He found Carroll fortunately in his own room in the Old School. For once Reginald was studying, and Tony could scarcely remember when he had seen him so engaged. But the Sixth Former closed his Horace with relief as he recognized his visitor and kicked out a chair for him to sit down. “Well, I am certainly glad you have come. Heaven knows how long I would have kept at that futile exercise, if it had not been pleasantly interrupted. But what’s up, my boy, you look as if you had seen a ghost?” Tony sat down on the chair that Carroll had pushed out. “I have, Reggie,” he said, “I have just got a letter from home; worse luck. My mother’s ill, and I have to start south to-night.” “Jove, that is hard luck! When shall you get back, do you suppose?” “I don’t know. I don’t think my mother is dangerously ill, but she wants me. There’s been a mess about money too. The old governor has written, and says I may not get back at all—not this term any way.” “Not this term!” Reggie jumped up quickly, all the habitual languor of his attitude and movements gone, and strode over to the window. “No, I’m afraid not, Reggie.” “Why—why—I’ll be gone next term, boy.” “I know, old man.” For a moment Carroll turned his back to Tony and looked out of the window into the deepening twilight, and was silent. There was a lump in his throat that kept him from speaking. “I’ve only a few minutes, Reggie, old boy,” said Tony, at last. “I am leaving in an hour and I am only half packed. I’ve got to say good-bye.” Carroll turned at this: a pathetic smile was on his lips. “It has come so suddenly, boy ... it’s kind of taken the wind out of my sails.” He came over then and took Tony’s hand in his. “Tonio, ... I can’t say good-bye.... You’ll write to me ... you will come back surely.... I’ll be at Kingsbridge and often back at school.” “I hope so, Reggie.” “You don’t know, boy,” Reggie went on, still holding Tony’s hand, “I can’t tell you what your being here has meant for me—you and Bill. We haven’t seen each other much this year, and I reckon I’ve often seemed to you a poor sort of friend ... but, to put it poetically, old chap, ... the light o’ my heart goes out with you.” Tony gripped the hand in his tightly at this. There was a lump in his throat too. “Good-bye, Reggie.... I will write, and you be sure to write to me. Tell me all that’s going on.... Have an eye on Finch, will you? Poor duffer!” “Poor duffer, indeed!” said Carroll, and then added, “Poor me!” Their hands clasped tightly, and then Tony was gone.