“I’m H. Wyncoop Clover.”

“Oh!” she said.  And then smiled, too; having heard the name before.

“Why don’t you ask me my business?” went on H. Wyncoop Clover.  “I must have come for some reason, you know.”

“I didn’t know it,” said Mrs. Rosscott—­“I don’t know anything about you yet.”

They both smiled—­and then H. Wyncoop resumed his colorless sobriety at once.

“It’s about Jack,” he said—­“these terrible new developments—­” he stopped short, seeing his vis-a-vis turn deathly white, “it’s nothing to be frightened over,” he said reassuringly.

Mrs. Rosscott was furious with herself for having paled.  She became instantly haughty.

“I was alarmed for my brother,” she said.  “I always think of them both as together.”

“Oh, in that case, I can reassure you instantly,” said the caller.  “Burnett is doing finely.”

Mrs. Rosscott was conscious of being suddenly and skillfully countercharged.  She blushed with vexation, bit her lip in perturbation, and cast upon the trying individual opposite a look of most appealing interrogation.

“You see,” said Clover pleasantly, “I was coming to town, so I came in handy for the purpose of telling you.”

She gave him a glance that prayed him to be decent and go on with his errand.

“Burnett is about recovered,” he said.

She clasped her hands hard.

“I wouldn’t be a man for anything!” she exclaimed with sudden fervor, “they are so awfully mean.  Why don’t you go on and tell me what you’ve come about?”

He raised his eyebrows.

“May I?” he asked.

She choked down some of her exasperation.

“Yes, you may.”

“Oh, thank you so much.  I’ll begin at once then.  Only premising that as I go to school with your little brother, and as he is rather under a cloud just at present, we clubbed together to bring you a letter about him and Jack.  He was going to dictate it, but in the end Mitchell wrote it all.  Here it is.”

With that he put his hand into his pocket, drew out an envelope and handed it to her.

“How awfully good of you,” she said gratefully.  “Do excuse my reading it at once, won’t you?  You see, I’ve been so anxious about—­about my brother.”

He nodded understandingly, and she hastily tore open the envelope and ran her eyes over the written sheets.

      MY DEAR MRS. ROSSCOTT:—­

Being the prize writer of the class, I am chosen to take down the ante mortem confessions of our shattered friends.  It is in a sad hour for them that I do so, because I am naturally so truthful that I shall not force you to look for my meaning between the lines.  On the contrary, I shall set the cold facts out as neatly as the pickets on the fence.  And in evidence thereof, I open the ball by telling you frankly that they both look fierce.  If they had