queer smile as if there was a tear in his eye,
and begin in a quavering mild voice, "My
dear companions and old friends!"

Every fellow's hand came out of his desk,
and the President suddenly began to cry.

"My dear companions and old friends,"
said Old Cheeseman, "you have heard of my
good fortune. I have passed so many years
under this roof—my entire life so far, I may
say—that I hope you have been glad to hear
of it for my sake. I could never enjoy it
without exchanging congratulations with you.
If we have ever misunderstood one another
at all, pray my dear boys let us forgive
and forget. I have a great tenderness for
you, and I am sure you return it. I want,
in the fulness of a grateful heart, to shake
hands with you every one. I have come
back to do it, if you please, my dear boys."

Since the President had begun to cry,
several other fellows had broken out here and
there: but now, when Old Cheeseman began
with him as first boy, laid his left hand
affectionately on his shoulder and gave him
his right; and when the President said
"Indeed I don't deserve it. Sir; upon my honour
I don't;" there was sobbing and crying all
over the school. Every other fellow said he
didn't deserve it, much in the same way; but
Old Cheeseman, not minding that a bit, went
cheerfully round to every boy, and wound up
with every master—finishing off the Reverend
last.

Then a snivelling little chap in a corner,
who was always under some punishment or
other, set up a shrill cry of "Success to Old
Cheeseman! Hoorray!" The Reverend glared
upon him, and said "Mr. Cheeseman, Sir."
But, Old Cheeseman protesting that he liked
his old name a great deal better than his new
one, all our fellows took up the cry; and, for
I don't know how many minutes, there was
such a thundering of feet and hands, and
such a roaring of Old Cheeseman, as never
was heard.

After that, there was a spread in the dining
room of the most magnificent kind. Fowls,
tongues, preserves, fruits, confectioneries,
jellies, neguses, barley-sugar temples, trifles,
crackers—eat all you can and pocket what you
like—all at Old Cheeseman's expense. After
that, speeches, whole holiday, double and
treble sets of all manners of games, donkeys,
pony-chaises and drive yourself, dinner for all
the masters at the Seven Bells, (twenty pounds
a-head our fellows estimated it at,) an annual
holiday and feast fixed for that day every
year, and another on Old Cheeseman's birthday
—Reverend bound down before the fellows
to allow it, so that he could never back out—
all at Old Cheeseman's expense.

And didn't our fellows go down in a body
and cheer outside the Seven Bells? O no!

But there's some thing else besides. Don't
look at the next story-teller, for there's more
yet. Next day, it was resolved that the
Society should make it up with Jane, and then be
dissolved. What do you think of Jane being
gone, though! "What? Gone for ever?" said
our fellows with long faces. "Yes, to be
sure," was all the answer they could get.
None of the people about the house would say
anything more. At length, the first boy took
upon himself to ask the Reverend whether
our old friend Jane was really gone? The
Reverend (he has got a daughter at home—
turn-up nose, and red) replied severelv, "Yes
sir. Miss Pitt is gone." The idea of calling
Jane Miss Pitt! Some said she had been sent
away in disgrace for taking money from Old
Cheeseman; others said she had gone into
Old Cheeseman's service at a rise of ten
pounds a year. All that our fellows knew,
was, she was gone.

It was two or three months afterwards,
when, one afternoon, an open carriage stopped
at the cricket-field, just outside bounds, with
a lady and gentleman in it, who looked at the
game a long time and stood up to see it played.
Nobody thought much about them, until the
same little snivelling chap came in, against all
rules, from the post where he was Scout, and
said, "It's Jane!" Both Elevens forgot the
game directly, and run crowding round the
carriage. It was Jane! In such a bonnet!
And if you'll believe me, Jane was married to
Old Cheeseman.

It soon became quite a regular thing when
our fellows were hard at it in the play-ground,
to see a carriage at the low part of the wall
where it joins the high part, and a lady and
gentleman standing up in it, looking over.
The gentleman was always Old Cheeseman,
and the lady was always Jane.

The first time I ever saw them, I saw them
in that way. There had been a good many
changes among our fellows then, and it had
turned out that Bob Tarter's father wasn't
worth millions! He wasn't worth anything.
Bob had gone for a soldier, and Old Cheeseman
had purchased his discharge. But that's
not the carriage. The carriage stopped, and
all our fellows stopped as soon as it was seen.

"So you have never sent me to Coventry
after all!" said the lady laughing, as our fellows
swarmed up the wall to shake hands with her.
"Are you never going to do it?"

"Never! never! never!" on all sides.

I didn't understand what she meant then,
but of course I do now. I was very much
pleased with her face though, and with her
good way, and I couldn't help looking at her
—and at him too—with all our fellows clustering
so joyfully about them.

They soon took notice of me as a new boy,
so I thought I might as well swarm up the
wall myself, and shake hands with them as the
rest did. I was quite as glad to see them
as the rest were, and was quite as familiar
with them in a moment.

"Only a fortnight now," said Old Cheeseman,
"to the holidays. Who stops?
Anybody?"

A good many fingers pointed at me, and a