school days, to find the burden of life too heavy; and who wore always
on his face such a sad and solemn air that one was almost startled
when he laughed as though the parson had cracked a joke at a funeral.
The woman smiled as she remembered how his clothes were never known to
fit him. When his trousers were so short that they barely reached
below his knees his coat sleeves covered his hands and the skirts of
that garment almost swept the ground; but, when the trousers were
rolled up at the bottom and hung over his feet like huge bags, his
long, thin, arms showed, half way to his elbows, in a coat that was
too small to button about even his narrow chest. That boy never missed
his lessons, though, but when he learned them no one ever knew for he
seemed to be always drawing grotesque figures and funny faces on his
slate or whittling slyly on some curious toy when the teacher's back
was turned. He had no particular chum or crony. He was never a leader
but dared to follow the boldest. To the little boys and girls he was a
hero; to the older ones he was--"Slim."

The woman, by chance, had met this old schoolmate, one day, in her
grown up world. In the editorial rooms of a large city daily he was
the chief, and she noticed that his clothing fitted him a little
better; that he was a little broader in the shoulders; a little larger
around the waist; his face was not quite so solemn and his eyes had a
more knowing look perhaps. But still--still--the woman could see that
he was, after all, the same old "Slim" and she fancied, with another
smile, that he often, still, whittled toys when the teacher's back was
turned.

Then came the fat boy--"Stuffy." He, too, had another name which does
not matter. Always in the Yesterdays, as in the to-days, there is a
"Stuffy." "Stuffy" was evidently built to roll through life, pushed