The toast came, and Roger nibbled on it as long as it lasted. He felt better, far better. The heart spell was evidently passing. Dunn came in and sat on the bed for half an hour, telling a long tale of his tragedy of hard work and not forgetting at its close to exhort the patient to keep up his courage and get well before Wednesday. The exhortation drew a strained smile to Roger’s face, such a smile as we assume to shield from intruding eyes the knowledge of a hurt—and the hurt smarted long after the complacent Jason had left the room. Mike was the next visitor. He sat down with sober face in a chair fronting the bed, and said nothing after his “Hello, Roger!” for some time, though he stole occasional shy glances at his sad-eyed friend. “Are you much sick?” he asked at length. “I don’t know,” answered Roger. “The doctor will tell me when he comes.” “Won’t it be terrible if you can’t row?” sighed the boy, his big eyes soft with pity. Roger squirmed. “It’ll be hard, of course, but if I can’t, I can’t.” He tried to speak lightly, but the attempt was a failure. There was silence again for a time. Mike looked obstinately down at the cap which he was smoothing on his knee. Roger was thinking of his condition and of the sacrifice which he was making. He felt so much better this morning that had it not been for the fatal heart weakness, he could have fancied himself within a few hours of complete recovery. He should be like Trask, apparently perfectly well, but barred from everything worth while—no more rowing, no more football, no more long swims, or hard all-day tramps over the mountain peaks with the joy of covering, between breakfast and supper, the score of steep miles which the average tramper was happy to bring within the limits of two whole days! Henceforth he must nurse himself and avoid over-exertion and be content with golf or tennis, playing with girls, perhaps, or kids! What a dreary, disgusting prospect! “Pitkin shirks,” offered Mike, who had been pursuing his own train of thought. Roger stared for an instant without comprehension. Then, as he perceived that practical Mike was worrying over the change in the first boat, he answered hopefully, “He won’t shirk in the race; he’ll put in all he has.” “But he hasn’t the power.” Before Roger could meet this objection, a knock was heard at the door. As Mr. Adams came in with the doctor, Mike slipped away unnoticed. Dr. Brayton sat down by the bedside, and in a very friendly, comrade-like way asked the boy questions. Then he felt the patient’s pulse, looked at his tongue, put the stethoscope to his chest, took his temperature. Afterwards he drew out a little block in a neat leather case and wrote on the top leaf certain mysterious words. “What’s the matter?” asked Roger, with an anxious quaver in his voice. “Over-eating and worry,” answered the doctor, laconically. “Is it bad?” The doctor smiled. “We shouldn’t call it a very serious case.” “I mean my heart,” faltered Roger.