There was the merry, kindly twinkle in his eyes, the quizzical, humorous smile on his lips that made Irving know his uncle meant always, deep in his heart, to do the right thing. In the train he pondered for a few moments that last word of advice, wondering if it had been sincere. It rather hurt his dignity, to be referred to his younger brother in that way—and yet it pleased him too; he was glad to have Lawrence appreciated. Irving spent a day in Cambridge, helping his brother to get settled in the rooms which he himself had occupied for four years. Then he bade Lawrence good-by and resumed his journey to New Hampshire. It was a pleasant September morning when he presented himself, a sallow, thin-cheeked, narrow-shouldered, bespectacled youth, before Dr. Davenport, the rector of St. Timothy’s School. The sunlight streamed in through the southern windows of the spacious library, throwing mellow tints on the bindings of the books which lined the opposite wall from floor to ceiling. It was all so bright that Irving, who was troubled with weak eyes, advanced into it blinking; and perhaps that was one reason for the disappointment which flitted across the rector’s face—and which Irving, who was acutely sensitive, perceived in his blinking glance. He flushed, aware that somehow his appearance was too timorous. But Dr. Davenport chatted with him pleasantly, told him how highly the college authorities had recommended him, and only laughingly intimated a surprise at finding him so young-looking. “I hope that teaching won’t age you prematurely,” he added. “You will probably have some trying times with the boys—we all do. But it oughtn’t to be hard for you—especially as you will be thrown most of all with the older boys. Mr. Williams, who has had charge of the Sixth Form dormitory at the Upper School, is ill with typhoid fever and will probably not come back this term. So I’m going to put you in charge there. You will have under you twenty fellows, some of them the best in the school. But just because they are in some ways pretty mature, don’t be—don’t be self-effacing.” “I understand,” said Irving. He sat on the edge of his chair, and crumpled his handkerchief nervously in his hands. And all the time—with his singular clearness of intuition—he was aware of the doubt and distrust passing through Dr. Davenport’s mind.