“It’s perfectly horrid to get such a scrap of an outing,” said Joel that night, sprawling on the rug before the library fire, “only four days!  Why couldn’t Mr. Marks be sick longer than that, if he was going to be sick at all, pray?”

“These four days will give you strength for your ‘exams,’ won’t they, Joe?” asked Van.

Joel turned his black eyes on him and coolly said “Yes,” then made a wry face, doubled up a bit of paper, and aimed it at Van.

Davie sighed, and looked up anxiously.  “I hope Mr. Marks will come out all right so that we can go back Monday.”

“I only hope he’ll stay ill,” said Joel affectionately. “’Tisn’t safe anyway for us to go back Monday.  It may be typhoid fever, you know, Mamsie,” looking over at her.

“They’ll let us know soon enough if that’s the case,” said Mother Fisher in the lamp-light over by the center-table.  “No, I expect your letter to-morrow will say ‘Come Monday.’”

“Well, it’s a downright shame for us to be pulled off so soon,” cried Joel indignantly, sitting straight.

“Think how soon the term ends, Joe,” cried Polly, “then you have such a long outing.”  She sighed as she thought of the separation to come, and the sea between them.

“That’s nothing; only a dreadful little time—­soon will be gone,” grunted Joel, turning his face to look at the brightly-leaping flames the cool evening had made necessary.

Ben glanced over at Polly.  “Don’t talk of the summer,” he was going to say, but stopped in time.  Phronsie set her doll carefully in the corner of the sofa, and went over to Joel.

“Does your head ache often at school, Joel?” she asked, softly laying her cool little palm on his stubby hair.

“Yes,” said Joel, “it does, awfully, Phronsie; and nobody cares, and says ’Stop studying.”

A shout greeted this.

“That’s too bad,” said Phronsie pityingly, “I shall just write and ask Mr. Marks if he won’t let you stop and rest when it aches.”

“’Twouldn’t do any good, Phronsie,” said Joel, “nothing would.  He’s a regular old grinder, Marks is.”

“Mr. Marks,” said Phronsie slowly, “I don’t know who you mean by Marks, Joel.  And what is a grinder, please?” getting down on her knees to look in his face.

“And he works us boys so, Phronsie—­you can’t think,” said Joel, ignoring the question.

“What is a grinder, Joel, please tell me,” repeated Phronsie with gentle persistence.

“Oh! a grinder is a horrid buffer,” began Joel impatiently.

“Joel,” said Mrs. Fisher, reprovingly.  The fire in her black eyes was not pleasant to look at, and after one glance, he turned back to the blazing logs once more.

“I can’t help it,” he muttered, picking up the tongs to poke the fire.

“Don’t ever let me hear that excuse from a son of mine,” said Mother Fisher scornfully.  “Can’t help it.  I’d be master of myself, that’s one thing.”