For some time Andy sat without stirring. He had listened to the retreating footsteps of Dunk and Mortimer as the boys passed down the corridor, laughing. Through Wright Hall there echoed other footsteps--coming and going--there was the sound of voices in talk and in gay repartee. Students called one to the other, or in groups hurried here and there, intent on pleasure. Andy sat there alone--thinking--thinking. A log in the fireplace broke with a suddenness that startled him. A shower of sparks flew up the chimney, and a little puff of smoke shot out into the room. Andy roused himself. "Oh, hang it all!" he exclaimed aloud. "Why should I care? Let him go with that crowd--with Mort and his bunch if he likes. What difference does it make to me?" He stood up, his arm on the mantel where had rested the Japanese vase purchased so mysteriously. Now only the fragments of it were there. A comparison between that shattered vase and what might be the shattered friendship between himself and his roommate came to Andy, but he resolutely thrust it aside. "What difference does it make to me?" he asked himself. "Let him go his own way, and I'll go mine." He crossed to the book rack on the window sill, intending to do some studying. On the broad stone ledge outside the casement he kept his bottle of spring water. It was a cooler place than the room. Andy poured himself out a drink, and as he sipped it he said again: "Why should I care what he does?" Then, from off in the distance he heard the chimes of a church, playing "Adestes Fideles." He stood listening--entranced as the tones came to him, softened by the night air. And there seemed to whisper to him a still, small voice that asked: "Am I my brother's keeper?" Andy shut the window softly, and, going back to his chair sat staring into the fire. It was dying down, the embers settling into the dead ashes. It was very still and quiet in the little room. All Wright Hall was very still and quiet now. "I--I guess I'll have to care--after all," whispered Andy. Footsteps were heard coming along the corridor, and, for a moment Andy had a wild hope that it might be Dunk returning. But as he listened he knew it was not his chum. Someone knocked on the door. "Come!" called Andy sharply. It could be none of his friends, he knew. A messenger entered with a note, and, observing an unfamiliar handwriting, Andy wondered from whom it could be. He ripped it open and uttered an exclamation. He read: "Dear Mr. Blair: "I am doing a little engagement at Poli's. Won't you drop around and see me? I promise not to compel you to play the fireman. "Sincerely yours, "MAZIE FULLER." "Jove!" murmured Andy. "I forgot all about her." "Any answer?" asked the messenger. "No." The boy started out. "Oh, yes. Wait a minute." Andy scribbled an acceptance. "Here," he said, and handed the boy a quarter.