No sooner had Mr. John H. Stover returned from the serious developments of the summer, arranged his new possessions and brought forward the photograph of Miss McCarty to a position on the edge of his bureau, where he could turn to it the last thing at night and again behold it with his waiting glance, than a horrible coincidence appeared.

Among the festive decorations that made the corporate home of Dink and the Tennessee Shad a place to visit and admire was, as has been related, a smashing poster of a ballet dancer in the costume of an amazon parader. Up to now Dink had shared the just pride of the Tennessee Shad in this rakish exhibit that somehow gave the possessor the reputation of having an acquaintance with stage entrances. But on the second morning when his faithful glance turned to the protecting presence of Miss McCarty resting among the brushes, it paused a moment on the representative of the American dramatic profession, who was coquettishly trying to conceal one foot behind her ear.

Then he sat bolt upright with a start. By some strange perversion of the fate that delights in torturing lovers, the features of the immodestly clothed amazon bore the most startling resemblance to that paragon of celestial purity, Miss Josephine McCarty.

The more he gazed the more astounding was the impression. He gazed and then he did not gaze at all—it seemed like a profanation. The resemblance, once perceived, positively haunted him; stand where he might his eyes could see nothing but the seraphic head of Miss McCarty upon the unspeakable body of the amazon—and then those legs!

For days this centaurian combination tortured him without his being able to evolve a satisfactory method of removing the blasphemous poster. A direct attack was quite out of the question, for manifestly the Tennessee Shad would demand an adequate explanation for the destruction of his treasured possession. There could be no explanation except the true one, and such a confession was unthinkable, even to a roommate under oath.

For two solid weeks Stover, brooding desperately, sought to avert his glance from the profane spectacle before chance came to his rescue. One Saturday night, after a strenuous game with the Princeton Freshmen, Dink, afraid of going stale, decided to quicken his jaded appetite by an application of sardines, deviled ham and rootbeer.

The feasting-table happened to be directly beneath the abhorrent poster, so that Stover, as he lifted the bottle to open it, beheld with fury the offending tights. He gave the bottle instinctively a shake and with that disturbing motion suddenly came his plan.

"This rootbeer has been flat as the deuce lately," he said.

"They're selling us poor stuff," said the Tennessee Shad, with the tail of a sardine disappearing within.

"I wonder if I could put life in the blame thing if I shook it up a bit," said Stover, suiting the action to the word.

Now, the Tennessee Shad knew from experience what that result would be, but as Stover was holding the bottle he dissembled his knowledge.

"Give it a shake," he said.

Stover complied.

"Shake her again."

"How's that?"

"Once more. It'll be just like champagne."

Stover gave it a final vigorous shake, pointed the nozzle toward the poster and cut the cork. There was an explosion and then the contents rose like a geyser and spread over the ceiling and the luckless ballet dancer who dared to resemble Miss McCarty.

By the next morning the poster was unrecognizable under a coating of dried reddish spots and was ignominiously removed, to the delight of Stover, whose illusions were thus preserved, as well as his secret.

Now, the month spent at the McCartys' had strengthened his honorable intentions and given them that definite purpose that is sometimes vulgarly ticketed—object matrimony.

It is not that Dink could return over the romantic days of his visit and lay his finger on any particular scene or any definite word that could be construed as binding Miss McCarty. But, on the other hand, his own actions and expressions, he thought, must have been so capable of but one interpretation that, as a man of honor, he held himself morally as well as willingly bound. Of course, she had understood his attitude; she must have understood. And, likewise, there were events that made him believe that she, in her discreet way, had let him see by her actions what she could not convey by her words. For, of course, in his present position of dependence on his father, nothing could be said. He understood that. He would not have changed it. Still, there were unmistakable memories of the preference he had enjoyed. Ther had been, in particular, an ill-favored dude, called Ver Plank, who had always been hanging around with his tandem and his millions, who had been sacrificed a dozen times by the unmercenary angel to his, John H. Stover's, profit. That was clear enough, and there had been many such incidents.

The only thing that disappointed Dink was the polite correctness of her letters. But then something, he said to himself, must be allowed for maiden modesty. His own letters were the product of afternoons and evenings. The herculean difficulty that he experienced in covering four sheets of paper—even when writing a flowing hand and allowing half a page for the signature—secretly worried him. It seemed as though something was lacking in his character or in the strength of his devotion.

On the day after the final disappearance of the brazen amazon Dink pounced upon a violet envelope in the well-known handwriting and bore it to a place of secrecy. It was in answer to four of his own painful compositions.

He gave three glances before reading, three glances that estimate all such longed-for epistles. There were five pages, which brought him a thrill; it was signed "as ever, Josephine," which brought him a doubt; and it began "Dear Jack," which brought him nothing at all.

Having thus passed from hot to cold, and back to a fluctuating temperature, he began the letter—first, to read what was written, and second, to read what might be concealed between the lines:

This letter, as indeed all her letters did, left Dink trapezing, so to speak, from one emotion to another. He had not acquired that knowledge, which indeed is never acquired, of valuing to a nicety the intents, insinuations and complexities of the feminine school of literature.

There were things that sent him soaring like a Japanese kite and there were things, notably the reference to Ver Plank, that tumbled him as awkwardly down.

He immediately seized upon pen and paper. It had, perhaps, been his fault. He would conduct the correspondence on a more serious tone. He would be a little—daring.

At the start he fell into the usual inky deliberation. "Dear Josephine" was so inadequate. "My dear Josephine" had—or did it not have—just an extra little touch of tenderness, a peculiar claim to possession. But if so, would it be too bold or too sentimental? He wrote boldly:

"My dear Josephine:"

Then he considered. Unfortunately, at that time the late lamented Pete Daly, in the halls of the likewise lamented Weber and Fields, was singing dusky love songs to a lady likewise entitled "My Josephine." The connection was unthinkable. Dink tore the page into minute bits and, selecting another, sighed and returned to the old formula.

Here another long pause succeeded while he searched for a sentiment or a resolve that would raise him in her estimation. It is a mood in which the direction of a lifetime is sometimes bartered for a phrase. So it happened with Dink. Suddenly his face lit up and he started to write:

No sooner was this letter dispatched and Stover had realized what had been in his mind for weeks than he went to Tough McCarty to inform him of his high resolve.

"But, Dink," said Tough in dismay, "you can't be serious! Why, we were going through college together!"

"That's the hard part of it," said Dink, looking and, indeed, feeling very solemn.

"But you're giving up a wonderful career. Every one says you'll be a star end. You'll make the All-American. Oh, Dink!"

"Don't," said Dink heroically.

"But, I say, what's happened?"

"It's—it's a family matter," said Stover, who on such occasions, it will he perceived, had a strong family feeling.

"Is it decided?" said Tough in consternation.

"Unless stocks take a turn," said Dink.

McCarty was heartbroken, Dink rather pleased, with the new role that, somehow, lifted him from his fellows in dignity and seriousness and seemed to cut down the seven years. All that week he waited hopefully for her answer. She must understand now the inflexibility of his character and the intensity of his devotion. His letter told everything, and yet in such a delicate manner that she must honor him the more for the generous way in which he took everything upon himself, offered everything and asked nothing. He was so confidently happy and elated with the vexed decision of his affairs that he even took the Millionaire Baby over to the Jigger Shop and stood treat, after a few words of paternal advice which went unheeded.

Toward the beginning of the third week in the early days of November, as the squad was returning from practice Tough said casually:

"I say, did you get a letter from Sis?"

"No," said Dink with difficulty.

"You probably have one at the house. She's engaged."

"What?" said Dink faintly. The word seemed to be spoken from another mouth.

"Engaged to that Ver Plank fellow that was hanging around. I think he's a mutt."

"Oh, yes—Ver Plank."

"Gee, it gave me quite a jolt!"

"Oh, I—I rather expected it."

He left Tough, wondering how he had had the strength to answer.

"Look out, you're treading on my toes," said the Gutter Pup next him.

He mumbled something and his teeth closed over his tongue in the effort to bring the sharp sense of pain. He went to his box; the letter was there. He went to his room and laid it on the table, going to the window and staring out. Then he sat down heavily, rested his head in his hands and read:

He put the letter down; indeed, he could not see to read any further. There was nothing more to read—nothing mattered. It was all over, the light was gone, everything was topsy-turvy. He could not understand—but it was over—all over. There was nothing left.

Some time later the Tennessee Shad came loping down the hall, tried the door and, finding it locked, called out:

"What the deuce—open up!"

Dink, in terror, rose from the table where he had remained motionless. He caught up the letter and hastily stuffed it in his desk, saying gruffly:

"In a moment."

Then he dabbed a sponge over his face, pressed his hands to his temples and, steadying himself, unlocked the door.

"For the love of Mike!" said the indignant Tennessee Shad, and then, catching sight of Dink, stopped. "Dink, what is the matter?"

"It's—it's my mother," said Dink desperately.

"She's not dead?"

"No—no——" said Dink, now free to suffocate, "not yet."