into trouble,—go to Lawrence.”

There was the merry, kindly twinkle in his eyes, the quizzical, humorous
smile on his lips that made Irving know his uncle meant always, deep in
his heart, to do the right thing.

In the train he pondered for a few moments that last word of advice,
wondering if it had been sincere. It rather hurt his dignity, to be
referred to his younger brother in that way—and yet it pleased him too;
he was glad to have Lawrence appreciated.

Irving spent a day in Cambridge, helping his brother to get settled in
the rooms which he himself had occupied for four years. Then he bade
Lawrence good-by and resumed his journey to New Hampshire.

It was a pleasant September morning when he presented himself, a sallow,
thin-cheeked, narrow-shouldered, bespectacled youth, before Dr.
Davenport, the rector of St. Timothy’s School. The sunlight streamed in
through the southern windows of the spacious library, throwing mellow
tints on the bindings of the books which lined the opposite wall from
floor to ceiling. It was all so bright that Irving, who was troubled
with weak eyes, advanced into it blinking; and perhaps that was one
reason for the disappointment which flitted across the rector’s face—and
which Irving, who was acutely sensitive, perceived in his blinking
glance. He flushed, aware that somehow his appearance was too timorous.

But Dr. Davenport chatted with him pleasantly, told him how highly the
college authorities had recommended him, and only laughingly intimated
a surprise at finding him so young-looking.