“I wish you wouldn’t make fun of me,” said Ned. “Well, in Heaven’s name, what is there to trouble you, if Tom is in love?” asked the Professor. “Because he hasn’t told me,” said Ned. “Oh! you are jealous then,” rejoined the Professor. “You are the most selfish person, for one who is so generous, that I have ever seen. You are morbid upon the subject of Tom, I believe.” “Well, look here,” said Ned; “I have neither father nor mother; I have no one except Tom. I care more for him than for any one else in the world, as you know; but you never will know how much I care for him; and it does seem hard that he should shut me out of his confidence when I have done nothing to forfeit it. There’s some girl at the bottom of all this. He and that big Western friend of his, the Blush Rose, whom I never liked, have been off together two or three times; and, as I say, Tom has got this picture; and the Blush Rose knows it, and knows who she is. I’ve seen them looking at it, and admiring it. I’m afraid, from Tom’s not telling me about it, that he’s doing something out of the way.” “In that case,” said the Professor, “you had better let me read you the closing paragraph of my lecture on Domestic Arts.” “No, I thank you,” said Ned; “I shall have to hear it, any way, this afternoon.” “So you will,” said the Professor; “and, by the way, I shall give you a private if you behave to-day as you did in my last lecture. I have told your class-tutor to warn you.” “Well, that is pleasant,” said Ned. “I meant it to be,” replied the Professor. “Good-by. I may call at your room to-night,――to see Tom.” And, as Ned was heard going down the stairs, the Professor, seeing that he had still twenty-five minutes to spare, took his lecture, and sat down before the fire, which flickered slightly, and just served to destroy the dampness of that April day. II. THE PICTURE OVER THE FIREPLACE. Whether the Professor would have made any alterations or amendments in his lecture, it is difficult to say; that he did not is due to the fact that his eye fell upon a little photograph, which hung over his fireplace. As he sits there, thinking over what Ned has told him, and laughing at the idea of Tom’s being really in love, he gazes on this little photograph, and smiles. The Professor has one or two real art treasures, but nothing that he values quite as much as this fading picture. This is the only copy in existence; and this hangs there, and will hang there until the Professor dies. How well he remembers the morning when the two boys, whom he loves so well, rushed into his room, and left it there! As he looks at it now, there is an expression of tenderness on his plain but strongly cut features that would greatly astonish those of his pupils who only know him as a crusty instructor.