subsided into his chair as he spoke.

“Pray forgive me for being so late. A little deputation from the town, Mr Rounds, my churchwarden; Mr Dodge, the people’s. A little question of dispute calling for a gentle policy on my part, and—but, no matter; it will not interest you, neither does it interest me now, in the face of our studies. Mr Macey, shall I run over your paper now?”

Macey made a grimace at Vane, as he passed his paper to the rector; and, as it was taken, Vane glanced at Distin, and saw that his lips were moving as he bent over his Greek. Vane saw a red spot in each of his sallow cheeks, and a peculiar twitching about the corners of his eyes, giving the lad a nervous, excitable look, and making Vane remark,—

“What a pity it all is. Wish he couldn’t be so easily put out. He can’t help it, I suppose, and I suppose I can. There, he shan’t quarrel with me again. I suppose I ought to pitch into him for throwing the book at my head, but I could fight him easily, and beat him, and, if I did, what would be the good? I should only make him hate me instead of disliking me as he does. Bother! I want to go on with my Greek.”

He rested his head upon his hands determinedly, and, after a great deal of effort, managed to condense his thoughts upon the study he had in hand; and when, after a long morning’s work, the rector smilingly complimented him upon his work, he looked up at him as if he thought it was meant in irony.

“Most creditable, sir, most creditable; and I wish I could say the same to you, my dear Macey. A little more patient assiduity—a little more solid work for your own sake, and for mine. Don’t let me feel uncomfortable when the Alderman, your respected father, sends me his customary cheque, and make me say to myself, ‘We have not earned this honourably and well.’”

The rector nodded to all in turn, and went out first, while, as books were being put together, Macey said sharply:—

“Here, Vane; I’m going to walk home with you. Come on!”

Vane glanced at Distin, who stood by the table with his eyes half-closed, and his hand resting upon the dictionary he had turned into a missile.

“He’s waiting to hear what I say,” thought Vane, quickly. Then aloud:—“All right, then, you shall. I see through you, though. You want to be asked to lunch on the toadstools.”

In spite of himself, Vane could not help stealing another glance at Distin, and read in the contempt which curled his upper lip that he was accusing him mentally of being a coward, and eager to sneak away.

“Well, let him,” he thought. “As I am not afraid of him, I can afford it.”

Then he glanced at Gilmore who was standing sidewise to the window with his hands in his pockets; and he frowned as he encountered Vane’s eyes, but his face softened directly.

“I won’t ask you to come with us, Gil,” said Vane frankly.

“All right, old Weathercock,” cried Gilmore; and his face lit up now with satisfaction.

“He doesn’t think I’m afraid,” said Vane to himself.

“Am I to wait all day for you?” cried Macey.

“No; all right, I’m coming,” said Vane, finishing the strapping together of his books.—“Ready now.”

But he was not, for he hesitated for a moment, coloured, and then his face, too, lit up, and he turned to Distin, and held out his hand.

“I’m afraid I lost my temper a bit, Distie,” he said; “but that’s all over now. Shake hands.”

Distin raised the lids of his half-closed eyes, and gazed full at the speaker, but his hand did not stir from where it rested upon the book.

And the two lads stood for some moments gazing into each other’s eyes, till the blue-veined lids dropped slowly over Distin’s, and without word or further look, he took his cigarette case out of his pocket, walked deliberately out of the study, and through the porch on to the gravel drive, where, directly after, they heard the sharp crick-crack of a match.

“It’s all going to end in smoke,” said Macey, wrinkling up his forehead. “I say, it isn’t nice to wish it, because I may be in the same condition some day; but I do hope that cigarette will make him feel queer.”

“I wouldn’t have his temper for anything,” cried Gilmore, angrily. “It isn’t English to go on like that.”

“Oh, never mind,” said Vane; “he’ll soon cool down.”

“Yes; but when he does, you feel as if it’s only a crust,” cried Gilmore.

“And that the jam underneath isn’t nice,” added Macey. “Never mind. It’s nothing fresh. We always knew that our West India possessions were rather hot. Come on, Vane. I don’t know though. I don’t want to go now.”

“Not want to come? Why?”

“Because I only wanted to keep you two from dogs delighting again.”

“You behaved very well, Vane, old fellow,” said Gilmore, ignoring Macey’s attempts to be facetious. “He thinks you’re afraid of him, and if he don’t mind he’ll someday find out that he has made a mistake.”

“I hope not,” said Vane quietly. “I hate fighting.”

“You didn’t seem to when you licked that gipsy chap last year.”

Vane turned red.

“No: that’s the worst of it. I always feel shrinky till I start; and then, as soon as I get hurt, I begin to want to knock the other fellow’s head off—oh, I say, don’t let us talk about that sort of thing; one has got so much to do.”

“You have, you mean,” said Gilmore, clapping him on the shoulder. “What’s in the wind now, Weathercock?”

“He’s making a balloon,” said Macey, laughing.

Vane gave quite a start, as he recalled his thoughts about flight that morning.

“Told you so,” cried Macey merrily; “and he’s going to coax pepper-pot Distin to go up with him, and pitch him out when they reach the first lake.”

“No, he isn’t,” said Gilmore; “he’s going to be on the look-out, for Distie’s sure to want to serve him out on the sly if he can.”

“Coming with us?” said Vane.

“No, not this time, old chap,” said Gilmore, smiling. “I’m going to be merciful to your aunt and spare her.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll come when Aleck Macey stops away. He does eat at such a frightful rate, that if two of us came your people would never have us in at the Little Manor again.”

Macey made an offer as if to throw something, but Gilmore did not see it, for he had stepped close up to Vane and laid his hand upon his shoulder.

“I’m going to stop with Distie. Don’t take any notice of his temper. I’m afraid he cannot help it. I’ll stay and go about with him, as if nothing had happened.”

Vane nodded and went off with Macey, feeling as if he had never liked Gilmore so much before; and then the little unpleasantry was forgotten as they walked along from the rectory gates, passing, as they reached the main road, a party of gipsies on their way to the next town with their van and cart, both drawn by the most miserable specimens of the four-legged creature known as horse imaginable, and followed by about seven or eight more horses and ponies, all of which found time to crop a little grass by the roadside as cart and van were dragged slowly along.

It was not an attractive-looking procession, but the gipsies themselves seemed active and well, and the children riding or playing about the vehicles appeared to be happy enough, and the swarthy, dark-eyed women, both old and young, good-looking.

Just in front of the van, a big dark man of forty slouched along, with a whip under his arm, and a black pipe in his mouth; and every now and then he seemed to remember that he had the said whip, and took it in hand, to give it a crack which sounded like a pistol shot, with the result that the horse in the van threw up