"Oh--Dean, I want to see you--come in--sit down. It's about a matter--a--" he hesitated. Why did the man fumble so, and fidget with the blotter on his desk? The room was almost dark, he could hardly see the master's face. Suddenly Mr. Fletcher got up and walked across the room to the fireplace where he stood for a moment with his back to John. Then abruptly he turned. "Dean--I hardly know what to say--how to tell you--I'm--I'm--you must be brave, my dear lad, but I know you will be--you will be," he repeated. John just stared at him. What had happened--and was he to blame in any way? "What's the matter, sir?" he asked. Fletcher drew near and put his hand on John's shoulder. "I have sad news, John. Your father--" John started to his feet; why had Mr. Fletcher's hand trembled so? "There's nothing wrong, sir?" he asked, his heart sinking within him, for he knew now something was wrong. "No, not wrong, Dean--but everything that could be brave, and like him. My poor boy, your father is dead--there--there, it is terrible for you, I know." Mr. Fletcher pressed him down on to his seat again. "Dead!" said John,--"not--not dead, sir?" he pleaded, raising his hand as if to ward off a blow. "This letter has just come, Dean, by express post." John took it, and the master crossed the room to the electric switch. "I'd rather it was dark, sir,--I think I can see it," said John. "Certainly," replied Mr. Fletcher, and with an aching heart he watched the boy go to the window and peer over the letter. It seemed an eternity before John turned and spoke. "There--there seems no hope, sir--the company has none," he said in an expressionless voice. "No, Dean, I fear not--it is terrible." "Yes," echoed John. Why did the boy stand there so silent, so emotionless, with the letter in his hand? Anything was better than this unnatural calm. Did he realise yet? "Dad--died fighting," said John, jerkily. "Yes--to the last, they say. He defended them magnificently--you have that to remember. These massacres are terrible, terrible--I--" he paused. Still John stood there. Mr. Fletcher had expected an outburst, had prepared himself for it; and here they stood in the dark facing each other, silent; nothing but the ticking of the clock sounding in the abyss of these tense moments. The entrance of Mrs. Fletcher was welcome. She moved to John's side, saying nothing, but he felt her sympathy. Then, folding up the letter, "Thank you, sir. I will go now," he said. "Yes, Dean--if you would like to stay here--we can--" "Thank you, sir, but I'll go--I'm--I'm all right, sir," he replied, moving towards the door. Mrs. Fletcher, saw his drawn face. He was so pitifully brave. He had reached the door now, was turning the handle. He hesitated a moment, they saw him pause and turn, then swiftly he moved towards them, flung himself face down on the couch, buried his face in the cushions, and sobbed like a child.