past six, the " Tipton " announced that Alf
gave in. Amidst tumultuous applause
Madonna was declared victor, and advanced to
the proud position of JUNIOR COCK!

Bob Lindsay pressed his hand, with tears
in his eyes, and led him towards the house.

It was a beautiful sight to see the two
cocks walk away, arm in arm; the senior, the
boy of fifty battles, kindly and patiently
commenting upon the noticeable points of the
contest; and, farther, explaining to his young
brother, the means he had found most efficacious
in removing the traces of such encounters.
Scarcely less beautiful was it to notice the
manner in which the senior cock affected to
ignore the fact, that any portion of the cheers
that pursued them up the playground, was
due to his own manly condescension.

But, although victorious in the field, our
poor Madonna had other and more painful
battles to fight. He had come back apparently
as much in love as ever with his little
coquettish princess, and, I have no doubt
counted the minutes till his first chance of
seeing her. This soon occurred.

Madonna had leave one day down the
town. He came back the image of anguish
and despair. He had met the Pallas-House
school—and, Augusta, looking radiantly
beautiful, had turned quickly from him, with a
look of such unmistakable horror, surprise,
and disgust that he could no longer doubt
the effect upon her heart of his altered visage.
Eleanor Wilton was not with them.

One only chance of reviving her interest
in him suggested itself to poor Madonna—
it wasn't of much use—and one or two
fellows of experience whom he consulted,
begged him not to risk it.

He had brought back with him to school
a present from his godmother, a beautiful
ruby heart set round with small rich
brilliants. This Madonna resolved to offer at
his mistress's shrine. In spite of all advice he
did so. It went by post, unaccompanied by
any communication, excepting only his initials
"H.B."

We heard no more of that. As for Augusta,
although he met her a score of times, she
never again turned even a passing look upon
her unhappy lover. It seemed as though
she had come to a secret resolution not to
do so.

But one remembrance did arrive for poor
Madonna. It came in a queer way. We
were marching one day in single file round
the playground, under the superintendence
of Sergeant Grace, of the Seventh Hussars;
a rough chap he was, and stood no nonsense.
As Madonna mournfully strutted by:

"Number nineteen fall—out! " growled
the sergeant.

Madonna accordingly tumbled out, and
stood at attention; a worrying position for a
heart-broken lover!

The sergeant fumbled in his pocket.
Madonna's heart stood suddenly still, for it
flashed upon his memory that Sergeant
Grace was an attendant likewise at Pallas-
House, to teach what the sergeant himself
described as "polite walking."

"Look'e, now," said Grace, "I believe I'm
a blessed old spoon, for running this yere
risk—but, darn it all! I couldn't help it—
she's such a dear little thing——and I don't
think she——she will—March!" concluded
the sergeant in a voice of thunder, thrusting
into Madonna's hand a small packet.

That drill seemed interminable to the
anxious lover. At last, "dismiss!" was given,
and he darted into the school, and tore open
the missive.

It was a little box of choice bonbons, and
under the lid was written:—

   Dear, dear boy,
               I'm glad you are well—I'm not.
                                                                E. W.

"Good little heart! " thought Madonna,
with a pang at his own, over and above the
disappointment, and quite different from it.
"She does not turn from me, at least."

An interval of a fortnight or so now
passed.

And I wish, said Master Balfour, that
you didn't want to hear any more! I always
feel choky somehow, when I talk or think
of the marvellous thing that followed. Perhaps
you won't believe it; but it's as true as
that I'm now sitting here.

About three o'clock in the morning on the
second of June, a loud cry that souded like
"Help!" roused us all from our sleep. We
started up in bed. The shutters were not
closed, and the room was already grey with
the coming dawn. The cry had proceeded
from Madonna, who was sitting up,like the
rest, but motionless, his hands clasped upon
his forehead. We asked him if he was ill,
and why he had cried out. He made no
answer, but took away his hands from his
face, and looked so pale and strange, that
Purcell was moving away to call the usher.

Madonna caught his dress.

"No, no, Poppy—I'm not ill. All right,"
he said, forcing a smile; "I was dreaming—
only dreaming—go to bed, old boy——. You
don't think they heard me, do you?"

In a minute or so, he seemed, as he said,
all right, and we tumbled into our nests
again to finish the night.

The next day Madonna's bed was vacant.
His jacket and trousers were missing, his
shoes and stockings remained. The window
sash was open. He had made his exit that
way, and, no doubt, by means of a familiar
leaden water-pipe, which had often assisted
us to terra firma.

The rest of the story I shall tell, partly
from his own account, partly from what we
learned elsewhere.

He said that, on the night in question, he
had felt very odd and uneasy for several
hours after retiring to bed, and could not
close his eyes for a moment. A curious sense