a good average Christian English boy, had not been trained in the strictly orthodox evangelical lines of the theology which ruled in Kestercham Vicarage. Still, Gerald was so happy, so ardent, so enthusiastic in his friend’s favour, that Mr. Eversley would not have had the heart, even if he had had the wish, to interfere with the friendship. After all, as he reflected, great and terrible is the responsibility of one who cuts a young soul adrift from the moorings of innocent friendship. Is not friendship sanctified by the Divine Example? Did not He whose life on earth is the model of all human lives say to His disciples in the most solemn hour of His soul’s history, ‘But I have called you friends’? And for the present at least--I am speaking of the first holidays--none of the ill effects which Mr. Eversley apprehended as possible were seen in Gerald. He was still as frank and genuine as ever, as full of interest in all that made up the life of Kestercham. He seemed not to need, not to desire, any companionship but his father’s. He seemed to have no secrets from him. He showed him all his letters, and among them one or two from Harry Venniker. He consulted him upon all his doings at St. Anselm’s. He spoke with the same certainty as before of being a clergyman; it did not seem that any other calling presented itself to his mind. In a word, he was still the same simple, dutiful, religious Gerald as before. Mr. Eversley thanked God for that; it was all that he had wished and prayed to find. So the first holidays passed, and so the succeeding holidays. It would not accord with the purpose of this story to say more of them. Gerald passed from thirteen to fifteen or sixteen, and Mr. Eversley was conscious of no change, or of none such as caused him any disquietude. A developed character indeed, a deeper thoughtfulness (though discernible only when something called it out), a wider knowledge of human things, a multifarious information which at times surprised his father, a somewhat more critical tone in speaking of the school--these things Mr. Eversley saw or felt; but no moral or spiritual change--no change in his boy’s relation to himself. They had, in his own words, lived one life until Gerald went to St. Anselm’s; they lived, or he thought they lived, but one life still. One morning, when Gerald was just sixteen, as he was sitting at breakfast with his father and Mrs. Eversley, the letters were brought in, and an envelope bearing a coronet upon it was handed to him. He recognised the handwriting at once; it was Harry Venniker’s; but, as he read the letter, a flush mantled upon his cheek. The flush did not escape Mr. Eversley. ‘What is it, Gerald?’ he said; ‘I see there is something important in your letter.’ ‘It’s from Venniker,’ was Gerald’s reply, and he passed the letter to his father.