“Never,” was the grave reply,—“not since he disappeared so strangely six years ago. I presume he is dead. He had been rather a wild young fellow; but after his wife’s death he changed completely, reproached himself for having, as he said, broken her heart, and got some morbid notion of not being a fit father for his child. He had lost his faith and was altogether unbalanced, poor man! Luckily, Freddy inherits a fortune from his mother, and is well provided for; and now comes this other heritage from the old great-uncle—Killykinick. I really think—O God bless me! What is the matter?” asked the speaker, turning with a start, as, reckless of rules and reverence, two white-faced boys burst unannounced into the room.
“It’s—it’s—it’s Freddy Neville, Father!” panted Jim Norris.
“Laddie,—my Laddie! What’s come to him?” cried Brother Bart.
“He’s tumbled off the high bar,” gasped Dud Fielding, “and he is lying all white and still, and—and dead, Father!”
II.—Old Top.
There was a hurried rush to the scene of accident; but first aid to the injured had already been rendered. Freddy lay on the Gym floor, pillowed on Dan’s jacket, and reviving under the ministration of a sturdy hand and a very wet and grimy pocket-handkerchief.
“What did you go tumbling off like that for?” asked Dan indignantly as the “angel eyes” of his patient opened.
“Don’t know,” murmured Freddy, faintly.
“I told you to stand steady, and you didn’t,—you jumped!” said Dan.
“So—so you’d feel me,” answered Fred, memory returning as the darkness began to brighten, and Brother Bart and Brother Timothy and several other anxious faces started out of the breaking clouds. “But I’m not hurt,—I’m not hurt a bit, Brother Bart.”