St. George indulged in one or two uneasy turns about the room—his workshop, made out of a part of the generous garret that crowned the old house.
Was not this a terrible punishment indeed for a boy's misdemeanor? Too terrible, it seemed to him, and he felt a growing bitterness in his heart toward the parents who could plan and carry it out, and thus mar, not only the happiness of their own son, but that of a large circle of boys who were to lose a jolly companion.
But at last conscience spoke: "You are wrong. You know that Wilfred has done many things of late that have tried the patience of his father, his mother, and his teachers. You know that they have borne with his increasing unfaithfulness—that they have labored with the boy, hoping and praying for better things. You know they take this course feeling it best for him, and while it is hard for him and for you, it must be borne, realizing it to be the result of the boy's own course. You know all this, now give the case the justice in your own mind that is its due."
St. George turned around and frankly put out his hand.
"It's right you go," he said quite simply, "we'll all try to get along till vacation, old boy."
Wilfred, finding no pity forthcoming, put his hand within the brown palm, waiting for it.
"Keep the rest of the chums together," he begged.
"I'll do my best."
"And remember, we're to go to the same college."
"All right."