"You won't go by the next train, Mark?" said Herbert.

"No. I don't care to rush about as Frank is doing."

"You would if it were your own mother who was so ill."

"I am not sure. It wouldn't do any good, would it?"

"You would naturally feel anxious," said Herbert.

"Oh, yes, I suppose so!" answered Mark, indifferently.

Mark Manning was slender and dark, with a soft voice and rather
effeminate ways. He didn't care for the rough sports in which most boys
delight; never played baseball or took part in athletic exercises, but
liked to walk about, sprucely dressed, and had even been seen on the
campus on a Saturday afternoon with his hands incased in kid gloves.

For this, however, he was so ridiculed and laughed at that he had to
draw them off and replace them in his pocket.

As Frank and Herbert walked together to the railway station, the latter
said:

"It seems to me, Frank, that the telegram should have been sent to you,
rather than to Mark Manning. You are the one who is most interested in
the contents."

"I thought of that, Herbert, but I was too much affected by the contents
to speak of it. I am not surprised, however. It is like Mr. Manning. It