In the days that followed, Edgar’s friends found him unusually silent, yet not morose.  Serenity sat on his broad, thoughtful brow and in his great, soft eyes.  Nat Howard and his chums gave him the cold shoulder and wore, in his presence, the air of offended dignity which the small-minded are apt to assume when conscious of being in the wrong or of having committed an injury which the victim has received with credit and the offender has not forgiven.  It is so much easier to grant pardon for an injury received than for one given!

Edgar’s own friends were more emphatic in their devotion to him than ever—­racking their young brains for ways in which to show their loyalty and frequently looking into his face with the expression of soft adoration and trust one sees in the eyes of a faithful dog.  Edgar was touched and gratified, and his sweet, spontaneous smile often rewarded their efforts; but his face would soon become grave again and the boys were aware that the mind of their gifted friend was busy with thoughts in which they had no part.  This gave them an impression of distance between them and him.  He all of a sudden, seemed to have become remote, as though a chasm, by what power they knew not, had opened between them—­making their love for him as “the desire of the moth for the star.”  They knew that he was more often than ever before working upon his poetical and other compositions, but these were seldom shown, or even mentioned, to them.

Each boy in his own way sought to bridge the gulf that separated them from their idol.  Robert Sully missed his Latin lesson on purpose in the hope that Eddie would stay in and help him.  And Eddie did, but wore that same detached air in which there was no intimacy or comfort.  When the lesson was learned Edgar took a slate from the desk before them, rubbed off the problem that was upon it, and quickly wrote down a little poem of several stanzas.  He held it out, with a smile, to Rob, telling him that while teaching him his lesson he had been practicing “dividing his mind,” and that while one part of his brain had been putting English into Latin the other part had composed the verses on the slate.

The dumfounded Rob read the verses aloud, but before he could express his amazement Edgar had taken the slate from him and, with one swipe of the damp spunge, obliterated the rhymes.

“Write them on paper for me, please,” plead Robert.

The brilliant smile of the boy-poet flashed upon him.  “Oh, they were not worth keeping,” said he, indifferently.  “They were merely an exercise.”  And picking up his books and hat, he walked out of the door, whistling in clear, high, plaintive notes one of the melodies of his favorite Tom Moore.

The boy left behind looked after him with a troubled heart and misty eyes.  This wonderful friend of his was as kind as ever, yet he seemed changed.  It was clear that he had “something on his mind.”

“Will you go swimming with me this evening, Eddie?” said Dick Ambler one day when school was out.