the next morning billy had a “temperature.” his mother decided against school for that day. at first he was glad. he didn’t care if he had forty temperatures. he thought almost anything in the way of fever was cooler than he would feel if the boys—and the girls—should see his face. not that this was the first time he had been scratched in a fight; before he had not cared who knew. to-day it was different,—there were things about this fight he wished he could forget, even though he knew jimmy was not likely to die.

but a second idea came that made him fidget about the room, lift his bandage and watch the children on their way to school. his record for attendance for the year had so far been perfect. he knew that he owed it partly to his mother’s tireless watch of the clock, and wondered why he had not realized this before. now it was to be broken; she would be as sorry as he could be; and it would have counted well toward the prize. he tried to calculate how many days he could be absent and still have left some chance of it. the work was all reviewing, he almost knew it, anyway. if he only had his books,—but no, they wouldn’t let him use his eyes.

a gentle rap halted his reflections, a sweet voice asked to come in; and in a moment there was a rose-leaf touch on his cheek.

“your mamma said i was to ask no questions, and i shall obey; but i do wish i knew how i could help you.” she touched the bandage that bound his head. “does it hurt you awfully much, billy? i’m so sorry. my eyes ache me, too, for looking at you.”

he was pleased with her sympathy; but being a boy, he didn’t like to show it. “i’ll tell you,” he said, eagerly, and without further acknowledgment of her kindness, “ask mr. brown to give you my books. perhaps to-night i can see to study.”

but not that night nor for days after did billy look at his books. the second morning the fever was still present, and he told his mother he was “all over red goose flesh.”

“measles,” mrs. bennett pronounced; and though it was a light case, and in a day or so billy felt as well as ever except his eyes, they were sentenced to a dark room.

may nell plays teacher

may nell had been “through the measles,” yet she shared the quarantine. billy resented this at first. it was “no fair.” afterward he was grateful; for aside from the cheer of her presence she did him a fine service. it was her clever brain that proposed to read his lessons aloud to him; and though he didn’t think much of it at first, he soon saw that this would make a chance for the prize which in his heart he had resigned.

she made a quaint picture curled in a big chair under the window, where a lifted corner of the curtain gave light to the book, but left the rest of the room dark. it pleased her to play teacher. she asked billy numberless questions, coaxed him to explain what she did not understand. and he soon learned that one must know a thing very well before he can tell it. he dictated some of the written work, and she transcribed it in her prim little script.

yet billy despaired when he thought of the mathematics; jimmy— with the thought of jimmy the hot blood rose to billy’s cheek, and he was glad the room was dark. it was jimmy’s right arm that was broken.

but may nell’s ambition was boundless. “we can do mathematics work, too. i can multiply, and divide, and other things beside, i can do; i’ll just be your paper and pencil.”

billy was skeptical, yet soon convinced, as the little girl slowly and carefully read the problems, followed his directions, and obtained correct results. a few problems were too complicated; these the boy had her mark for attack with recovered sight.

yet only a part of the long day went to study. they spent delightful hours rehearsing the stories of favorite books, and otherwise amused themselves by improvising tales of marvellous adventure. the school children sent notes, the latest school jokes, and original pictures, interesting if sometimes not quite clear as to meaning. clarence indited his first letter. here it is:

the best of all was a letter from jimmy, scrawled with his left hand.

“dear billy,” it read; “shifty seen the fight. he says it was something fierce. he says you looked like a mad bull. he was hiding behind the fence. he says he bet on me; but he was glad he didn’t bet with nobody, because you whipped. shifty’s doing some of my written work—i’m telling him how, of course. and i’m studying right smart. say, bill, i don’t lay no grudge. my arm’s getting on fine.

“yours truly,

“jimmy.”

billy read the note several times. he knew that jimmy meant much more than the words said; it was his offer of the “olive branch.” and billy, thinking over that miserable afternoon, wondered again how it had been possible for him to feel such murderous hate for anything living. and for jimmy! his mate at school, in play! the picture came to him of jackson crying, of vilette,—yes, it was not strange he had been angry. but it was not his duty to punish; even if it had been, he knew he had forgotten jackson and vilette, forgotten everything except the rage of the fight. why was it? older heads than billy’s have asked in sorrow that same question after the madness of some angry deed has passed to leave in its wake sleepless remorse.

the best amusement of the hours of imprisonment was planning for the performance of “the lady of the lake.” nothing definite, except that it was to be out of doors, had unfolded till now, when irksome leisure and may nell’s quick mind together bore fruit.

“we can play the first canto, ‘the chase,’ across the river in the sunol creek canyon,” billy explained, eagerly.

“but there aren’t any deer,” the little girl objected. “what will you do for

‘the antlered monarch of the waste

sprang from his heathery couch in haste’?”

“there ’re deer up there, all right; but of course we can’t get ’em. we’ll have to catch a jack rabbit beforehand and let him loose.”

“o billy, the poor rabbit will surely be caught; and you know the stag hid in ‘trosach’s wildest nook.’”

“oh, the kids’—boys’ dogs are mostly old or else too fat to run, like bouncer. i guess the rabbit can get away,—too soon, perhaps. we’ll have you for fair ellen.”

“oh, no; she must be jean.”

“she won’t do it; she said so before. she wants to be alan-bane.”

“but she’s a girl.”

“that’s the reason. she says a boy will spoil the part; won’t get the shivers like she will. she thinks a minstrel can’t—can’t minstrelize properly without the shivers.”

“yes, that’s true,” may nell replied, with conviction. “and queen will be lady margaret; and you are malcolm graeme; and who is fitz-james?”

“pretty; and charley will be douglas, and—”

“and jimmy is already roderick dhu.”

“but roderick dhu died from fighting fitz-james; i hate to give jimmy a dying part.”

“oh, my conscience! that isn’t any matter. all the grandest actors have the dying parts; and they die gloriously; and the audience claps and claps and claps; and the curtain goes up, and they all come out alive again and bow and smile; and you eat some candy and don’t cry any more.”

“that’s bul—dandy.”

“but i don’t like them to do that, billy. they ought to stay dead till the play is done. when i see them smiling i feel as if—just as i would if you made fun of me when i cried for my mama,—it takes all the true out of the play.”

“as soon as i get out of this,” billy went on, after a short silence, “i’ll go over and fix up ellen’s isle for you and lady margaret. we can have

‘—a lodge of ample size,’

with

‘the lighter pine trees overhead,’

but not the strong log house where——” he hesitated, and may nell quoted on glibly,

“‘the sturdy oak and ash unite’;

but i can

‘twine,

the ivy and the idean vine.’

if i only had an idean vine; what is it, billy?”

“you can search me.” billy was about to remark further, when a commotion arose among the school children just passing on their way home.

may nell needed no second request to “catch the racket and bring it in.” she flew downstairs, and presently up again, arriving with a breathless story. “o billy, the circus train’s wrecked! there won’t be any circus next week! some of the animals are all dead, and the fire burned some— oh, i can hear them scream now, can’t you?” she put her hands over her face and shivered.

“don’t feel so bad, chick,” he comforted; “it won’t bring them to life, and it hurts you. that’s why you don’t grow faster; your feelings eats up all your blood.”

she smiled faintly. “then my feelings must be bloodthirsty, billy. how dreadful!”

“did the little kids take it hard?”

“awfully hard, billy. some of them had ‘grief swimming in their eyes.’”

“poor little chaps! they’ve been talking circus for a month.”

“billy! i’ll tell you what let’s do; we’ll make a circus ourselves!”

“heavens to betsey! we’ll do it!”

the “lady of the lake” was that moment deserted.