with a sad shake of his head. "Too bad! Too bad! And it was
your father's watch, too!"

"I never wanted to see Dick wear it," put in Mrs. Rover. "It was
too fine for a boy."

"Father told me to wear it, aunty. He said it would remind me of
him," answered Dick, and he turned away, for something like a tear
had welled up in his eye.

"There, there, Dick, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings," cried
his aunt hastily. "I would give a good deal if you had your watch
back."

Supper was waiting, but Dick had no appetite, and ate but little.
Tom braced up sufficiently to take some toast and tea, and
declared that he would be all right by morning and so he was.

"Here is a letter for Tom from Larry Colby," cried Dick during the
course, of the evening.

"I declare, I forgot all about it, Tom, until this minute."

"I don't blame you, Dick," was the reply, with a sickly smile.
"You read it for me. The light hurts my head," and Tom closed his
eyes to listen.

Larry Colby was a New York lad who in years gone by had been one
of Tom's chums. The letter was just such a one as any boy might
write to another, and need have no place here. Yet one paragraph