In the fading light of a December afternoon Miss Grammer and Ellen went together to an organ recital in the chapel. Only the lamps at the organ were lighted and they found their way to a pew in the twilight and sat very still, seeing dimly the mosaics picked out in gold, the faint outlines of arched windows and the shadowy forms of human beings. They were not curious about what was being played; for them music was merely an aid to meditation. Miss Grammer saw a little brown house whose snug interior was like that of a ship's cabin. It had built-in cases of drawers, many book-cases, a few pieces of mahogany furniture, and at the windows white curtains and red geraniums, and it was surrounded by neat flower-beds in which there was a continual succession of old-fashioned bloom.

Ellen's thoughts dwelt upon a human and not a material object. She saw Stephen's smile and heard his "Well, Ellen!" It was only at such moments as this that she allowed herself to think of him. A history paper had recently been marked B, instead of A, and she knew the reason perfectly, she had been meditating during a lecture upon the admirable character of her benefactor. There are long periods in youth when the present suffices for happiness, when the distant future casts no shadow upon the drifting hours. She was content to work as few students ever worked and to allow herself grateful thoughts during organ recitals and late in the evening when she sat on the window-seat in the Seminar room waiting for Miss Grammer to complete her longer tasks.

This afternoon the organist seemed to have selected his compositions for the special benefit of dreamers. He used soft stops, and one lost at times almost all consciousness of sound. His little yellow-haired boy had climbed to the organ bench and the light fell upon him as he sat motionless watching his father's hands. It seemed as though he were producing the music by a childish magic.

"Two years from now I shall probably be settled for life," said Miss Grammer to herself. "I shall not buy a house for a year, however, until I am sure that everything suits me. I shall have a fireplace with a couch before it and my bookshelves shall be all about me like a wall. If only nothing happens!" Miss Grammer shivered. Alas, things had often happened!

"Two weeks from now I shall be at home," said Ellen. "It will be almost dinner-time and I shall be going down to the library. Perhaps I shall have a letter this evening."

The last part of Ellen's dream came true. She did not read the letter at once; it pleased her in her confident happiness to postpone it until she had finished her evening's work. After dinner she and her companion went back across the dark campus to the library. They listened for a moment to the noisy brook over which they crossed on a little bridge, they watched velvety black wind clouds blot out the stars, they smiled at a whistling boy, they heard the sound of a dance tune from a fraternity house.

"People are gayer than we, but they aren't happier," said Miss Grammer.

"Oh, I'm gay, too!" said Ellen.

She wrote themes in English and Latin; then she looked over many pages of history notes and answered mentally a list of questions which she had set down at the conclusion of to-day's lecture. She could answer them all—there were to be no more B's! Occasionally the name of a studious Junior was added to the list of Seniors elected to membership in the Phi Beta Kappa Fraternity—it was a goal at which she aimed.

Then at last she opened her letter.

"My dear Ellen," wrote Stephen, "I find that I shall have to be away at Christmas—I'm going South with Professor Mayne. Fetzer is, I'm sorry to say, to be away also, not as heretofore merely visiting her wretch of a husband, but preparing a home to which he will come permanently next month. Then Miss MacVane will take charge of the house. I think your best plan will be to stay in Ithaca with your friend. Would you like to go to Buffalo again? What would you like to do?"

After a while Miss Grammer looked up. Ellen's head was bent low.

"What's the matter? Have you had bad news?"

Ellen lifted a pale, astonished face.

"No," she said, trying to make her voice sound natural. "Only I'm to stay here for Christmas. Dr. Lanfair and Mrs. Fetzer will both be away."

"Well," said Miss Grammer practically, "I'm sure we shall have a pleasant time." Blinking in her queer fashion, she delivered a little homily which expressed her philosophy of life. She had had deep and wide experience with disappointment.

"There's only one person for each of us to be absolutely sure of, that's ourselves, and we've got to make our happiness dependent upon things which we can get for ourselves. Now one can always have books and nature, and we should make the most of those pleasures and learn to rely upon them and not upon human beings or worldly fortune. I've had to do that."

Miss Grammer returned to her books and concentrated her attention upon them. Her remarks indicated no vain boasting; she had done exactly what she claimed to have done. But she was quite forty.

Ellen sat for a little while looking out of the window. She felt stupefied; presently she was conscious that she had difficulty in breathing. Was she going to cry? She must get quickly from under these smothering ranks of dull books and this heavy pile of stone and away from the keen eyes of her companion. It had always been her habit in trouble to run out of doors. She rose and put on her hat and coat.

"Just a few minutes and I'll be ready," said Miss Grammer.

"I think I'll go now," answered Ellen steadily. "See you in the morning."

Miss Grammer looked at the door which closed gently. She knew the main facts of Ellen's life, and suspecting that Harrisburg held some young man to whom she was attached, she sighed.

Outside Ellen stood still. The night was bright and starlit. She went round the great building to the rear and there sat down upon a familiar bench which was a part of the architectural design and bore an inscription which she knew by heart:

She was filled with wonder and amazement. Could such misery be real? He was going South with Professor Mayne! He could have no other reason than his own pleasure. If he had stayed at home, Fetzer would have stayed also—she knew Fetzer's plans. He didn't care; she was nothing to him but a poor creature who needed help.

Hearing the sound of men's voices, she realized that it was foolish to sit here alone, when at any moment a company of students might take a short cut across the hill. She longed for the shelter of her room, for her smooth pillow—the sky and the stars and the cold air offered no balm. Perhaps in her room she could think this out, could find some ray of comfort, could remember some detail of their association upon which she could once more build happiness. She rose and went rapidly down the walk and across the brook.

Once in her room, she did not go to bed, but sat down by the window and looked out at the dim campus. Her pain, dulled for a few moments, returned. He was going away, she should not see him! She put her hand to her side, to soothe actual, physical distress.

Presently, as if to ascertain whether this agony had put a visible mark upon her, she turned on the light and examined herself in her mirror curiously and with humility. She was not thinking of her appearance; she was asking herself a question. Then she lifted her head with a splendid defiance to resist the fire of amazement and resentment which ran through her. The resentment was not against Stephen, still less was it against herself; it was against life.

"I haven't done any wrong," said Ellen aloud. "It isn't my fault."

At once, moving deliberately, she undressed. She counted the strokes of the brush on her thick hair, she hung up her clothes with painstaking, she laid out fresh clothes for the next morning. But once in bed, she could not sleep; a faint recollection disturbed her, a vague incident connected with this hour, promising in the most tantalizing way an interpretation if she could but read it aright.

Later in the night she dreamed. She seemed to see Millie, a little, weazened creature who pointed at her and chattered, rat-like, about the pursuit of Brother Reith and the unlawful pleasures which he allowed himself in the absence of his wife.