You might not care much for it, but to me it would be a delight to follow our friends on Ted’s break as they rolled merrily out from town on the bright Monday morning succeeding their two days’ stay at Oxford, and to keep with them all the way; not that anything momentous or wildly exciting happened on the trip, only that if it were possible to put all its charm onto paper, there is no question but you would enjoy it. Somebody has put it onto paper, however, and very successfully, too; so that I should advise you, in case a driving trip through the English Lake Country does not soon happen to come your way, to look between the covers of “The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton,” as soon as you grow a bit older, and see if you do not discover the charm of it for yourself. But whether we would or no, we have not the time just now to bowl quietly along in leisurely fashion through that lovely region of hills and lakes. Besides the party on the break are quite sufficient to themselves, while down at Nuneham there is a fellow who would be thankful enough for any advice that we could give him.

“What had I better do?” is the question that Ted is turning over and over in his mind, for the time has come for Ted to do something, and there are more difficulties confronting him than any one has an idea of. He has not even taken Harry Allyn fully into his confidence, so proud is this same foolish Ted. Besides, Harry Allyn, who, as you know, is in dead earnest about his “new leaf,” is up at Oxford delving away, midsummer though it is, at some back work that was sadly neglected in the spring term, and has actual need to be made up.

Finally Ted, who finds himself simply reasoning in a circle, decides to lay the whole matter before Donald; for Donald, boy that he is, has opinions of his own which he does not fear to express, and, what is more, Ted in desperation feels that he simply must turn to somebody. And so it comes about that at the close of an August afternoon, when Ted has the house to himself (Chris having taken the old keeper and his wife off for a drive), that he calls to Donald, who, coming up from a day’s work in the kitchen garden, is on his way to put his tools away in the barn.

“Well, what is it, Mr. Harris?” leaving rake and hoe against the cottage shingles and slipping into the chair nearest the door, out of regard for Mrs. Hartley’s clean-swept carpet.

“It’s just this, Donald. I’m in a fix, and I want you to help me out.”

“A new fix, Mr. Harris?” with a long breath, as though he thought there had really been rather too much of that sort of thing already.

“No, an old one, Donald, and I fancy you know enough of my record these last four years to imagine what it is.”

“I shouldn’t wonder if you’re in debt,” for Ted had hinted as much once or twice to Donald.

“Exactly, head over heels in debt;” and although Ted’s words were light enough, his manner was very serious.

“And you want me to help you out?” said Donald, remembering the three or four sovereigns knotted up sailor fashion in a handkerchief with a few other treasures, and representing all his worldly store.

“No, I’m not going to take any savings of yours,” said Ted, imagining that Donald might so have understood him; “but I want to put the case to you, and have you tell me what to do;” and Donald listened attentively while Ted “put his case” plainly and without any mental reservations whatever.

“It’s a terrible big sum,” said Donald, when all was told, “but you say you have money enough to pay it several times over if you could only get at it.”

“Exactly; but I can’t get at it any more than though it didn’t belong to me—not till I’m twenty-five, and that’s two years off. You see, my father thought he had given me a generous income, and he had—rather too generous for my good, it seems.”

“I suppose the people you owe it to would wait two years if they felt sure they would get the money then for Donald, with the wisdom of an older head, was trying to look at the matter from all sides.

“No, Donald, that wouldn’t do. They’re trades-people, most of them, and they’ve waited longer than they can afford to already. I must manage to borrow the money somewhere—but where, that’s the question.”

“Couldn’t Harold help you a little?”

“Not to any extent. Harold can’t touch his money any more than I; besides, Harold is not to know,” and Ted spoke decidedly, as though in that direction his mind was fully made up, and he needed advice from no one.

“Aren’t there men up in London who make a business of lending money?” for Donald hadn’t knocked about the world without gaining some knowledge of men and affairs.

“Yes, there are, but I want to keep this thing just as quiet as possible. I do wish I had some friend to turn to.”

“Mr. Harris,” said Donald, looking Ted squarely in the face, “it’s an awful pity about you; there is no sense at all in your going on the way you have. When a fellow has a home and friends and money, there isn’t any excuse for that sort of thing. Seems to me it would be so easy then to keep straight.”

Ted winced a little under Donald’s frankness, knowing all that lay beneath it. It had sometimes been very difficult for the boy there before him, to whom home and money had been always lacking, and friends as well until within these last few weeks, to live up to the best that he knew. No boy puts to sea, as Donald had done, without coming face to face with some sore temptations, but his whole look and bearing showed how manfully he had resisted them, and the earnest honesty of his eyes preached a sermon as they met Ted’s.

“It is an awful pity,” said Ted, echoing Donald’s words, and hating his own record more than any one else could hate it; “but all that is left me is to try and mend matters. The only comfort is that I’ve come to my senses at last. A great many never do, you know.”

“Mr. Harris,” said Donald, who had been listening to Ted and doing his own thinking at one and the same time, “there was an Englishman came over on the steamer with us, who grew to be great friends with Marie-Celeste, and Marie-Celeste told me all about him one of those afternoons when I was too weak to do anything but lie in my berth, and she tried to entertain me. She said he was a bachelor, and rich as could be, and she thought the best thing that could happen to him would be to do somebody a good turn with his money. If you feel that you want to keep this matter sort of quiet, just between gentleman and gentleman (which was a phrase Donald had heard Mr. Harris use, and was glad to be able to appropriate), why don’t you go up to London and hunt him up? He lives at one of the big clubs. You could easily find him. His name was Belden.”

At this Ted gave a start of surprise, as did Miss Dorothy Allyn when Marie-Celeste made the same announcement the day of their talk in St. George’s Chapel. And then Ted asked, as had she: “Are you sure it was Belden? You see, Donald,” he continued, “I’ve an old bachelor uncle whose name is Selden—my mother’s brother—and who answers to your description to a dot—a surly old customer, who would do little enough for me, or any one else, I imagine.”

“No; it was Belden sure. Everybody called him Mr. Belden, and it was so on the passenger list; I’ve got one in my chest upstairs; I’ll bring it, and you can see for yourself.”

“Donald,” said Ted, when, the list having been produced, he felt that the balance of evidence was not in favor of Mr. Belden and Mr. Selden being one and the same, “that is a happy thought of yours, and up to London I will go.”

“You oughtn’t to go alone, Mr. Harris; you’re not strong enough for that yet.”

“I wonder if Chris would let you turn valet for me and go too.”

“I’d give a great deal to see London again,” said Donald enthusiastically.

“Would wages have to be taken into account?” laughed Ted; “you know the state of my finances, Donald.”

“Board and expenses—that is all, sir,” and so the serious talk ended with this bit of pleasantry; and Ted realizing that he had not been disappointed in feeling that Donald would somehow be able to help him, found himself entering into the............