They found the door of the matron’s office wide open and boys coming and going every minute. It was a good deal like a reception, Evan thought, as Rob, taking him by the arm, guided him into the room. The matron was a small, plump, middle-aged woman with red cheeks and very black hair, whom every fellow liked at first glance and usually worshiped devotedly by the end of his first term. Old boys returning to school made a bee-line from the stage to Number 1 First House, and shook hands with Mrs. Crow before they thought of anything else. Her sitting-room, or office as she preferred to call it, was a veritable museum of gifts from boys or their parents, gifts ranging from sea-shells to the mahogany arm-chair presented to her by last year’s graduating class. And there wasn’t a thing so tiny and trivial that she couldn’t tell you at once the name of the giver. She had very pleasant, kindly black eyes and a sweet voice, and loved a joke better than her afternoon tea. Rob wormed his way into the group about her, dragging Evan after him. “How do you do, Mrs. Crow?” he cried, seizing her hand and shaking it violently. “Aren’t you glad to see me?” “Why, Rob, how you do grow! Oh, my poor hand! Of course I’m glad to see you, even if you did forget to come and say good-by to me last June.” “I tried to, really, Mrs. Crow, but I couldn’t stand the――the ordeal. It would have saddened my whole summer. I want you to know my brother Evan. Evan, this is Mrs. Crow, of whom I talked incessantly all summer.” “How do you do?” asked Evan, taking the hand held out to him. Mrs. Crow gazed from Evan to Rob doubtfully. Some one sniggered. Evan felt somewhat embarrassed and looked appealingly at Rob’s beaming countenance. “I don’t believe it,” said the matron, finally. “He’s never your brother, Rob Langton; he doesn’t look the least bit like you. Now is he?” “My foster-brother, Mrs. Crow.” “He’s just fooling,” said Evan. “My name’s Evan Kingsford, Mrs. Crow――I mean Mrs.――” “Never mind,” she laughed; “they all call me that. I’m very glad to meet you, Mr. Kingsford. I hope you’ll like us. Let me see, you’re in Holden, aren’t you, if I’m not mistaken?” “Yes, ma’am. I was sent there at first.” “I remember; number 36.” “Wrong, Mrs. Crow; he’s with me in 32,” said Rob. “Really? But I’m sure my list says 36.” “They had him down for there, but he’s very delicate, and 36 is such a cold room that I rescued him. I’m going over to explain to the Doctor about it now. Come on, Evan.” “Well, I hope he will let you make the change,” said Mrs. Crow, dubiously. “But you know he doesn’t like to have the rooms empty.” “Then you tell him to let us have 36 for a parlor,” laughed Rob, dragging Evan away. “You must come to my teas, Mr. Kingsford,” called the matron. “Any Friday between four and six. Don’t forget, please.”