In the summer time, from the door of a darkened room, a gray-haired, bent old man had just followed a great surgeon down the wide staircase of Woodlea Hall. The surgeon looked around when he reached the last steps, and there was kindly pity on his grave face as he met the appealing eyes that were fixed on his. "I am sorry to say there is no hope, Mr. Temple," he said, in answer to the mute inquiry on his listener's face. Mr. Temple's bowed gray head bent a little lower when he heard this verdict, and that was all. "Is he your only son?" asked the surgeon, commiseratingly. "He is our only child," answered Mr. Temple. "Ah-that is sad, but there is no doubt football is a dangerous game." "How-how long will he be spared to us?" now inquired Mr. Temple with quivering lips. "He will drift away probably during the night, or in the small hours of the morning. He will not regain consciousness; the injury to the base of the brain is too severe." The great surgeon only stayed a few minutes longer in the grief-stricken household after this, and then was driven away. And when he was gone, with a heavy sigh-almost a moan-Mr. Temple began to ascend the staircase, and on the first landing a lady was standing waiting for him with terrible anxiety written on her pale face.