"Yes, sir, but I want--oh, I feel I must work it all out. I'm afraid you don't understand, sir," added John lamely. "I think I do--this has altered your whole life, or at least you feel so--nothing really does affect our lives to anything like the extent we imagine it does. Experience proves that we are always ourselves. As for a mastership--it is not easy without a degree. I have a friend at a scholastic agency. If you wish I will write to him--that is, if you want to take this step. Personally, I advise you to--no, I won't advise you, John--you must decide for yourself." Two weeks after that conversation, John was glad of the step he had taken. The insurance company had refused to pay the claim; the policy did not provide for the contingency in which Mr. Dean lost his life. John's capital now was £132. Mr. Fletcher's friend had obtained for him a junior mastership at a preparatory school in Hampshire. "Sixty pounds a year, Dean, not much, but still you're a beginner--it will give you time to think," said Mr. Fletcher, handing him the letter. John wrote accepting the offer. There were vigorous protests from Vernley and Marsh. At the end of the term, after a terrible wrenching from the school, his friends, the Fletchers, and all the beloved corners and places and daily events of four happy years, he went down with Vernley to his home. The latter still believed that John would accompany him to King's. Marsh had gone home with the same belief. Vernley's faith was based on the ability of his father to bring John round to common sense. There was a talk one afternoon in the library that brought a lump into John's throat, and a mist into his eyes, as he listened to the self-effacing generosity and kindly plans of the big, bluff man sitting in front of him. But he remained true to his decision. Mr. Vernley mopped his brow, hot with the attempt to suggest, as delicately as possible, a way out, and afraid all the time of hurting the boy's feelings. John thanked him in a voice that trembled. "Well, well, John, you're an obstinate boy, but I won't worry you. You can do me a great favour by keeping an eye on Bobbie, and you won't--and I'll owe you a grudge all my life. But if you do want to give me real pleasure--then come to me whenever you will--I won't say more than that. You understand, my boy, don't you?" and with that he placed a kindly hand on the lad's shoulder. "And--'pon my word, I admire your grit--you're the right stuff!" Dismay, blank dismay, was written on Vernley's face when he heard of the result. It was no use appealing to John--the latter had heard him to the limit of his patience. Vernley went to Muriel. She could act when others failed. To his amazement she did not agree. "Scissors is quite right. You can say what you like, or put it how you like, but it's charity, and John would know it, and you would know--and it might make a difference. I think you're blind." "But why?" cried Vernley, plaintively.