"You've got a nice room here, Walter."

"Yes, you know I am to stay here two years, and I might as well be comfortable."

"It's ever so much better than my room—twice as big, to begin with. Then, my carpet looks as if it had come down through several generations. I'll bet the old lady had it when she was first married. As for a mirror, I've got a seven-by-nine looking-glass that I have to look into twice before I can see my whole face. As for the bedstead, it creaks so when I jump into it that I expect every night it'll fall to pieces like the 'one hoss shay,' and spill me on the floor. Now your room is splendidly furnished."

"Yes, it is now, but father furnished it at his own expense. He said he was willing to lay out a little money to make me comfortable."

"That's more than my father said. He told me it wouldn't do me any harm to rough it."

"I don't know but he is right," said Walter. "Of course I don't object to the new carpet and furniture,"—and he looked with pleasure at the handsome carpet with its bright tints, the black walnut bookcase with its glass doors, and the tasteful chamber furniture,—"but I shouldn't consider it any hardship if I had to rough it, as you call it."

"Wouldn't you? Then I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll change rooms. You can go round and board at Mrs. Glenn's, and I'll come here. What do you say?"

"I am not sure how my father would look on that arrangement," said Walter, smiling.

"I thought you'd find some way out," said Lemuel. "For my part, I don't believe you'd fancy roughing it any better than I."

"I don't know," said Walter; "I've sometimes thought I shouldn't be very sorry to be a poor boy, and have to work my own way."

"That's very well to say, considering you are the son of a rich man."

"So are you."

"Yes, but I don't get the benefit of it, and you do. What would you do now if you were a poor boy?"

"I can't say, of course, now, but I would go to work at something. I am sure I could earn my own living."

"I suppose I could, but I shouldn't want to."

"You're lazy, Lem, that's what's the matter with you."

"I know I am," said Lemuel, good-naturedly. "Some people are born lazy, don't you think so?"

"Perhaps you are right," answered Walter, with a smile. "Now suppose we open our CÆsar."

"I suppose we might as well. Here's another speech. I wish those old fellows hadn't been so fond of speech-making. I like the accounts of battles well enough, but the speeches are a bother."

"I like to puzzle them out, Lem."

"So don't I. How much have we got for a lesson?"

"Two sections."

While the boys are at work reading these two sections, two-thirds of the work being done by Walter, whose head is clearer and whose knowledge greater than his companion's, a little explanation shall be given, in order that we may better understand the position and prospects of the two boys introduced.

Of Lemuel Warner, it need only be said that he was a pleasant-looking boy of fourteen, the son of a prosperous merchant in New York. Walter Conrad was from a small inland town, where his father was the wealthiest and most prominent and influential citizen, having a handsome mansion-house, surrounded by extensive grounds.

How rich he was, was a matter of conjecture; but he was generally rated as high as two hundred thousand dollars. Mrs. Conrad had been dead for five years, so that Walter, who was an only child, had no immediate relation except his father. It was for this reason, perhaps, that he had been sent to the Essex Classical Institute, of which we find him a member at the opening of our story. Being a boy of talent, and well grounded in Latin, he was easily able to take a high rank in his class. Lemuel Warner had become his intimate friend, being in the same class, but considerably inferior to him in scholarship. They usually got their Latin lessons together, and it was owing to this circumstance that Lemuel made a better figure in his recitations than before Walter became a member of the school.

"There, that job's done," said Lemuel, closing his book with an air of satisfaction. "Now we can rest."

"You forget the Latin exercise."

"Oh, bother the Latin exercise! I don't see what's the use of writing Latin any way. English composition is hard enough. What's to be done?"

"You know the doctor expects each boy to write a letter in Latin, addressed to his father, not less than twelve lines in length."

"It isn't to be sent home, is it? Mr. Warner senior, I reckon, would stare a little when he got his. He wouldn't know Latin from Cherokee."

"Possibly your Latin won't differ much from Cherokee, Lem."

"What's the use of being sarcastic on a fellow, and hurting his feelings?" said Lem, laughing in a way to show that his feelings were not very seriously hurt. "I say, couldn't one crib a little from CÆsar?"

"Not very well, considering the doctor is slightly familiar with that author."

"I wonder whether CÆsar used to write home to his father when he was at boarding-school. If he did, I should like to get hold of some of his letters."

"They would probably have to be altered considerably to adapt them to the present time."

"Well, give me a sheet of paper and I'll begin."

The boys undertook their new task, and finished it by nine o'clock. I should be glad to furnish a copy of Lemuel's letter, which was written with brilliant disregard of grammatical rules; but unfortunately the original, afterwards considerably revised in accordance with suggestions from Walter, has not been preserved.

"I've a great mind to send my letter home, Walter," said Lemuel. "Father expects me to write home every week, and this would save me some trouble. Besides, he'd think I was getting on famously, to write home in Latin."

"Yes, if he didn't find out the mistakes."

"That's the rub. He'd show it to the minister the first time he called, and then my blunders would be detected. I guess I'd better wait till it comes back from the doctor corrected."

"I expect to hear from home to-morrow," said Walter.

"Why to-morrow in particular? Do you generally get letters Thursday?"

"No, my letters generally come on Saturday, and I answer them Sunday. But to-morrow is my birthday."

"Is it? Let me be the first to congratulate you. How venerable will you be?"

"As venerable as most boys of fifteen, Lem."

"You're three months older than I am, then. Do you expect a present?"

"I haven't thought much about it, but I don't believe father will forget me."

"Can't you guess what you are likely to get?"

"I can guess, but I may not be right. Father promised to give me a gold watch-chain some time. You know I have a gold watch already."

"Yes, and a regular little beauty."

"So it wouldn't surprise me much to get a chain for a present."

"You're a lucky boy. My watch is silver, and only cost twenty dollars."

"I dare say I should be just as happy with a silver watch, Lem."

"I suppose you wouldn't like to buy, would you? If so, I'll give you the chance. A fair exchange is no robbery."

"No, I suppose not; but it wouldn't do to exchange a gift."

"Perhaps, if my watch were gold and yours silver, you wouldn't have any objections."

"I don't think that would alter the case with me. A gift is a gift, whether it is more or less valuable."

"How long have you had your watch, Walter?"

"Ever since my thirteenth birthday."

"I have had mine a year. I broke the crystal and one of the hands the very first day."

"That was pretty hard usage, Lem."

"The watch had a pretty good constitution, so it has survived to the present day. But I'm getting sleepy, Walter. It's the hard study, I suppose, that's done it. I must be getting back to Ma'am Glenn's. Good-night."

"Good-night, Lem."

Lemuel Warner gathered up his books, and left the room. Walter poked the fire, putting some ashes on, so that it would keep till the next morning, and commenced undressing. He had scarcely commenced, however, when a heavy step was heard on the stairs, and directly afterwards a knock resounded upon his door.

Wondering who his late visitor could be, Walter stepped to the door, and opened it.