It lacked but a few minutes of eleven o’clock when the serenading party said goodnight to Signor Baretti and trooped off toward the campus. The usually taciturn Italian had surprised and touched them by the impulsive story of his most tragic hour. He had afterward played host to his light-hearted guests with the true grace of the Latin. No one came to the inn for cheer after they entered in that evening, so they had the place quite to themselves. After a feast of the coveted peach ice cream and cakes, the obliging orchestra tuned up again at Giuseppe’s earnest request. Robin sang Shubert’s “Serenade” and “Appear Love at Thy Window.” Phyllis played Raff’s “Cavatina” and one of Brahm’s “Hungarian Dances.” Blanche Scott sang “Asleep in the Deep,” simply to prove she had a masculine voice when she chose to use it.

“We’ll come and make music for you again sometime,” promised kind-hearted Phyllis as they left their beaming host.

“I thank you. An’ you forget you say you come an’ play, I tell you ’bout it sometime you come here to eat,” he warned the party as they were leaving.

“Talk about truth being stranger than fiction, what do you think of Giuseppe’s story?” Jerry exclaimed as soon as they were well away from the inn. “Imagine how one would feel to meet one’s long-lost brother just as one was getting ready to commit suicide!”

“One half of the world doesn’t know how the other half lives,” Ronny said with a shake of her fair head.

“To see Giuseppe today, successful and well-to-do, one finds it hard to visualize him as the poor, starved, despondent Italian boy who cried his heart out on the doorstep.” Vera’s tones vibrated with sympathy. The Italian’s story had impressed her deeply.

The girls discussed it soberly as they wended a leisurely way across the campus. Even care-free Muriel, who seldom liked to take life seriously, remarked with becoming earnestness that it was such stories which made one realize one’s own benefits.

“Be on hand tomorrow night at eight-thirty sharp,” was Phyllis’s parting injunction to the Wayland Hall girls as the Silvertonites left them to go on to their own house. “We have three fair ladies to sing to and we don’t want to slight any of them.”

“I think we ought to get up some entertainments of our own this year. I never stopped to realize before how few clubs and college societies Hamilton has. There’s only the ‘Silver Pen’,—one has to have high literary ability to make that,—the ‘Twelfth Night Club’ and the ‘Fortnightly Debating Society.’ We haven’t a single sorority,” Vera declared with regret.

“Miss Remson told me once of a sorority that Hamilton used to have called the ‘Round Table.’ It flourished for many years. Then all of a sudden she heard no more of it. She said Hamilton was very different even ten years ago from now. There was little automobiling and more sociability among the campus houses. There were house plays going on every week and different kinds of entertainments in which almost everyone joined.”

“That’s the way college ought to be,” commended Vera. “Even if Hamilton hasn’t yet won back to those palmy days, we had more fellowship here last year than the year before. Why, during Leila’s and my freshman year here we were seldom invited anywhere. We hardly knew Helen Trent until late in the year. Nella and Selma, Martha Merrick and Rosalind Black were our only friends.”

“And now we are to lose Selma.” Leila heaved an audible sigh. She had already informed the girls of Selma’s approaching marriage to a young naval officer.

“Did Selma know last year she was not going to finish college?” asked Muriel. “If I had gone through three years of my college course I wouldn’t give up the last and most important year just to be married.”

“That is because you know nothing about love,” teased Ronny.

“Do you?” challenged Muriel.

“I do not. I have a good deal more sentiment than you have though,” retorted Ronny. “I can appreciate Selma’s sacrifice at the shrine of love.”

“So could I if I knew more about it,” Muriel flung back.

“Precisely what I said to you. So glad you agree with me,” chuckled Ronny.

“I don’t agree with you at all. I meant if I knew more about what you were pleased to call ‘Selma’s sacrifice,’ not love.” Muriel’s emphasis of the last word proclaimed her disdain of the tender passion.

“Hear the geese converse,” commented Leila. “Let me tell you both that Selma had to lose either college or her fiancÉ for two years. He was ordered to the Philippines to take charge of a naval station on one of the islands. They were to have been married anyway as soon as she was graduated from Hamilton. As it was she chose to go with him. So Selma gained a husband and lost her seniorship and we lost Selma. I shall miss her, for a finer girl never lived.”

“Nella will miss her most of all,” Vera said quickly. “We must try to make it up to Nella by taking her around with us a lot.”

They had by this time reached the Hall. Girl-like they lingered on the steps, enjoying the light night breeze that had sprung up in the last hour. Marjorie’s old friend, the chimes, had rung out the stroke of eleven before they reached the Hall. College having not yet opened officially, they claimed the privilege of keeping a little later hours.

As they loitered outside, conversing in low tones, the front door opened and a girl stepped out on the veranda. She uttered a faint sound of surprise at sight of the group of girls. She made a half movement as though to retreat into the house. Then, her face turned away from them, she hurried across the veranda and down the steps.

Though the veranda light was not switched on, the girls had seen her face plainly. To four of them she was known.

“Who was she and what ailed her?” was Muriel’s light question. “She acted as though she were afraid we might eat her up.”

“That was Miss Sayres, President Matthews’ private secretary,” answered Leila in a peculiar tone. “As to what ailed her, she did not expect to see us and she was not pleased. We have an old Irish proverb: ‘When a man runs from you be sure his feet are at odds with his conscience.’”