A Letter of Destiny

sion, half brooding, half tender, in their depths.

Mr. Marshall was very proud of his son’s success in college, but he had no in— tention of letting him see it. He loved this boy of his, with the dead mother’s eyes, better than anything on earth, and all his hopes and ambitions were bound up in him.

“Well, that fuss is over, thank good- ness,” he said testily, as he dropped into his favourite chair.

“ Didn’t you find the programme inter- esting? ” asked Eric absently.

“ Most of it was tommyrot,” said his father. “ The only things I liked were Charlie’s Latin prayer and those pretty little girls trotting up to get their di- plomas. Latin is the language for pray- ing in, I do believe,——at least, when a man has a voice like Old Charlie’s. There was such a sonorous roll to the words that the mere sound of them made me feel like getting down on my marrow bones. And

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