At luncheon there was an unpleasant moment.  No sooner had the boys sat down than Blake, a Fifth Former, called across the table to Westby,—­

“Say, Westby, who was it that gave you three sheets?”

Westby scowled and replied,—­

“Mr. Upton.”

“What for?”

“Oh, ask him.”

Irving reddened, aware of the glancing, curious gaze of every boy at the table.  There was an interesting silence, relieved at last by the appearance of the boy with the mail.  Among the letters, Irving found one from Lawrence; he opened it with a sense that it afforded him a momentary refuge.  The unintended irony of the first words drew a bitter smile to his lips.

“You are certainly a star teacher,” Lawrence wrote, “and I know now what a success you must be making with your new job.  I have just learned that I passed all the examinations—­which is more than you or I ever dreamed I could do—­so I am now a freshman at Harvard without conditions.  And it’s all due to you; I don’t believe there’s another man on earth that could have got me through with such a record and in so short a time.”

Irving forgot the irony, forgot Westby and Collingwood and the amused, whispering boys.  Happiness had suddenly flashed down and caught him up and borne him away to his brother.  Lawrence’s whole letter was so gay, so exultant, so grateful that Irving, when he finished it, turned back again to the first page.  When at last he raised his eyes from it, they dwelt unseeingly upon the boys before him; they held his brother’s image, his brother’s smile.  And from the vision he knew that there at least he had justified himself, whatever might be his failure now; and if he had succeeded once, he could succeed again.

Irving became aware that Westby was treating him with cheerful indifference—­ignoring him.  He did not care; the letter had put into him new courage.  And pretty soon there woke in him along with this courage a gentler spirit; it was all very well for Westby, a boy and therefore under discipline, to exhibit a stiff and haughty pride; but it was hardly admirable that a master should maintain that attitude.  The punishment to which he had sentenced Westby and Collingwood was, it appeared, too harsh; if they were so proud that they would not appeal to him to modify it, he would make a sacrifice in the interest of justice.

So after luncheon he followed Westby and spoke to him outside of the dining-room.

“Westby,” he said, “do you think that considering the circumstances three sheets is excessive?”

Westby looked surprised; then he shrugged his shoulders.

“I’m not asking any favors,” he replied.

Irving laughed.  “No,” he said, “I see you’re not.  But I’m afraid I must deny you the pleasure of martyrdom.  I’ll ask you to take a note to Mr. Elwood—­he’s in charge of the Study, isn’t he?  I’ll tell him that you’re to write a sheet and a half instead of three sheets.”