Jerry was there to give his evidence, along with that of others; and, looking haggard and suffering from mental anxiety, Mr Draycott was there to give his. The medical man who had been called told of his examination, and, as there seemed to be no doubt as to the identity, a verdict was readily returned. Two days later there was a funeral at Richard Frayne's native place, and the unfortunate lad was laid to his rest--aged eighteen, people read upon his breastplate--just about the same time that Mark Frayne was lying upon his back, gazing at the open window, through which there came the pleasant odour of new-made hay, and wondering why he was there in bed, while a woman in white cap and apron was sitting reading. "I say," he whispered at last; and the nurse started up, smiling. "Yes?" she said, coming to his bedside. "Who are you?" "The nurse. Don't speak, please. You have been ill." "Oh!" said Mark, "have I? Don't go away!" "Only for a minute, to send word for somebody to come." She stepped softly out into the corridor, just as the two pupils who had witnessed the encounter were coming upstairs. "Would you mind telling Mrs Frayne that he is quite sensible now?" "What! Mark Frayne?" cried Sinjohn. "Yes; all right." The two young men turned and went together to deliver the news. "Then he is really getting well," said Andrews, in a whisper. "Why, Sin, if he does, he'll be Sir Mark Frayne!" "Not while his father lives," said the other. "But only think!--poor old Dick buried to-day! I wish we could have gone." "Yes," said Andrews, bitterly. "Poor old Dick!" "We shall never hear his flute agin!" CHAPTER TEN. INTO THE SWIFT WATERS. "Oh! I wouldn't have done that!" Of course you would not. No sane lad would ever be led away by his imagination to be guilty of any folly whatever. No one with a well-balanced brain would, for a moment, ever dream of being guilty of an act that would cause him repentance for years. In other words, we are all of us so thoroughly perfect that we go straight on through life, laughing at temptations, triumphing over our weakness, and so manly and confident in our own strength of mind that we continue our life's journey, never slipping, never stumbling, but bounding along to its highest point, where we pitch our caps in the air, flap our arms for want of wings, stretch out our throats, open our beaks, and cry "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" which, being translated from the gallinaceous tongue into plain English, means--"Look at me! Here I am! Did you ever see such a fine fellow in your life? I don't believe there was ever my equal born into the world!" There was a comic philosopher born in the West, and his name was Artemus Ward; and every now and then, after a verbal flourish of this kind, he used to conclude by saying-- "This is wrote sarcastic."