o'clock to-morrow afternoon. He said I'd made the team. Isn't that wonderful?"
"Great," she agreed. But then, all concern, "Your face is cut and your right eye is black. And your sweater is torn. What have they been doing to you? Oh, that awful Cavendish man. He's a terror, they say."
"Don't say anything about Coach Cavendish, Peggy. He's a peach. A little strenuous maybe, but he gets results. We varsity fellows swear by him."
Peggy looked at him and tried to smile. He was such an innocent, such a good-hearted, sincere baby. She put an arm around his shoulders. "You can't sit here, Harold," she gently chided him. "You'll have to get up. I'll help you."
"Oh, I can get up all right," he protested. "I was just resting here for a minute and thinking. I'm all right."
But he accepted the aid of her arm. Perhaps it didn't really assist very much, but it felt fine. Thus he progressed down the hall to his room.
Peggy opened the door for him. She stood on the threshold a minute and ordered him maternally, "Now you take a good hot bath, Harold. And hurry over to Commons and get your dinner, or you'll be too late."
He promised. And he ventured, "And
