Laying his hat and cane on the "ottoman," (an old soap box costumed in
faded chinz), the doctor entered the room and approached the bed of the
sick man.

Taking advantage of the occasion, Mrs. Pratt now fairly "tired out,"
escorted herself to the adjoining room and laid her weary bones on the
uninviting "settee," that was the hallowed source of all the pleasant
dreams, that haunted her daily siestas for many a year.

The bright vivid glare of the mid-summer sun, was condensed into a
subdued light, as it stole through the little scorched shutters, that
adorned Mrs. Pratt's front windows. The doctor drew an old-fashioned
chair, close to the bed side and addressed his patient cheerily:

"Well, you are much better, this morning, I think?"

The restless head turned with a quick movement towards the speaker. The
bright feverishly lustrous eyes dwelt in dilated wonder on the face
before them, there was a nervous twitching about the dry lips. Then the
tired eyes closed languidly and the plaintive voice said:

"My mind is wandering; I am not a school-boy now."

The doctor knew there was a recognition, and taking the burning hand in
his, he said tenderly:

"Yes, Nicholas Bencroft, we will be school-boys again if you like. Those
were happy days; let us go over them together once more."