The Latin salutatory was finished. Dougal Davis bowed and took his seat and the applause began.

He had done well and he knew it, but he did not stop to dwell upon that now. There would be plenty of time to feel pleased with himself later on. At present his chief sensation was of jubilant relief at telling himself that the thing was over with at last.

Not many of his audience had understood much of what he had been saying, but that did not matter. The fellows smiled at the right time when he said something about puellas pulchras, and they nodded their heads knowingly when he made the reference to athletics, as he had told them beforehand to do. And he had gotten through without forgetting the paragraph beginning with "Postquam," as he feared he would.

He was mopping his good-looking brow. His nerves were still quivering, but he felt perfectly cool and unafraid of anything, and he sat very still with his eyes half closed, and felt the tension on his nerves soothingly relax. Then for the first time he heard the applause, and it occurred to him that all those many people out there were clapping their hands for him, and that for five minutes they had heard very little else but his voice, and he felt without glancing up that they were still looking at him and very likely thinking, "That is the man that led the class." He told himself all this with an inward smile of wonder at his own importance, and at his not being more impressed by it.

Then he slowly raised his eyes and moved his gaze around over the many fluttering fans to the right. He passed over it once without seeing it, then he found the face he was searching for. She was looking up at him with just the kind of a smile that he knew would be there, and when she caught his eye, the smile became radiant, and he fancied he saw a little look of triumph in it. This he answered with a shrug of his engowned shoulder and an almost imperceptible grimace, and quickly looked away again. No one else saw it, but she saw and she understood.

The applause had ceased, and the next man was introduced and the audience turned their attention to him.

Davis took a long breath and looked about him. There was a fat old lady fanning vigorously, and at every stroke of the fan a ray of light was reflected in his face. Over there on the right of the platform were the venerable trustees. Harry Lawrence's fine looking father, with the handsome head of gray hair, was in the front row, looking grave and indulgently interested. On the left were the faculty in their black gowns. They appeared more or less accustomed to all this. Down in front were his classmates, and back of these the many, many people closely crowded together. Their faces looked like little patches of white with dark marks for features, and nearly all of them seemed to be fanning.

He remembered the lining up under the elms this morning in front of North, and the band that played, and the girls that gazed, and the many classes calling "'82 this way!" and "'61 this way!" and the old-fashioned cheer that '79 gave. Then with the band taking a fresh hold on the air, how the long procession had begun its march under the trees toward the church, between the crowds of visitors who parted to either side and looked at them as they filed by.

First came that member of the faculty who is always grand marshal and carries an orange and black baton, then the august trustees followed by the faculty in their gowns and mortar boards, and behind these trooped the sons of Nassau; each class in the order of graduation, and last of all those who were about to become graduates, over whom all this fuss was being made, and who were somewhat impressed by it and by the length of their gowns.

He remembered the slow, dignified march led by the grand usher and his assistants up the aisle of the old church between the crowded pews of smiling fathers and proud mothers and the girls with bright-colored dresses. He recalled how amused and yet pleased he was at hearing a junior whisper to a girl beside him, "There he is—that's Davis, the one I was telling you about." This he remembered had interrupted the silent rehearsal of the sentence with the ablative absolute in it. But he did not have to rehearse it any more. All the salutatorian had to do was to sit still and hear what the other speakers had to say and feel good.

He was thinking about himself and the four years just past, and having a right good time at it. He recalled how he had been a nobody at the start, and he smiled as he remembered how some of these very fellows in the pews before him had looked down on him in freshman year, and how he had forced their respect and won their liking. He traced the progress of it from the first step when he gained the one freshman position on the Princetonian board and overheard someone say, "What! that poler?" up to the present time when people pointed him out on the campus and said, "There goes Dougal Davis." Few ambitious men graduate with as much to be proud of and as little to regret.

First there was the prize for leading the class in freshman year, then came the sophomore essay prize, and the Washington's birthday debate, and the next year a classical prize and two or three Hall honors, including one of the four appointments for the inter-Hall junior oratorical contest, in which he had won first place, and a number of other prizes of which he did not stop to think in detail, and finally the appointment as first representative of his Hall in the Lynde debate which had taken place the night before, and the result of which would be announced to-day. Intermingled with these were other honors, such as the membership of an elective club, and the presidency of his class in junior year, and the class oratorship on Class Day, and then the Latin salutatory to-day.

You see he had just about all one man could get, and before he left the room he was going to hear his name read out before everybody, as the winner of still a few more honors. This was the culmination of a rather successful career, and he told himself that he did not care how conceited it was, he was going to enjoy it for all it was worth, for before the sun set he would be an undergraduate no longer, and there would be plenty of time to find how small he was.

Dougal Davis was the son of a foreign missionary, and he had entered college with the intention of making a minister of the Gospel of himself. He still had that intention. He was one of the most popular men on the campus.

When he began his course he was as bristling with prejudices and as redolent of sanctimony as many high-minded young men of noble purpose and little tact, but unlike some of them he had sense of humor enough to find out pretty promptly that he was a young prig.

He soon shed many of his prejudices, and he was fair-minded enough to let the good wholesome atmosphere of the campus air out his sanctimony. This is a way of saying that early in freshman year he took himself in hand and decided that if he and a number of other fellows looked at a number of things in vastly different ways it did not necessarily follow that the other fellows were dead wrong. He was in evidence at class prayer-meetings, but not more than at the meetings at the lamp-post in front of Reunion, with his hands doubled up under a sweater, gossiping with the crowd. That is the sort of a fellow he was.

Davis's father had a small salary and a large family, like all missionaries, and one of the girls had come back to the States when Dougal did to go to a school in Philadelphia. So young Davis earned the price of his education.

But this was not so hard as it sounds. Being a minister's son he had a scholarship, which saved his tuition bills, and he ran a club, so that his board cost nothing. Leading the class in freshman year not only brought him the prize of $200, but the best kind of advertising with the faculty as well, so that in sophomore year he had more tutoring sent around to him than he knew what to do with. Then he became Princeton correspondent for several papers, and dropped tutoring except on special occasions and at very special rates. He had such a reputation that he could have had any price he asked. "Go to Davis; he can put you through any examination," they used to say.

In junior year he enlarged his newspaper correspondence and began doing some syndicate work. He gained a bit of reputation with football writing, and in his senior year he used to sign his name to a column of it every week. "The joke of it is," Dougal used to explain, "I don't know beans about the game." This was not strictly true, for no one with eyes could go through four years of tramping down to 'varsity field without absorbing enough to enlighten the average sporting editor.

In short, before Davis was three-quarters of the way through his college course, he was paying his expenses and making a surplus which was considerably larger than that which poor young men who earn their way through college to preach the Gospel are supposed to have.

Now he might have sent a portion of it out to his hard-working parents in Persia, or have helped to defray the expenses of his ambitious sister at school. This would have been noble of him, but he did nothing of the kind. One does not need much money in Persia; there's nothing to spend it on. His people had a large, comfortable home with a dozen servants to look after it, and they seemed to have leisure enough to write articles for English and American magazines now and then. A rich aunt looked out for his sister, and she had the reputation of dressing more artistically than any girl in the Walnut Street school. The only thing he did for her was to send an occasional box of candy, or a book, like any other brother. Davis did not even save his money. He blew it in on himself and his friends, like any other natural young man. What do you suppose he worked so hard for if it were not to go in with the rest of the club for coaches at Thanksgiving games, and to take runs to Philadelphia over Sunday, and to give spreads in his room on Saturday nights, and to do the other things for which one has sore need of money and for which he goes broke for about twenty days of each month? If Davis had been a modern undergraduate he would perhaps have spent money on good-looking clothes, though I hardly think that of him.

The only disadvantage in his way of living was that it took time, so that he did not have as much of it to loaf in as he would have liked. Especially as he was mixed up in half-a-dozen outside interests of the college world, and had a provokingly high stand in class to maintain besides. For although the fellows used to say he kept on leading his class from force of habit, as a matter of fact it took considerable valuable time.

The worst of it was that he had to do his reviewing up regularly week by week, for he was of no account at cramming all night for exams, he said. Perhaps this was true. When the crowd used to gather in half-undressed condition with wet towels around their heads and wild looks on their faces, Dougal generally stretched out upon the divan and drummed on a banjo, with his eyes half closed and a pipe in his mouth, and listened to the others quizzing and getting excited, and at twelve o'clock, except on rare occasions, he said good-night, and went to bed and slept like a child, and the next day would saunter into Examination Hall as fresh as a spring term Sunday, and write the best paper in the class. It is in this way that many fellows remember him best.

The reason he never seemed to be especially rushed was that he had the knack of arranging his time, and had learned while still in college that there are a great many moments in twenty-four hours. He went to breakfast before chapel, and he crammed a great deal into those odd hours that come between lectures, which most fellows spend in making up their minds what to do, and he found he better appreciated a loaf on Saturday night if he put in most of the daylight in work. It was in that way he managed to find time to keep up his Hall work and attend to his Princetonian duties and committee meetings and write orations and essays, besides managing one of the clubs and turning out an average of one thousand words of copy a day in time to catch the afternoon mail.

And it was in this way that he managed to keep from breaking down under it. When the bell in North struck five he always tossed aside his book and ran down the stairs three steps at a time and yelled, "Hello, Tommy Tucker," or "Billy Nolan," or somebody with all his might, and with him took a rattling hard walk—not down Nassau Street, but 'cross country—or else an hour's pull at the weights in the gymnasium with a cold shower-bath and a hard rub at the end of it, and then walked tingling with health and content to the club, when he ate the largest meal of anyone there—except when big Stehman was back from the training-table.

After this he stretched his legs far under the table and leaned his head against the back of the chair, and there lingered with the coffee and gossip, blowing beautiful smoke rings for an hour. He had been known to refuse a $5 tutoring offer for this hour, just as he had once sacrificed an elective course in Greek philosophy for the five o'clock one.

During the past year Davis had been making up his mind to a few things. One of them was that he would go out to the foreign field. He could not say that he felt himself called to it. He did not sign the pledge that was circulated about in the colleges at that time as the "Student volunteer movement."

Ever since he could remember he had intended to be a preacher, though there was a period, which came about the same time as his first pair of trousers, when he thought he would rather be a dragoman with a fierce mustache and big buttons. And now he came to the conclusion that he would become a foreign missionary, like his father.

He felt that he was pretty well suited to the work and would make a success of it. He had a strong constitution, a good voice, and adaptability to circumstances. He knew pretty well by nature how to get at people, and the summer spent slumming down in Rivington Street, New York, had taught him considerably more. Besides, he already had the language down fine, and could stumble along tolerably well with two of the low dialects.

What is more, he thought he would like it. He did not tell himself that it was noble to go and bury himself way out there, for there wasn't any burying about it. He liked the climate and expected to have a good time in Persia, with a man-servant to bow low and make his coffee in the morning, and to fill his big, long pipe every evening, and he pictured himself on a horse riding beside a certain blue river with peculiar big trees along the bank quite as often as saving souls.

At least this is the way he used to talk in pow-wows in fellows' rooms. But there were certain long-faced friends of his that misunderstood when he talked in this manner.

The salutatorian was not troubling himself about that just now, as he sat there on the stage resting his chin on one hand and fanning himself with a programme in the other. He had been idly listening to Nolan as he thundered and perspired about Purity in Politics. For his part he preferred gamey Billy Nolan, the all-round athlete, to earnest William the orator. Nervous little poler Stacy was now straining his lungs with his well-committed plea for the Greek Ideal. Davis was not following it very closely. He glanced down at his classmates in the front rows. He knew that before the day was over he was going to feel pretty sad. That was not troubling him very much now either. But every time he looked down there a certain thing bobbed up and spoiled the pleasant taste in his mouth. It was hardly worth getting uncomfortable over. This was the way it had begun, long ago last fall, as they sat around the table after dinner talking football. And you can see how ridiculous it was to worry about it.

Davis was holding forth at some length with considerable earnestness, as he had a perfect right to do, of course, and Jim Linton had not joined in the discussion. He seldom did. He was quietly sipping his coffee at the end of the table and looking quizzically interested.

Presently he interrupted. "Oh, Dougal," he said. He had arisen to go and was refilling his pipe.

Dougal stopped short. "Yes?" he said in an intense tone.

Linton looked at him a moment, folded up his pouch, put it in his pocket, and struck a match.

Then he said, between puffs, "I'd a little rather you would not get excited, Dougal," and started off for the billiard-room.

It was nothing but a bit of ordinary club chaff such as passes back and forth every day, and Linton forgot the occurrence before he finished chalking his cue. But Dougal's cheeks had flushed crimson, and before he knew what he was saying he had come out with a muttered remark in which the word "gentleman" was loud enough for all at the table to hear, and that is a very awkward word to handle sometimes.

That was the reason no one said anything for a moment. Silences were rare in that room. He did not go on with the discussion of the defective coaching system. Nor did the others.

A little later as he started for the campus old Jack Stehman joined him and said, in his sober, conscientious way, "Say, Dougal, you had no business saying what you did about Jimmy. Of course you didn't mean it, but you had better apologize, don't you think?"

Davis said he did not look at it in that way, and changed the subject. Before he got to sleep that night he saw what a fool he had made of himself, and made up his mind to apologize to Linton before the whole table. But that was in the middle of the night.

The next day there were guests at the club. The following day Linton dined out. The day after that Davis tried to make himself do it as they sat about the fireplace, but he postponed it until some time when his heart was not beating so loud, for he did not feel himself called upon to make a scene before the whole club. When he thought over what he meant to say it all seemed very ridiculous, and he blushed at the thought of it. Linton of all fellows would dislike any slopping over of this sort. So he changed his mind and decided to speak to Linton alone about it.

But it was a very hard thing for a man like Davis to talk to a man like Linton about a thing like this. There was something about Linton that he did not understand. He was the one man that made him self-conscious. He always felt as though Linton saw through him and understood how ambitious he was, and was laughing at him for his strenuous struggling. He told himself that he did not propose to be in awe of a lazy dilettante who thought himself a clever reader of human nature. But that did not help him to apologize. And the longer he put it off the harder it became, naturally. And the longer he put it off the more he found to dislike in Linton, which was also natural, only you would not have thought this of Davis.

After a while he began wondering how he had taken to Linton in the first place, and why the other fellows liked him so much. Every time they were together he began comparing himself with him. By most standards Davis ought to have been satisfied. Linton himself never seemed to think of comparison. He seemed to calmly take it for granted that Dougal was a wonderful man, and often referred to it as an acknowledged fact. He seemed to be glad to speak of it. But he had a way of making fellows love him that was galling to the man that led the class.

All the college bowed down to Dougal Davis; not twenty under-classmen knew who Linton was. But Timberly and Reddy Armstrong and Jack Stehman had a way of throwing an arm about lazy Linton, whom they loved, that it did not occur to them to do with the wonderful Dougal Davis, whom they admired. Davis wanted that love. He wanted everything. You see he had quite a disposition to contend with.

So he kept on having disagreeable times with himself and the conscience which would not let up. Finally he made up his mind to patch it all up on Commencement Day, and he had hit upon a plan by which he could make just amends to Linton, he told himself, and duly punish himself at the same time, and then he could graduate in peace.

Meanwhile he would have to stop thinking about that and walk down from the stage with the other Commencement speakers, for Charles Benjamin Howard had finished telling people about the Utility of Difference, and the orchestra was playing "Ta-ra-ra boom de ay."

There was an intermission of ten minutes now. After that would come the announcement of prizes and the conferring of degrees, then Smith's valedictory, followed by the benediction, and then the class would walk out into the world with their little diplomas under their arms tied with pretty ribbons.

The audience changed their positions and looked about at the other people there, whispered to each other, and went to fanning again. Some of the fathers looked at their watches and yawned and wished Commencement was over with behind their programmes, and fell to thinking about things in the office which they had come here to forget.

Other old grads. smiled kindly, and remembered how they used to do when they were in college. The young alumnus looked pityingly at the graduating class in the front rows and thought how little these boys knew about the big world he knew so much of.

Meanwhile the juniors and the lower classmen were very active and noisy in the rear of the old church. The Whig men were gathering on the left-hand side, and Clio Hall on the right. Many reinforcements were arriving that had not been near the church during the other exercises. The aisles became jammed. The seats were already so.

Suddenly a man jumped up on a pew, and screamed, "Now, fellows! Clio Hall, this way! Hip-hip!"

"Clio Hall—this way!" came out with startling force from many throats.

This woke everyone up, and those that had never been there before were a little shocked for a moment. The loud voices echoed strangely against the old walls and among the old pillars and under the old galleries, which by the way are used to all this and weren't surprised a bit. No doubt they miss it these days.

Then the left-hand side of the church raised its voice and said, "Whig Hall, this way! Whig Hall this wa-ay!" in still fiercer tones. Then Clio called itself together again, and then Whig Hall cheered and so did Clio, and gave a long cheer and so did Whig. Then both cheered for themselves at once, and tried to drown each other out, and succeeded. They kept this up until time was called. That is, the clerk of the board of trustees arose and stretched his long neck and began to announce the prizes from a long list in his hand. This was interesting.

Whenever he read out an award in his strong voice, it was met with a tremendous cheer from the Hall whose member won the prize. It mattered not whether the honor was one for which a literary society's training could count; they cheered anyway, whether it was a fellowship in modern languages or a prize in the School of Science draughtsmanship. Nor did it matter whether the man had never since the first week after his initiation worked the combination lock of the Hall door. They cheered him anyway. And when the two societies were in doubt as to which he belonged to, they both cheered. It made magnificent noise.

There are a great many of these prizes. One has no idea until Commencement comes that there are so many advertised in the catalogue; and the clerk read each one out in a loud voice, and then waited for the cheering to cease.

Dougal Davis had heard his name announced three times, and each time the cheer rang out from the enthusiastic throng in the rear he felt the little echoing thrill inside of him.

Once as he stepped down from the platform he caught a glimpse of a man leading the cheer for him. The man's back was turned, but he saw him standing there 'way up on the railing of the pew in his excitement, and he saw his arms vigorously jerking out the cheer.

Davis was used to this sort of thing and he held his features very well, though as he marched up for the third time he felt rather foolish, for the audience were smiling audibly at the sight of Dougal Davis, of Persia, running off with so many prizes. Timberly asked him when he came down, "Why don't you stay up there, Dougal? I'd sit on the edge platform and swing my legs."

It was only at the announcement of the Lynde prize debate that he felt at all tremulous. His friends kept telling him that he was sure of it, but he felt that he would not get it. This is, as everyone knows, the greatest inter-Hall prize offered, and many people consider it the greatest honor of a college lifetime. It was quite enough for a fellow to feel weak at the stomach over. Dougal kept repeating under his breath, "What's the difference, what's the difference?" and he reminded himself that there were a second and a third prize as well as the first, and that any way, even if he won none of them, it was a pretty fine thing to have secured the appointment from his Hall. Besides, he was doing so many things that he could afford to drop an honor or two.

"The Lynde Prize Debate," came in the resonant tones of the tall, gaunt clerk. Everything was very still.

The cheerers were silent. The two leaders were standing on tip-toe, each with his elbows doubled up and mouth half open, ready to begin the cheer. One of them, however, would have to keep still. Dougal shut his lips.

"First prize awarded to Dougal Davis, of Pers——"

Then came the loud, eager "'Ray! 'Ray! 'Ray!'" of the quick cheer, and then two more quick ones, and next a long one with "Davis!" on the end, then the word "Davis! Davis! Davis!" that way, three times. Then they began giving more quick cheers again and a few long ones, as if they had just started.

Meanwhile the clerk kept his sober gaze upon the paper in his hand, waiting to announce the second and third winners and pretending to be annoyed at the delay, though enjoying it as much as any girl in the audience.

"Good work, Dougal, good work," cried one of the four fellows pounding him on the back.

Dougal did not smile slightly or look unconcerned. He grinned all over his face and enjoyed it. As soon as the attention was taken away from him he leaned back in the corner of the pew and enjoyed it some more. That is the way to do.

He was still tense and excited from his victory when a few minutes later he heard the clerk reading off something about the new fellowship in Political Science. This was the one he had gone in for, and he had felt doubtful over the result, because he had not been able to spend as much time upon it as he wanted to, and it required a great deal. However, the only other man in the race was nothing to be afraid of. But all the same a little dart of dread shot through him now, and he thought what if he should lose it after all. It would not do at all. This was what he wanted more than any of the honors. He had a particular reason for wanting to win it. This he failed to do.

Before he was quite aware of what was taking place the clerk had already made the announcement and the crowd were wildly cheering, cheering that other fellow as if they had never heard of Dougal Davis. He felt like a man that steps off a bridge in the dark; he heard the splash and felt a shock, but he did not know just what had happened. He had never been beaten in anything before. It came very hard. But that was not what made it hurt so much. It was because Linton had won it.

He could not help thinking of the little speech he had planned to make that evening—"Well, you see, Jimmie, I haven't time for it, anyway. I have to go to the Seminary, and maybe to the Medical College after that. So I thought I would resign, and I hope you'll apply for it and come back to the old place for another year. You're sure to get it, if you apply for it." Wasn't it a pretty little speech?

He turned and glanced over at Linton, who sat with his head nestled contentedly against Reddy Armstrong's shoulder, while the happy-looking fellows all around him were punching and pounding him and rumpling up his hair as if they never would cease; and as if they were glad Dougal Davis was beaten. Linton himself only raised his eyebrows and shook his head deprecatingly. He seemed to take it all very easily, as if he were accustomed to winning prizes and beating Dougal Davis, and he still wore that imperturbable look, and Davis knew that it would have been just as imperturbable and contented looking if he had lost.

And this spoiled the salutatorian's day of triumph. He did not glance back now to where his sister and aunt were sitting. He forgot to unroll his sheepskin as the others did when they came down from the stage with them. He blew his breath through it against the palm of his hand and looked absent-mindedly at the scratched paint of the old-fashioned pew. He remained thus all through Smith's valedictory, except once when the speaker stretched out both arms and the class arose; then he listened for a moment and said, "Biff!" under his breath. When it was all over he passed out with his class and through the gazing throng, thinking not of the much that he had won, but only of the one thing he had lost, and this was unfortunate, because much people were looking at him and thinking how fine it was to be Davis, and that is fame, and it was too bad to miss it.

Linton had no ambition and he colored meerschaum beautifully. He was usually mum in a crowd, but he was fine company on a long cross-country walk, and he knew more about ordering a dinner than any man on the campus, except one of the faculty.

When he did not want you in his room he told you so, and he was the kind of a fellow you would do anything for after you came to know him.

He had a very efficient sense of humor, which does not mean that he said funny things at the table. Some people thought him sarcastic. But many fellows went to him for advice or sympathy, and it was not only because he could keep his mouth absolutely closed.

Linton had a walking acquaintance with every road, lane, and pathway within a radius of twenty miles of the campus. He knew how long it took to cover any route, and where there were good places to stop and rest, especially the quaint ones where they served it in mugs.

Here he used to sit and sip and smoke the golden afternoon away, dreaming of how it all must have been years ago in the old stage coach days when the horses drew up on the clattering cobble-stones and the passengers alighted and looked about and asked how many more miles it was, and the red-faced driver jumped down from the box and swaggered into the tap-room, and called for a pint of ale, and told the landlord how bad the pike was near New Brunswick.

He considered himself somewhat of an artist. There were ever so many bits that he was fond of showing you if he thought you could appreciate them; like the bend in the canal up toward Baker's basin, with peculiar water and willow-coloring in springtime. Linton said it was like a French water-color. He used to carry a gun over his shoulder, and say he was going snipe-shooting; really it was to look for things like this, and get up a big appetite for dinner. He could also point out a view of gentle hills and rolling green fields on the way to Kingston that was a good imitation of English landscape, he said, and he knew just where the tower of the School of Science ought to make an effect through treetops, like the view of Magdalen tower from a point in Addison's walk, if it were only beautiful Gothic instead of ugly Renaissance. But perhaps all this was merely to show that he had once canoed down the Thames from Oxford to London.

He was very well up in the ancient history of the town, also. He knew all about most of the old houses, and he had sketches of the best of the old brass-knockers and colonial doorways. It is said that he used to prowl about on moonlight nights for this purpose. Small window-panes were another thing he was insane over. He had substituted for the ordinary panes of his windows, dingy little square ones with thick frames painted black. Some of the fellows said the reason he did this was to be odd. Linton blew smoke, and said yes, that was the reason.

But it was the old campus that he loved the most. He knew just about all there was to find out about it, and dreamed a great deal more.

He had ever so many favorite aspects, such as the one of the back of the Dean's house—with small, square window-panes—from away over at a point between Whig and Clio Halls, and the rear view of Prospect across the stretch of sloping meadow toward the canal, and a number of congenial little spots that meant something to him, like the stone buttress at the bottom of the tower of Witherspoon, a great place to warm your back against in spring sunshine, with the blue smoke trickling lazily from your mouth and the fellows batting up flies on the old diamond; and then for midnight chats there were the smooth steps of chapel with the elms saying things in low tones overhead. But those midnight chats were all over now. It was Commencement Day, and it was the saddest thing that had ever happened to Linton.

He was not at all anxious to spring forth into the world and battle with opportunity and all the other things that the class-day speakers and the valedictorian said that he was going to do. He thought this little world was good enough for him, and there wasn't much spring in him.

Ever since he could read he had been told that youth was the happiest time in life, and he had come to the conclusion that it must be so. He did not like the idea of giving it up. He had become well settled where he was, and had just gotten rid of a persistent siege of kid-pessimism—of which he was now very much ashamed—and was just beginning to realize what a big, beautiful, real thing friendship was, and now—Jack and Timber and Billy and Red, where would they all be in three days' time? It seemed pretty sudden, this thing of breaking up.

And there was very little comfort to him in the thought of coming back next year. What would the old place be without the old class. He did not like to think about it.

It struck the class as a pretty joke for Jimmie Linton to bob up and win a fellowship. "How did you happen to do it?" said Tucker, on the way out of church. "I didn't know you had any brains."

"Didn't you?" said Linton; "I've quite a lot of them. And I worked like a good little boy for that fellowship; but nobody will give me any credit for it. They all know that if Dougal hadn't been too busy with other things, I would have had no show." He was quite right. There was nothing modest in this. Dougal Davis had about as good powers of acquisition as anyone graduated since the time of Aaron Burr.

Political science was not strictly in Linton's line. He wrote things for the Lit., and elected all the English courses. He was a great browser in Elizabethan literature, and when he dabbled in verse this was evident. One of the exchanges once called him a nineteenth century Herrick. Linton felt right pleased, and wrote something nice about the University of Virginia man that said it in the next Lit., and also made it an excuse to give one of his famous spreads. You would have expected him to go in for an English fellowship, if for any. But he did not go in for any deliberately. He was not in the habit of studying his courses more than enough to get through the examinations, except when he ran across something he was interested in, or a professor he liked. There are many excuses for laziness.

In Political Economy, and such subjects, he liked the lecturer very much, and he found himself becoming interested in the primitive man, and the origin of society, and all that. The farther he went in the course, the more interested he became. He went to the library, and often walked past the Elizabethan alcove. Next he began buying the books, because he liked to feel that he owned them, and rub them up against his cheek, and he soon had a shelf full of Bagehot and big, thick Sir Henry Maine and others.

Then because he had never done anything serious during his course, and because he knew it would please his people and amuse the fellows, he announced his intention of trying for the Political Science fellowship. There was no one else in for it.

He went about it scientifically, and was surprised to find how much enthusiasm he had aroused in himself. He had never known before what a fine thing study was. He said he wished he had done more of it during his college course.

He was surprised when he heard a few weeks later that Dougal Davis was in the field. Historical work he thought was still further out of Davis's line. But he only rolled over on the divan and went on reading. For he argued thus: "I like this stuff and I don't see how it can hurt me to learn a lot about something. If I don't fetch a fellowship I won't have to correct examination papers. I'd hate to correct examination papers."

One day at the club he asked Dougal—he sat opposite—what he wanted with political science. Davis cleared his throat and said every preacher of modern times should know something of sociology, which was undoubtedly true. But that was not the reason. And somehow Linton guessed it.

It was twilight and the class had gathered together on the steps of Old North for their last senior singing. Only they were no longer seniors; it was "by and by" now, and they were out in the "wide, wide world." They huddled up close together as if half frightened at the thought of its being the last time.

There were but few undergrads. stretched out under the elms to listen, and most of these were the juniors—seniors they were now—waiting to rapaciously take possession of the steps the moment the present occupants marched off for their last supper together at nightfall. These and a handful of the out-of-town visitors were all that were left of the big Commencement crowds that had been gathering there every evening to hear the seniors sing. Sometimes they had felt that they would have preferred being left a little more to themselves, if it were possible, during the last days of college life.

But now this unmolested aloneness only added to their dreariness and made them feel the ghastly certainty of this evening's being the end of all. The grass was trampled and faded, and the crowd that had trodden it was gone. The bell in Old North belfry rang out painfully loud.

"Well, fellows, let's sing," said the leader, rising slowly. He raised his chin and then bobbed his head and started up, "The Orange and the Black," just as they had all seen him do many times before.

They sang as they had never sung before. It did not matter what were the words of the song. "They stole his wallet, they stole his staff," had nothing in it that was especially apropos of college friendships or the sadness of farewell, but the way they sang it, with the long-drawn "Ramski Ho," meant something. It was so full of association. And no one noticed this time whether the man behind him was on a key of his own. His only thought was, "When shall I hear Billy's good old bark again after to-night?" And when Sam's and when Ed's and Big Hill's and Little Hill's and where would be the fellow a year from now whose shoulder was next to his own.

During the past month or two the class of Ninety Blank had been drawn very close together by the thought of what was coming. They had never been very seriously cliqued up, but what there was of dissension was forgotten, and they were now one solid crowd. Fellows who had never anything to do with each other before except to say, "Hello, there, Ray!" and "Hello, Harry!" had taken to strolling around the campus together arm-in-arm talking about what they were going to do next year and wondering why they had never happened to see more of each other in the past, and regretting that there were to be no opportunities for doing so in the future.

But during the excitement of Commencement week, with the crowds of old grads. and of girls and the big baseball game and the concerts and Class Day full of its exhibition farewells in the church and around the cannon, and the teas and the big dance on Tuesday night, and the many other things that filled up every moment of every day and night—together with the responsibility of seeing to the entertainment of their guests—all this, and the feeling of importance at being the cause of so much color and sound had in a measure distracted their minds from the thought of what it all meant. But now all that was changed.

The last of the display ceremonies was finished. The class had their diplomas. It was all over. The rollicking old grads. with their many reunions and their old-fashioned cheers and their funny songs had left for the city and business again for a year. The girls and their mothers and their parasols had vanished like the chinese lanterns among the trees. The campus was almost deserted, and except for their own voices, was as still as a cemetery. Each man on the steps was realizing as he never had done before how glad had been those four years, and how startlingly fast they had sped by, and how much more these friends of his meant to him than he had ever imagined friends could mean.

Two of the number had been obliged to pack their trunks and depart during the afternoon without waiting for the banquet. The whole class were at the station to see them off. They did it in the old-fashioned way, with much cheering and singing, and the old custom of lifting them up and putting them through the car windows. Then after each man had shaken the hands of those departing, and said, "God bless you, Tommy," they had watched while the little train rolled down the grade and became smaller and smaller, and they cheered until the two men waving their hats on the rear platform were hidden behind the curve. Then they marched solemnly back across the campus again, and tried to go on with the packing of their own trunks.

But few had been able to remain very long in the lonely, old, familiar dens. There were too many things to suggest the old times which sent big wedges into throats, and they realized that there were to be few enough opportunities of being with those fellows out under the trees to waste time in dreary packing. "It's too deuced hot up there in my room," said Harry Lawrence to Billy Nolan.

For the most part they had spent the afternoon in silent, moody wanderings, in groups of twos and fours and half dozens, all about the old, dear, familiar landmarks of the campus. Now at evening they were gathered together as a body again. This was to be the last time. And that thought kept recurring to each man on the steps.

It was about dusk now. The front campus was wrapped in that strange half-glow that sometimes comes at late senior singing time. It was very much in keeping with other elements of the scene, and it had its effect upon the fellows.

Old North seemed solemn and dignified, but somehow more gentle and caressable than formerly. Even the old elms, who have seen this thing happen so many, many times, ceased whispering for a space and listened. John, the college policeman, left Reunion for his home down William Street, and Sam, the night watchman, said, "Good-night, John," and took his place. Bill Leggett took down his lantern and started around to light the campus lamps as he always did at this hour. The village street seemed far off, and its lights and its bit of life seemed part of another world. There was a pause in the singing.

It lasted a long time. Tucker scratched a match on the stone steps. The crack seemed very loud. Those near by turned and watched him light his pipe and watched him throw the match to the ground. It kept on burning for a little while. They watched it until it went out.

Presently Doc. Devereaux, the leader, said, "Fellows, there are a lot of chairs and benches scattered about. Let's drag them up here in front of the steps and make a circle." They all arose and did it as if it had been a command.

The rattling of the chairs against each other sounded harsh and discordant, and yet no one seemed to want to lessen it. Some of the fellows laughed and joked a little, as though they weren't thinking of anything serious. It made a large circle. They sat down in comparative silence. The Class President arose and said, "Say, fellows, let's sing 'Here's to you, my jovial friend,' all around the class, and each man stand up while we're singing to him."

They started with the President and went around to the left. You know that drinking song. It's a simple little salute, but there's more heart in its swelling high notes than in anything ever written. But perhaps that is because of its association.

"Here's to you, Jack Stehman," they sang.

Stehman, the President, had arisen when his name was called, and remained standing while the song was carried through. The big fellow seemed to loom up bigger than ever in the half dark. He arose with his old, well-known slouch, and the sight of this little characteristic brought up to every one of them the whole big, lovable personality of the man.

He started to look around at the fellows and smile as they began to sing, but the clear, warm notes rang out, "We'll drink before we part," and he changed his mind and looked down at the grass under his feet. He was not embarrassed. He merely preferred looking down. It was so different from Class Day, when he had made his much-applauded President's address, and told people in his nice set speech about the sadness of farewell and the beauty of the elms. He was the one all the girls had asked the most questions about. The class censor had guyed him about his brand new dignity and his good looks. Nobody was feeling like guying him now.

Little Stacy sat next. He did not stand up very high. There was not much to him. He had been a poler all through the course, and you would not have expected the thing to affect him very much, but you could see his thin hands working nervously along the edge of his coat as he looked about at the half-darkened crowd of faces, and he smiled his foolish, little, self-conscious smile. The little chap had no idea that they would ever sing to him in that way, and when he heard Harry Lawrence's strong bass come out with "And we'll drink with all our heart," he fairly quivered. When he sat down the President reached a big arm about him.

Then came Reddy Armstrong. He was not very tall either. He stood up very straight and stiff with his round, freckled face screwed up into funny twists. He only stared straight ahead into nothing. He looked dazed. He was dazed. He had been through some very queer things that day. "Poor little Red," thought Linton as he looked at him.

All around the big circle went the song until it ended with Timberly, who sat on Stehman's right. By this time it was too dark to see Timberly's queer features. Perhaps it was just as well.

"Now," said the President, simply, "let's all cross hands and sing 'Auld Lang Syne.' Doc., start it up, please."

They arose, and each man gave his right-hand comrade his left hand, and his left-hand comrade his right, and they sang the good old song in the good old way, with the clasped hands swinging far up and down in time to the music.

Presently the song was finished. It seemed to stop suddenly. They all waited a moment in silence to see whether the leader had another verse to begin.

But he did not. Jack Stehman stepped out into the middle of the ring. "Now, fellows," he said, "let's give three good rousing cheers for the dear old class—God bless every man in it—and then we'll give up the steps to the juniors—the seniors I mean—and march four abreast to the dinner. Are you ready? Hip! hip! ... another one—Hip! hip!"

Linton was standing apart over beside the steps. His back was turned toward the others.

While the rest were cheering, Dougal Davis crossed over to him.

"Jim," he said, "I haven't congratulated you yet on winning the fellowship."

Linton kept on looking at the newly planted class ivy. His hands were in his pockets and his legs spread apart.

"Did you notice that I hadn't, Jim?"

Linton turned around suddenly. "Oh, yes, I noticed it. But that was this morning." He put his hand on Davis's shoulder as in junior year.

"Shut up, Dougal," he said; "we haven't any time to waste in talk."

"All right," said Dougal. "Don't let's be left behind. They are starting." He laughed a little. It was a foolish-sounding laugh. Linton did not observe that. He laughed also, in very much the same way.

They stepped in line with the others and marched off the campus singing, with all their might,