the window again.

"And now," Mr. Wright ended sonorously, "what reply have you to make,
sir?"

Sam looked confused. "I beg your pardon, father? I did not hear what
you were saying."

Samuel Wright stared at him, speechless.

As for the boy, he said calmly, "Good night, father," and went up-
stairs to his own room where he began his packing. The next morning he
had gone.

"Where?" asked Dr. Lavendar, when the angry father brought him the
news. "I do not know," said the senior warden, "and I do not--"

"Yes, you do," said Dr. Lavendar; "but that's not the point. The point
is that it doesn't really matter, except for our comfort, whether we
know or not. Sam is a man, and our protection is an impertinence. He's
taking a dive on his own account. And as I look at it, he has a right
to. But he'll come up for breath, and then we'll get some information.
And he'll get some sense."

But of course the Wright family was in a most distressed state. The
mother was overwhelmed with anxious grief; the father was consumed
with mortification and blazing with anger.

"He didn't take his second-weight flannels," moaned Mrs. Wright; "he
will catch cold. Oh, where is he? And nobody knows how to cook his