Rodney occupied alone the finest room in the school.  There was a great contrast between his comfortable quarters and the extremely plain dormitories occupied by less favored pupils.

In the case of some boys the favoritism of the teacher would have led them to put on airs, and made them unpopular with their school fellows.  But Rodney had too noble a nature to be influenced by such considerations.  He enjoyed his comfortable room, but treated his school fellows with a frank cordiality that made him a general favorite.

After David left his room Rodney sat down to prepare a lesson in Cicero, when he was interrupted by the entrance through the half open door of a younger boy.

“Rodney,” he said, “the doctor would like to see you in his office.”

“Very well, Brauner, I will go down at once.”

He put aside his book and went down to the office of Dr. Sampson on the first floor.

The doctor was sitting at his desk.  He turned slightly as Rodney entered.

“Take a seat, Ropes,” he said curtly.

His tone was so different from his usual cordiality that Rodney was somewhat surprised.

“Am I in disgrace?” he asked himself.  “Dr. Sampson doesn’t seem as friendly as usual.”

After a brief interval Dr. Sampson wheeled round in his office chair.

“I have a letter for you from your guardian, Ropes,” he said.  “Here it is.  Do me the favor to read it here.”

With some wonder Rodney took the letter and read as follows: 

Dear Rodney—­I have bad news to communicate.  As you know, I was left by your father in charge of you and your fortune.  I have never told you the amount, but I will say now that it was about fifty thousand dollars.  Until two years since I kept it intact but then began a series of reverses in which my own fortune was swallowed up.  In the hope of relieving myself I regret to say that I was tempted to use your money.  That went also, and now of the whole sum there remains but enough to pay the balance of your school bills, leaving you penniless.  How much I regret this I cannot tell you.  I shall leave New York at once.  I do not care at present to say where I shall go, but I shall try to make good the loss, and eventually restore to you your lost fortune.  I may be successful or I may not.  I shall do my best and I hope in time to have better news to communicate.

One thing I am glad to say.  I have a casket containing your mother’s jewels.  These are intact.  I shall send you the casket by express, knowing that you will wish to keep them out of regard for your mother’s memory.  In case you are reduced to the necessity of pawning or selling them, I am sure that your mother, could she be consulted, would advise you to do so.  This would be better than to have you suffer from want.

There is nothing further for me to write except to repeat my regret, and renew my promise to make up your lost fortune if I shall ever to able to do so.  Your Guardian, Benjamin Fielding.