq.:

"Dear Sir—I am in receipt of your letter, complaining of my ward, Bernard Brooks. You say you find him disrespectful and insubordinate, and upon this ground you ask me to increase the price I pay for his education. I am quite aware that he is a bad lot. You will do me the justice to remember that in placing him under your charge I did not seek to extenuate the boy's faults. I told you that he was obstinate, independent, and headstrong. You told me that you had had great success in managing