That last week went with a rattling speed and provided a number of most interesting situations. In the first place there was the joy--a simple but delightful one--on Monday morning, of thinking of those “others” who were entering, with laggard foot, into old Parlow's study--that study with the shining map of Europe on the wall, a bust of Julius Cæsar (conquered Britain? B.C.), and the worn red carpet. They would all be there. They would wonder where he was, and on discovering that he would never come again, Willie Daffoll, of recent tragic memory, would be pleased because now he would be chief and leader. Well, let him!... Yes, that was all very pleasant to think of. There was further the thought that school might not, after all, be exactly what Peter imagined it. The pictures in his mind were evolved from his reading of “David Copperfield.” There would be people like Steerforth and dear Traddles, there would be a master who played the flute, there would be rebellions and riots--would there? Mrs. Trussit was of little value on this occasion: “Mrs. Trussit, were you ever at school?” “No, Master Peter, I was never at school. My good mother, who died at the ripe old age of ninety-two with all her faculties, gave me a liberal and handsome education with her own hands.” “Do you think it will be like 'David Copperfield'?” Mrs. Trussit was ignorant of the work in question. “Of course, Master Peter. How can you ask such a thing? They are all like that, I believe. But, there, run away now. It's time for me to be looking after your mother's supper,” &c. &c. Mrs. Trussit obviously knew nothing whatever about it, although Peter heard her once murmuring “Poor lamb” as she gave him mixed biscuits out of her tin. Stephen also was of little use, and he didn't seem especially glad when he heard about it. “And it's a good school, do you think?” he said. “Of course,” said Peter valiantly, “one of the very best. It's in Devonshire, and I leave by the eight o'clock train” (this very importantly). The fact of the matter was that Peter was so greatly excited by it all that abandoning even Stephen was a minor sorrow. It was a dreadful pity of course, but Peter intended to write most wonderful letters, and there would be the joyful meeting when the holidays came round, and he would be a more sensible person for Stephen to have for a friend after he'd seen the world. “Dear Stephen--I shall write every week--every Friday I expect. That will be a good day to choose.” “Yes--that'll be a good day. Well, 'ere's the end of yer as yer are. It'll be another Peter coming back, maybe. Up along they'll change yer.” “But never me and you, Steve. I shall love you always.” The man seized him almost fiercely by the shoulders and looked him in the face. “Promise me that, boy,” he said, “promise me that. Yer most all I've got now. But I'm a fool to ask yer--of course yer'll change. I'm an ignorant fool.”