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Here the letter broke off.

I felt stunned; and, strange to say, the sudden discovery left me as miserable as it found me. I suppose I was ill; but for a short time my passion got the upper hand, and made it worse for me than if I had never known the truth.

But it didn’t last long. There came a knock at the door, and, without waiting for an invitation, Harrison came into the room, looking so miserable and scared that I scarcely recognised him for a moment. He was evidently prepared for any sort of rebuff, and I despised myself far more than him as I heard the half-frightened voice in which he began.

“Smither, old man–“

He got no farther; or at least I did not hear any more. It seemed like a dream after that. I was dimly conscious of his hand on my arm and then round me. The next thing I was aware of was that I was lying in bed, with him sitting beside me sponging my forehead.

“Has the bed-bell rung?” I asked.

“My dear fellow, you’ve been in bed a fortnight,” said he, bending over me; “but you mustn’t talk now.”

After awhile I asked again–

“Why are you here, then?” for the term had had only three days to run when I had been taken ill.

“We couldn’t go, old man. The fellows begged Draven to let them stay till you were out of danger, and he did. They’re all here. This is Christmas Day, and they will be glad to hear you are better. But really you mustn’t talk, please.”

“Tell the fellows to go home, then,” I said, “and wish them a Merry Christmas, and say–“

“Really, old man,” pleaded Harrison, looking quite frightened, “don’t talk.”

That was the quietest, but not the least hopeful Christmas Day I ever spent.

And when Draven’s met again next term, I fancy most of us had got by heart the good Christmas motto, “Goodwill to men,” and were mutually agreed that, whatever manly and noble sports we should engage in during the year, boycotting should not be one of them.