“May I?” he asked. 

 She choked down some of her exasperation. 

 “Yes, you may.” 

 “Oh, thank you so much. I’ll begin at once then. Only premising that as I go to school with your little brother, and as he is rather under a cloud just at present, we clubbed together to bring you a letter about him and Jack. He was going to dictate it, but in the end Mitchell wrote it all. Here it is.” 

 With that he put his hand into his pocket, drew out an envelope and handed it to her. 

 “How awfully good of you,” she said gratefully. “Do excuse my reading it at once, won’t you? You see, I’ve been so anxious about—about my brother.” 

 He nodded understandingly, and she hastily tore open the envelope and ran her eyes over the written sheets. 

 MY DEAR MRS. ROSSCOTT:— Being the prize writer of the class, I am chosen to take down the ante mortem confessions of our shattered friends. It is in a sad hour for them that I do so, because I am naturally so truthful that I shall not force you to look for my meaning between the lines. On the contrary, I shall set the cold facts out as neatly as the pickets on the fence. And in evidence thereof, I open the ball by telling you frankly that they both look fierce. If they had looked less awful, and Burnett had had more lime in his bones, we might have escaped the Powers That Be by simply admitting a sprained ankle and carefully concealing everything else. But if one man cracks where you can’t finish the deal, even by the most unlimited outlay of mucilage and persistence, and another blazes his whole surface-area in a manner that seems to make the underbrush dubious to count on forever henceforth; why, you then have a logarithm the square of which is probably as far beyond your depth as I am beyond my own just at this point of this sentence. The long and short of my fresh start is, that your brother wants to write you, but he is so handicapped (forgive me, but you’re the only one who hasn’t had that joke sprung on them!) with bandages, that it’s cruel to expect much of him. It is true that he has his bosom friend to fall back upon, but if you could see that friend as we see him these days you wouldn’t be sure whether it was true or not. The old woman, who had the peddler-and-petticoat episode, was not in it the same day with your brother’s friend! I do assure you. And anyhow—even if he still has brains—his writing apparatus is all done up in arnica, so there you are! But do not allow me to alarm you unduly! When 

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