ROBERT UPTON. A flood of warm emotion poured through Irving; his eyes filled. He had sometimes thought his uncle selfish and narrow—and all the time he had been working towards this! Irving wrote his reply; he wrote also to Lawrence. Then he took his letters down to the Study building, to post them so that they might go out with the night mail. On his way he passed the Barclay house; it was all brightly lighted, the sound of laughter and of gay boy voices rang out through the open windows; the notes of a piano then subdued them, and there burst out a chorus in the sonorous measured sweep of “Wacht am Rhein.” Irving stood for a few moments and listened; his exultant heart was responsive to that shouted song. Fellows who could sing like that, he thought, must have trodden disappointment under heel. An hour later, when Irving sat in his room, the boys who had been entertained at the Barclays’ came tramping up the stairs. They were still singing, but they stopped their song before they entered the dormitory. Irving met them to say good-night—first Dennison and then Morrill and then Louis Collingwood. “Have you heard the new song Wes has got off, Mr. Upton?” asked Dennison. “No, what’s that?” “Hit it up, Wes.” “Oh, choke it off.” Collingwood grinned uneasily. “Go on, Wes,—strike up. We’ll all join in.” “Wait till I get my banjo—you don’t mind, do you, Mr. Upton?” “No. I’d like to hear it.” So Westby hastened to his room and returned, bearing the instrument; and all the other boys gathered round, except Collingwood, who stood sheepishly off at one side. Westby twanged the strings and then to the accompaniment began,— “Across the broad prairies he came from the west, With fire in his eye and with brawn on his chest; His arms they were strong and his legs they were fleet; There was none could outstrip his vanishing feet; We made him our captain—what else could we do? You ask who he is? Do I hear you say, ‘Who?’” Then they all came in on the chorus:— “He is our Lou, he is our honey-Lou, He is our pride and joy; He is our Loo-loo, he is our Loo-loo, He is our Lou-Lou boy.” “Silly song!” exclaimed Collingwood with disgust. “Wes made it up just this evening, at Mrs. Barclay’s,” said Dennison. “We were all singing, and after a while Wes edged in to the piano and sprung this on us. Don’t you think it’s a good song?” “So good that I wish I could furnish inspiration for another,” said Irving. Westby joined in the laugh and looked pleased. “Good-night, everybody,” said Collingwood; he walked away to his room. The others followed, all except Westby, to whom Irving said,— “Will you wait a moment? I should like to have a little talk with you.” He led the boy into his room and pushed forward his armchair. Westby seated himself with his banjo across his knees and looked at Irving wonderingly. “The fellows seem pretty cheerful after their defeat, don’t they?” said Irving.