Of one thing he was excitedly conscious: that dreadful and persistent dragging feeling at the nape of his neck had vanished. It didn't seem possible that it could have disappeared overnight, but it had, for the present, at least. He went into the sitting room. Nobody was there, either, so he broke his sealed shell boxes, filled his case with sixes and fives and double B's, drew his expensive ducking gun from its case and took a look at it, buckled the straps of his hip boots to his belt, felt in the various pockets of his shooting coat to see whether matches, pipe, tobacco, vaseline, oil, shell extractor, knife, handkerchief, gloves, were in their proper places; found them so, and, lighting another cigarette, strolled contentedly around the small and almost bare room, bestowing a contented and patronizing glance upon each humble article and decoration as he passed. Evidently this photograph, in an oval frame of old-time water gilt, was a portrait of Miss Herold's mother. What a charming face, with its delicate, high-bred nose and lips! The boy, Jim, had her mouth and nose, and his sister her eyes, slightly tilted to a slant at the outer corners--beautifully shaped eyes, he remembered. He lingered a moment, then strolled on, viewing with tolerant indifference the few poor ornaments on the mantel, the chromos of wild ducks and shore birds, and found himself again by the lamp-lit table from which he had started his explorations. On it were Jim's Latin book, a Bible, and several last year's magazines. Idly he turned the flyleaf of the schoolbook. Written there was the boy's name--"Jim, from Daddy." As he was closing the cover a sudden instinct arrested his hand, and, not knowing exactly why, he reopened the book and read the inscription again. He read it again, too, with a vague sensation of familiarity with it, or with the book, or something somehow connected with it, he could not tell exactly what; but a slightly uncomfortable feeling remained as he laid aside the book and stood with brows knitted and eyes absently bent on the stove. The next moment Jim came in, wearing a faded overcoat which he had outgrown. "Hello!" said Marche, looking up. "Are you ready for me, Jim?" "Yes, sir." "What sort of a chance have I?" "I'm afraid it is blue-bird weather," said the boy diffidently. Marche scowled, then smiled. "Your sister said it would probably be that kind of weather. Well, we all have to take a sporting chance with things in general, don't we, Jim?" "Yes, sir." Marche picked up his gun case and cartridge box. The boy offered to take them, but the young man shook his head. "Lead on, old sport!" he said cheerily. "I'm a beast of more burdens than you know anything about. How's your father, by the way?" "I think father is about the same." "Doesn't he need a doctor?" "No, sir, I think not." "What is it, Jim? Fever?" "I don't know," said the boy, in a low voice. He led the way, and Marche followed him out of doors.