Mr. Dean stepped down from the platform and walked along the aisle between the rows of desks. Barrison and the other fellows looked at him wonderingly. He put his hand on David’s shoulder; David sat next to the aisle.
“David,” he said, “the rector has sent for you. You will find him in his study.”
Then David, startled, not understanding, yet vaguely fearful, rose. Mr. Dean with his hand on his shoulder walked with him to the door and gave him a parting, affectionate little caress.
David hurried along the corridor with fast-beating heart. He knew instinctively from the manner of Mr. Dean’s dismissing him that he was not being summoned because of any evil-doing. He felt that it was something worse than that.
The door of the rector’s study was open, and Dr. Davenport was walking back and forth inside. Coming forward to meet David, he put his hands on his shoulders.
“My boy,” he said gently, “very bad news has come for you. Your mother has telegraphed that your father is very ill, and you are to go home.”
Tears welled into David’s eyes, and he asked in a breaking voice, “Is he dead, Dr. Davenport?”
“The telegram said that he is dying.” The rector drew the sobbing boy to him and held him close. “Let us hope that you will reach home in time, David. You can get a train to Boston at seven o’clock, and you can get a midnight train from there to New York. While you are packing, I will arrange by telephone about reservations for you.”
But David was not heeding. “O Dr. Davenport!” he cried. “Isn’t there any hope? Mother wrote that he was better; isn’t there some mistake?”