curiously quiet—oppressively so. The fussy little alarm clock, on the table piled high with books, was ticking away, as if eager to call attention to itself. Indeed, it did succeed in a measure, for Tom remarked gently.

“Seems to me that sounds louder than it did in the other room.”

“There are more echoes here,” spoke Sid, also quietly. “It will be different when we get the things up.”

The spell had been broken. Each one breathed a sigh of relief. Phil, whose face had become strangely white, stared down at the telegram in his hand. The paper rustled loudly—almost as loudly as the clock ticked. Tom spoke again.

“Is it—is it something sudden?” he asked. “Was she all right when you left home to come back to college?”

“Not exactly all right,” answered Phil, and he seemed to be carefully picking his words, so slowly did he speak. “She had been in poor health for some time, and we thought a change of air would do her good. So father took her to Florida—a place near Palm Beach. I came on here, and I hoped to hear good news. Now—now——” He could not proceed, and turned away.

Tom coughed unnecessarily loud, and Sid seemed to have suddenly developed a most tremendous cold. He had to go to the window to look out, probably to see if it was getting colder. In doing so he knocked from a chair a football, which bounded erratically about the room, as the spherical pigskin always does bounce. The movements of it attracted the attention of all, and mercifully came as a relief to their overwrought nerves.

“Well,” said Sid, as he blew his nose with seemingly needless violence, “I suppose you’ll have to give up football now; for you’ll go to Florida.”

“Yes,” said Phil simply, “of course I shall go. I think I’ll wire dad first, though, and tell him I’m going to start.”

“I’ll take the message to the telegraph office for you,” offered Tom eagerly.

“No, let me go,” begged Sid. “I can run faster than you, Tom.”

“That’s a nice thing to say, especially when I’m going to try for end on the ’varsity eleven,” said Tom a bit reproachfully. “Don’t let Holly Cross or Coach Lighton hear you say that, or I’ll be down and out. I’m none too good in my running, I know, but I’m going to practice.”

“Oh, I guess you’ll make out all right,” commented Phil. “I’m much obliged to you fellows. I guess I can take the message myself, though,” and he sat down at the littered table, pushing the things aside, to write the dispatch.

Tom and Sid said little when Phil went out to take the telegram to the office. The two chums, one on the old patched sofa and the other in the creaking chair, which at every movement sent up a cloud of dust from the ancient cushion, maintained a solemn silence. Tom did remark once:

“Tough luck, isn’t it?”

To which Sid made reply:

“That’s what it is.”

But, then, to be understood, you don’t need to talk much under such circumstances. In a little while footsteps were heard along the corridor.

“Here he comes!” exclaimed Tom, and he arose from the sofa with such haste that the new boards, which Phil had put on to strengthen it, seemed likely to snap off.

“Go easy on that, will you?” begged Sid. “Do you want to break it?”

“No,” answered Tom meekly, and he fell to arranging his books, a task which Sid supplemented by piling the sporting goods indiscriminately in a corner. They wanted to be busy when Phil came in.

“Whew! You fellows are raising a terrible dust!” exclaimed Phil. He seemed more at his ease now. In grief there is nothing so diverting as action, and now that he had sent his telegram, and hoped to be able to see his mother shortly, it made the bad news a little easier to bear.

“Yes,” spoke Tom; “it’s Sid. He raises a dust every time he gets into or out of that chair. I really think we ought to send it to the upholsterer’s and have it renovated.”

“There’d be nothing left of it,” declared Phil. “Better let well enough alone. It’ll last for some years yet—as long as we are in Randall.”

“Did you send the message?” blurted out Tom.

“Yes, and now I’ll wait for an answer.”

“Is it—will they have to—I mean—of course there’s some danger in an operation,” stammered Sid, blushing like a girl.

“Yes,” admitted Phil gravely. “It is very dangerous. I don’t exactly know what it is, but before she went away our family doctor said that if it came to an operation it would be a serious one. Now—now it seems that it’s time for it. Dear old mother—I—I hope——” He was struggling with himself. “Oh, hang it all!” he suddenly burst out. “Let’s get this room to rights. If—if I go away I’ll have the nightmare thinking what shape it’s in. Let’s fix up a bit, and then go out and take a walk. Then it will be grub time. After that we’ll go out and see if any more fellows have arrived.”

It was good advice—just the thing needed to take their attention off Phil’s grief, and they fell to work with a will. In a short time the room began to look something like those they had left.

“Here, what are you sticking up over there?” called Sid to Tom, as he detected the latter in the act of tacking something on the wall.

“I’m putting up a photograph,” said Tom.

“A girl’s, I’ll bet you a new hat.”

“Yes,” said Tom simply. “Why, you old anchorite, haven’t I a right to? It’s a pity you wouldn’t get a girl yourself!”

“Humph! I’d like to see myself,” murmured Sid, as he carefully tacked up a calendar and a couple of football pictures.

“Oh, that’s Miss Tyler’s picture, isn’t it?” spoke Phil.

“Yes.”

Phil was sorting his books when from a volume of Pliny there dropped a photograph. Tom spied it.

“Ah, ha!” he exclaimed. “It seems that I’m not the only one to have girls’ pictures. Say, but she’s a good-looker, all right!”

“She’s my sister Ruth,” said Phil quietly.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” came quickly from Tom. “I—I didn’t know.”

“That’s all right,” spoke Phil genially. “I believe she is considered quite pretty. I was going to put her picture up on the wall, but since Sid objects to——”

“What’s that?” cried the amateur misogynist. “Say, you can put that picture up on my side of the room if you like, Phil. I—I don’t object to—to all girls’ pictures; it’s only—well—er—she’s your sister—put her picture where you like,” and he fairly glared at Tom.

“Wonders will never cease,” quoted the ’varsity pitcher. “Your sister has worked a miracle, Phil.”

“You dry up!” commanded Sid. “All I ask is, don’t make the room a photograph gallery. There’s reason in all things. Go ahead, Phil.”

“The next thing he’ll be wanting will be to have an introduction to your sister,” commented Tom.

“I’d like to have both you fellows meet her,” said Phil gravely. “You probably would have, only for this—this trouble of mother’s. Now I suppose sis will have to leave Fairview and go to Palm Beach with me. I must take a run over this evening, and see her. She’ll be all broken up.” It was not much of a journey to Fairview, a railroad was well as a trolley line connecting the town of that name with Haddonfield.

The room was soon fitted up in fairly good shape, though the three chums promised that they would make a number of changes in time. They went to dinner together,