figure near six feet high, with ruddy, tanned face and a laughing eye.  He is leaning forward, dandling his favourite bat, with which he has made thirty or forty runs to-day.  It is Tom Brown, spending his last day as a Rugby boy.  And at their feet sits Arthur, with his bat across his knees.  He is less of a boy, in fact, than Tom, if one may judge by the thoughtfulness of his face, which is somewhat paler than we could wish, but his figure is well-knit and active, and all his old timidity has disappeared, and is replaced by silent, quaint fun, as he listens to the broken talk, and joins in every now and then.  Presently he goes off to the wicket, with a last exhortation from Tom to play steady and keep his bat straight.

“I’m surprised to see Arthur in the Eleven,” says the master.

“Well, I’m not sure he ought to be for his play,” said Tom; “but I couldn’t help putting him in.  It will do him so much good, and you can’t think what I owe him!”

The master smiled.  Later he returned to the subject

“Nothing has given me greater pleasure,” he said, “than your friendship for him.  It has been the making of you both.”

“Of me, at any rate,” answered Tom.  “It was the luckiest chance in the world that sent him to Rugby and made him my chum.”

“There was neither luck nor chance in that matter,” said the master.  “Do you remember when the Doctor lectured you and East when you had been getting into all sorts of scrapes?”

“Yes; well enough,” said Tom.  “It was the half-year before Arthur came.”

“Exactly so,” said the master.  “He was in great distress about you both, and after some talk, we both agreed that you in particular wanted some object in the school beyond games and mischief.  So the Doctor looked out the best of the new boys, and separated you and East in the hope that when you had somebody to lean on you, you’d be steadier yourself, and get manliness and thoughtfulness.  He has watched the experiment ever since with great satisfaction.”

Up to this time Tom had never fully given in to, or understood, the Doctor.  He had learnt to regard him with love and respect, and to think him a very great and wise and good man.  But as regarded his own position in the school, he had no idea of giving anyone credit but himself.

It was a new light to Tom to find that besides teaching the Sixth, and governing and guiding the whole school, editing classics, and writing histories, the great headmaster had found time to watch over the career even of him, Tom Brown, and his particular friends.  However, the Doctor’s victory was complete from that moment.  It had taken eight long years to do it, but now it was done thoroughly.

The match was over.

Tom said good-bye to his tutor, and marched down to the Schoolhouse.

Next morning he was in the train and away for London, no longer a schoolboy.

* * * * *