Mr. Edwards slightly lowered his Sunday paper and over the top of it frowned abstractedly at the boy on the window-seat. "Eh?" he asked. "What was that?"

"'Mens sana in corpore sano,' sir."

"Oh!" Mr. Edwards blinked through his reading glasses and rustled the paper. Finally, "For a boy who has studied as much Latin as you have," he said disapprovingly, "the question is extraordinary, to say the least. I'd advise you to—hm—find your dictionary, Steve." And Mr. Edwards again retired from sight.

Steve, cross-legged on the broad seat that filled the library bay, a seat which commanded an uninterrupted view up and down the street, smiled into the open pamphlet he held.

"He doesn't know," he said to himself with a chuckle. "It's something about your mind and your body, though. Never mind." He idly fluttered the leaves of the pamphlet and glanced out into the street to see if any friends were in sight. But it was Sunday afternoon, and rainy, and the wide, maple-bordered street, its neat artificial stone sidewalks shimmering with moisture, was quite deserted. With a sigh Steve went back to the pamphlet. It bore the inscription on the outer cover: "Brimfield Academy," and, below, in parenthesis, "William Torrence Foundation."

"What does 'William Torrence Foundation' mean, dad?" asked the boy.

Again Mr. Edwards lowered his paper, with a sigh. "It means, as you will discover for yourself if you will take the trouble to read the catalogue, that a man named William Torrence gave the money to establish the school. Now, for goodness sake, Steve, let me read in peace for a minute!"

"Yes, sir. Thank you." Steve turned the pages, glanced again at the "View of Main Building from the Lawn" and began to read. "In 1878 William Torrence, Esq., of New York City, visited his native town of Brimfield and interested the citizens in a plan to establish a school on a large tract of land at the edge of the town which had been in the Torrence family for many generations. Two years later the school was built and, under the title of Torrence Seminary, began a successful career which has lasted for thirty-two years. Under the principalship of Dr. Andrew Morey, the institution increased rapidly in usefulness, and in 1892 it was found necessary to add two wings to the original structure at a cost of $34,000, also the gift of the founder. Dr. Morey's connection with the school ended four years later, when the services of the present head, Mr. Joshua Fernald, A.M., were secured. The death of Mr. Torrence in 1897, after a long and honoured career, removed the school's greatest friend and benefactor, but, by the terms of his will, placed it beyond the reach of want for many years. With new buildings and improvements made possible by the generous provisions of the testament the school soon took its place amongst the foremost institutions of its kind. In 1908 the charter name was changed to Brimfield Academy—William Torrence Foundation, the course was lengthened from four years to six and the present era of well-deserved prosperity was entered on. Brimfield Academy now has accommodations for 260 boys, its faculty consists of 19 members and its buildings number 8. Situated as it is–"

Steve yawned frankly, viewed again the somnolent street and idly turned the pages. There were several pictures, but he had seen them all many times and only the one labelled "'Varsity Athletic Field—Gymnasium Beyond" claimed his interest for a moment. At last,

"They've got a peach of an athletic field, dad," he observed approvingly. "I can see six goals, and that means three gridirons. And there's a baseball field besides. The catalogue says that 'provision is also made for tennis, boating and swimming,' but I don't see any tennis courts in the picture."

"All right," grunted his father from behind the paper.

"I wonder," continued Steve musingly, "where you get your boating and swimming. It says that Long Island Sound is two and a half miles distant. That's a long old ways to go for a swim, isn't it?"

Mr. Edwards laid the paper across his knees and regarded the boy severely. "Steve," he said, "about the only thing I've heard from you since that catalogue arrived is the athletic field and the gymnasium. I'd like to refresh your mind on one point, my son."

"Yes, sir?" said Steve without much eagerness.

"I'd like to remind you that you are not going to Brimfield Academy to play football or baseball, or to swim. You're going there to study and learn! I don't propose to spend four hundred and fifty dollars a year, besides a whole lot for extras, to have you taught how to kick a football or make a home-hit. And–"

"A home-run, sir," corrected Steve humbly.

"Or whatever it is, then. I expect you to buckle down when you get there and learn. Remember that you've got just two years in which to prepare yourself for college. If you aren't ready then, you don't go. That's flat, my boy, and I want you to understand it. So, if you have any idea of football and tennis as your—er—principal courses you want to get it right out of your head. Now, for a change, suppose you have a look at the studies in front of you, and don't let me hear anything more about the gymnasium or the—the what-do-you-call-it field."

"All right, sir." Steve obediently turned the pages back. "Just the same," he said to himself, "he didn't know what 'mens sana in corpore sano' meant any better than I did! Bet you he didn't kill himself studying when he went to school!" With a sigh he found the "Courses of Study" and read: "Form IV. Classical. Latin: Vergil's Aeneid, IV—XII, Cicero and Ovid at sight, Composition (5). Greek: Xenophon's Hellenica, Selections, Iliad and Odyssey, Selections, Sight Reading, Reviews, Composition (5). German (optional) (4). French: Advanced Grammar and Composition, Le Siege de Paris, Le Barbier de Saville–"

At that moment a shrill whistle sounded outside the library window and Steve's eyes fled from the pamphlet to the grinning face of Tom Hall set between two of the fence pickets. The Catalogue of Brimfield Academy was tossed to the further end of the seat, and Steve, nodding vigorously through the window, jumped to his feet.

"I'm going for a walk with Tom, sir," he announced half-way to the hall door. Mr. Edwards, smothering a sigh of relief, glanced at the weather.

"Very well," he said. "Don't get your feet wet. And—er—be back before it's dark."

Steve disappeared into the dim hallway and Mr. Edwards gave honest expression to his sense of relief by elevating his feet to the seat of a neighbouring chair, dropping the newspaper and, with a luxurious sigh, composing himself for his Sunday afternoon nap. But peace was not yet his, for a minute or two later Steve came hurrying in again. Mr. Edwards opened his eyes with a frown.

"Sorry, sir," said Steve, "but Tom wants to see the catalogue."

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