When I was a boy about fifteen or sixteen, I was at Dr. Spanker’s school, in Berkshire, and if anybody ever had a life like a long summer day, without a cloud or a cold nipping wind, that life was mine in those days. The boys were the heartiest, jolliest fellows that ever threw a quoit or kicked a ball; we knew every orchard, every bathing place, every level piece of land for racing or cricket, every hill side for nutting, and hedge-row for blackberrying, within twelve miles of the school. We were all hand-and-glove in every exploit, and many a glorious scrape we got into. Poor Dr. Spanker, how it was he did not go out of his mind we never could make out; but he was such an easy-going, good-natured man, and so thoroughly sympathised with young life, that he winked at many things which other schoolmasters would have made a terrible fuss about, and never punished anybody for their freaks unless those freaks infringed upon some moral law. We loved the old Doctor as cordially as if he had been our father, and in the whole school I don’t believe there was one boy who would not rather have had his teeth knocked down his throat than have wilfully said or done anything which would have given the dear old gentleman pain. The boys were not mere school acquaintances, but real friends; and now, although years have passed away, the best friends I have in the world are those who were my friends when I was a boy at school. Andrew Morris was one of my great chums, and never did two boys “hit it” more thoroughly than did we. In sport, in study, and in more serious things, our thoughts, and desires, and aspirations were as one. It was in the winter of 18— that my story commences. Christmas was at hand; the school had broken up for the holidays, and Andrew Morris had been invited to spend the first fortnight with me at my father’s house in Marantby. There were coaches in those days; and, as we sat on the roof wrapped up to the chin with the snow falling around us, we talked about our plans for the holidays, and wondered what sort of a programme they had drawn up at home for our amusement. It was a cheery sight to see our house as it stood among the trees in the snow, with columns of smoke rising from the chimneys, and lights gleaming in the hall and from the windows. Long before the coach drew up, our loud hallos had brought all the family to the door; and then there was such a commotion as to who should get the first kiss, and who should carry in the boxes. In the commotion, my sister Nell ran up to Andrew Morris and gave him a good sound kiss, and then uttered a little scream, as if she had mistaken him for me. (O! Nelly, Nelly, sly little puss, that was not the first time you had seen Andrew, and that was not the last kiss he ever had from you.)