“All right, I’ll be ready.  When do you start?”

“At ten o’clock,” was the answer.  “We’ll come by for you,” and the three conspirators tramped down the long corridor, shoulder to shoulder, to the whistled tune of “John Brown’s Body.”

John sat down at his table, frowning over his lessons for the next day.  For nearly an hour he tried to work, first at his Latin and then on the theme that he was expected to hand in directly after chapel.  But his thoughts were on the coming lark.

“Oh, bother!” he exclaimed at last, tossing the books into a disorderly heap and tearing his theme in two.  “What difference will it make fifty years from now, if I’m not prepared to-morrow?  I guess I’ll get that blanket while I think about it.”

At the beginning of the cold weather, he had written home for some extra blankets, and Rhoda had sent a box immediately.  It had been standing in the closet several days, waiting for him to find time to unpack it.  A sofa pillow made of his class colours came tumbling out as he removed the lid, and, wondering what other extras his sister might have put in the box, he turned it upside down on the bed to investigate.  Two fine soft blankets came first, then an eiderdown comfort, and then—­something wrapped in a square of time-yellowed linen, and smelling faintly of lavender.

“What under the canopy!” he muttered, beginning to unfold it.  “Well, I’ll be—­jiggered!” he exclaimed, as the familiar squares of faded patchwork met his eye.  “It’s that old quilt I made for mother!” He had forgotten its existence, but now, as he spread it out full length, smiling at the well-known object, it seemed only yesterday that he had been at work upon it.  Rob’s old teasing rhyme came back to him: 

  “This is the patchwork all forlorn,
  Made by the boys in Marshall’s barn.”

[Illustration:  “THE FAMILIAR SQUARES OF FADED PATCHWORK MET HIS EYE”]

“It was funny,” he thought, “the way I farmed out those two hundred blocks to the other boys.  Why, here’s a piece of one of those little striped waists I used to wear, and there’s a piece of Rob’s checked shirt and Rhoda’s apron.  I wouldn’t have imagined that I could have recognized them after all these years, but they look as natural as life.  And this,”—­his finger was resting on a square of dotted blue calico,—­“mother wore this.  My! the times I’ve hung on to that dress, following her around the house, bothering her to stop and cover a ball, or make me a marble bag, or untangle my fishing-lines.  And she always stopped so patiently.”

He was back in the sunny old kitchen, with its spicy smell of gingerbread and pies, hot from the Saturday baking.  Outside, the snow clung to the trees, but the wintry sun shining through the shelf of yellow chrysanthemums by the window, made dancing summer shadows on the clean white floor.  He was looking at the quilt through blurred eyes now.  How many, many nights she had spread it over him and tucked him snugly in, and softly kissed his eyelids down, before she carried away the lamp.  It came over him all in a swift rush, with a sudden cold sense of desolation, that she could never do that again! never any more!  The light had been taken away, never to be brought back.