WHEN he had returned to the college after the summer, he came to his first call on Jean Story with a confident enthusiasm, eager for the first look in her eyes. He had not corresponded with her during the summer. He had not even asked for permission to write, confident though he was that her consent would now be given. He was resolved, as a penance for his first blunder, to hold himself in reserve on every occasion. Bob had written the news, always pressing him to take two weeks off for a visit to the camp, but Dink, despite the tugging at his heart, had stuck to Regan, perhaps a little secretly pleased to show his earnestness.

Now, as he came swinging impatiently toward the glowing white columns under the elms, he realized all at once what was the moving influence in his struggle for growth and independence.

"Here is the horny-handed son of toil," he said, holding out his hand with a laugh.

She took it, turning over the firm palm with a little curiosity, and looked at him sharply, aware of a great change---they were no longer boy and girl. The vacation had made of the impetuous Dink Stover she had known a new personality that was strange and a little intimidating.

He did not understand at all the sudden dropping of her look, nor the uneasy turning away, nor the quick constraint that came. He was hurt with a sudden sharp sting that he had never known before, and the ache of unreasoning jealousy at the bare thought of what might have happened during the summer.

"I'm awfully glad to see you," she said, but the words sounded formal.

He followed her into the parlor puzzled, irritated by something he did not understand, something that lay underneath everything she said, and seemed to interpose itself as a barrier between them and the old open feeling of camaraderie.

"Mother will be so glad to see you," she said, after a little moment of awkwardness. "I must call her."

This maneuver completed his bewilderment, which increased when, Mrs. Story joining them, suddenly the Jean Story of old returned with the same cordiality and the same enthusiasm. She asked a hundred questions, leading him on until he was launched into an account of his summer experiences, the little bits of real life that had brought home to him the seriousness of the world that waited outside.

He spoke not as the Stover of sophomore year, filled with the enthusiasm of discovery, but with a maturer mind, which had begun to reflect and to reason upon what had come into his knowledge.

Mrs. Story, sunk in the old high-backed arm-chair near the fire, followed him, too, aware also of the change in the boy, wondering what lay in the mind of her daughter, camped at her knee on the hearth rug, listening so intently and yet clinging, to her as though for instinctive protection.

Stover spoke only of outward things; the thoughts that lay beneath, that would have come out so eagerly before the girl, did not appear in the presence of another. As he understood nothing of this sudden introduction of a third into the old confidential relationship, he decided to be more formal than the girl, and rose while still his audience's attention was held by his account.

"It's been awfully jolly to see you again," he said with a perfect manner to Mrs. Stover.

"But you're going to stay to dinner," she said, with a little smile.

"Awfully sorry, but I've got a dozen things to do," he said, in the same careful, matter-of-fact tone. "

"Bob sent word he'd come later."

Jean Story had not urged him. He went to her with mechanical cheeriness, saying:

"Good-by. You're looking splendidly."

She did not answer, being in one of her silent moods. Mrs. Story went with him towards the door, with a few practical housekeeping questions on the ménage that had just begun. As they were in the ante-room, Jim Hunter entered and, greeting them, passed into the salon.

Stover, deaf to anything else, heard her greeting:

"Why, Jim, I am glad to see you."

Mrs. Story was asking him a question, but he did not hear it. He heard only the echoes of what seemed to him the joy in her laugh.

"If you need any rugs let me know," said Mrs. Story in patient repetition.

"I beg your pardon," he stammered. "Yes --- yes, of course."

She looked at him with little maternal pity, knowing the pang that had gone thxough him, and for a moment a word was on her lips to enlighten him. But she judged it wiser to be silent, and said:

"Come in for dinner to-morrow night, surely."

This invitation fitted at once into Stover's scheme of mislogic. He saw in it a mark of compassion, and of compassion for what season? Plainly, Jean was interested in some one else, perhaps engaged. In ten minutes, to his own lugubrious satisfaction, he had convinced himself it was no other than Jim Hunter. But a short, inquisitive talk with Joe Hungerford, who magnanimously appeared stupidly unconscious of the real motives, reassured him on this point. So, after the hot tempest of jealousy, he began to feel a little resentment at her new, illogical attitude of defensive formality.

Gradually, as he gave no sign of unbending from his own assumption of strict politeness, she began to change, but so gradually that it was not for weeks that he perceived that the old intimate relations had returned. This little interval, however, had brought to him a new understanding. With her he had lost the old impulsiveness. He began to reason and analyze, to think of cause and effect in their relationship. As a consequence the initiative and the authority that had formerly been with her came to him. All at once he perceived, to his utter surprise, what she had felt immediately on his return: that he was the stronger, and that the old, blind, boyish adoration for the girl, who was companion to the stars, had steadied into the responsible and guiding love of a man.

This new supremacy brought with it several differences of opinion. When the question of the football captaincy had come up he did not tell her of his decision, afraid of the ambition he knew was strong in her for his career.

When he saw her the next night, Bob had already brought the news and the reason. She received him with great distance, and for the first time showed a little cruelty in her complete ignoring of his presence.

"You are angry at me," he said, when finally he had succeeded in finding her alone.

"Yes, I am," she said point blank. "Why didn't you tell me what you were planning?"

"I didn't dare," he said frankly. "You wouldn't have approved."

"Of course I wouldn't. It was ridiculous. Why shouldn't you be the captain?"

"There were reasons," he said seriously. "I should not have had a united team back of me---- oh, I know

"Absurd," she said with some heat. "You should have one out and made them follow you. Really, it's too absurd, renouncing everything. Here's the Junior Prom; every one says you would have led the class if you'd have stood for it."

"Yes, and it's just because a lot of fellows thought they knew my whole game of democracy that I wouldn't stand for it."

She grew quite angry. He had never seen her so stirred.

"Stuff and nonsense. What do you care for, their opinion? You should be captain and chairman of the Prom, but you renounce everything---you seem to delight in it. It's too absurd; it's ridiculous. It's like Don Quixote riding around."

He was hurt at this, and his face showed it.

"It's something to be able to refuse what others are grabbing for," he said shortly. "But all you seem to care for is the name."

The flash that was in his eyes surprised her, and the sudden stern note in his voice that she had never heard before brought her to a quick realization of how she must have wounded him. Her manner changed. She became very gentle, and before he went she said hurriedly:

"Forgive me. You were right, and I was very petty."

But though he had shown his independence of her ambitions for him, and gained thereby, at heart he had a foolish longing, a senseless dream of winning out on Tap Day ---just for the estimation he knew she held of that honor. And, wishing this ardently, he was influenced by it. There were questions about the senior societies that he had not put to himself honestly, as he had in the case of the sophomore. He knew they were way back in his mind, claiming to be met, but, thinking of Jean, he said to himself evasively again and again:

"Suppose there are bad features. I've done enough to show my nerve. No one can question that!"

With the passing of the winter, and the return to college in the pleasant month of April, the final, all-absorbing Tap Day loomed over them only six weeks away. It was not a particularly agreeable period. The contending ambitions were too keen, too conflicting, for the maintenance of the old spirit of comradeship. The groups again defined themselves, and the "lame ducks," in the hopes of being noticed, assiduously cultivated the society of what are called "the big men."

One afternoon in the first week in April, as Dink was returning from the gymnasium, he was suddenly called to from the street. Chris Schley and Troutman, in a two-seated rig, were hallooing:

"Hello there, Dink."

"Come for a ride."

"Jump in - join us."

The two had never been of his intimates, belonging to a New York crowd, who were spoken of for Keys. He hesitated, but as he was free he considered:

"What's the game?"

"We're out for a spin towards the shore. Tommy Bain and Stone were going but had to drop out. Come along. We might get a shore supper, and toddle back by moonlight."

"I've got to be here by seven," said Dink doubtfully.

"Oh, well, come on; we'll make it just a drive."

"Fine."

He sprang into the front seat, and they started off in the young, tingling air. Troutman, at the reins, was decidedly unfamiliar with their uses, and, at a fervent plea from Schley, Stover assumed control. Since freshman year the three had been seldom thrown together. He remembered Troutman then as a rather overgrown puppy type, and Schley as a nuisance and a hanger-on. He scanned them now, pleasantly surprised at their transformation. They had come into a clean-cut type, affable, alert, and if there was small mark of character, there was an abundance of good-humor, liveliness, and sociability.

"Well, Dink, old chap," said Troutman, as he passed along quieter ways, "the fatal day approaches."

"It does."

"A lot of seniors are out buying nice brand-new derbies to wear for our benefit."

"I’ll bet they're scrapping like cats and dogs," said Schley.

"They say last year the Bones list wasn't agreed upon until five minutes before five."

"The Bones crowd always fight," said Schley, from the point of view of the opposite camp. "I say, Dink, did you ever think of heeling Keys?"

"No, I'm not a good enough jollier up for that crowd."

"They say this year Keys is going to shut down on the sporting life and swipe some of the Bones type."

"Really?" said Stover, in disbelief.

"Sure thing; Tommy Bain has switched."

"I heard he was packer," said Stover, not particularly depressed. In the college the rumor had always been that the Keys crowd had what was termed a packer in the junior class, who helped them to pledge some of their selections before Tap Day.

"Sure he is," said Troutman, with conviction.

"Wish he'd stuck to Bones," said Schley. "Yours truly would feel more hopeful."

"Why, you fellows are sure," said Stover to be polite.

"The deuce we are!"

Schley, tiring of the conversation, was amusing himself from the back seat by well-simulated starts of surprise and a sudden snatching off of his hat to different passers-by, exclaiming:

"Why, how do you do. I remember meeting you before."

He did it well, communicated his good spirits to the pedestrians, who took his banter good-naturedly.

All at once his mischievous eye perceived two girls of a rather noticeable type. Instantly he was on his feet, with an exaggerated sweep of his hat, exclaiming:

"Ladies, accept my carriage, my prancing horses, my groom and my footman."

The girls, bursting into laughter, waved to him.

"Yes, it's a lovely day," continued Schley, in imitation of McNab. "Mother's gone to the country, aunty's visiting us now, Uncle John's coming to-morrow --- he'll be sober then. Too bad, girls, you're going the other way, and such lovely weather. Won't you take a ride?

"What? Oh, do now. Here, I say, Dink --- whoa there! They're coming."

"Rats," said Troutman, glancing uneasily up the street.

"Sure they are. Whoa! Hold up. We'll give 'em a little ride,, just for a lark. What's the duff?"

He was down, hat off, with exaggerated Chesterfield politeness, going to their coming.

"Do you mind?" said Troutman to Stover. "Schley's a crazy ass to do this just now."

"I wouldn't take them far," said Stover, who did not particularly care. He had no facility for bantering of this sort, but it rather amused him to listen to Schley. He saw that while they were of an obvious type one was insipid, and the other rather pretty, dark with Irish black eyes.

"Ladies, I wish to make you acquainted with my friends," said Schley, as he might speak to a duchess. "The ill-favored gent with the vermilion hair, is the Reverend Doctor Balmfinder; the one with the padded shoulders is Binks, my trainer. Now what is this little girl's name?"

"Muriel," said the blonde, "Muriel Stacey."

"Of course, I might have known it. And yours of course is Maude, isn't it?"

"My name is Fanny Le Roy," said the brunette with a little pride.

"Dear me, what a beautiful name," said. Schley.

Now girls, we'll take you for a little ride, but we can't take you very far for our mammas don't know we're out, and you must promise to be very good and get out when we tell you, and not ask for candy! Do we promise?"

Schley sat on the rear seat, chatting along, a girl on either side of him, while Troutman, facing about, added his badinage. It was not excruciatingly witty, and yet at times Stover, occupied with the driving, could not help bursting into a laugh at the sheer nonsense. It interested him as a spectator; it was a side of life lie knew little of, for, his nature being sentimental, he was a little afraid of such women.

"What's our real names?" said Troutman in reply to a demand. "Do you really want to know? We'll send them to you. Of course we've met before. In New York, wasn't it, at the junior cotillion?"

"Sure I saw this fellow at the Hari-gori's ball," said Fanny, appealing to her companion.

"Sure you did."

"If you say so, all right," said Troutman, winking at Schley. "Fanny, you have beautiful eyes. Course you don't know it."

"You two are great jolliers, aren't you?" said Fanny, receiving the slap-stick compliment with pleasure.

"They think we're easy," said Muriel, with a look at Schley.

"I think the fellow that's driving is the best of the lot," said Fanny, with the usual method of attack.

"Wow," said Troutman.

"Come on back," said Schley, "we don't count."

Stover laughed and drove on. The party had now passed the point of interest. He had no desire for a chance meeting that would require explanations, but he volunteered no advice, not caring to appear prudish in the company of such men of the world.

They were in the open country, the outskirts of New Haven just left behind. For some time Fanny Le Roy had been silent, pressing her hand against her side, frowning. All at once a cry was wrung from her. The carriage stopped. All turned in alarm to where the girl, her teeth compressed, clutching at her side, was lying back against the seat, writhing in agony.

Troutman swore under his breath.

"A devil of a mess!"

They descended hurriedly and laid the girl on the grass, where her agony continued increasingly. Schley and Troutman were whispering apart. The other girl, hysterically bending over her companion, mopped her face with a useless handkerchief, crying:

"She's got a fit; she's got a fit!"

"I say it's appendicitis or gripes," said Troutman, coming over to Stover. His face was colorless, and he spoke the words nervously. "The deuce of a fix Chris has got us into!"

"Come, we've got to get her back," said Stover, realizing the gravity of the situation. He went abruptly to the girl and spoke with quick authority. "Now stop crying; I want you to get hold of yourself. Here Schley, lend a hand; you and Troutman get her back into the carriage. Do it quickly."

"What are you going to do?" said Troutman, under his breath.

"Drive her to a doctor, of course."

"Couldn't we go and fetch a doctor here?"

"No, we couldn't!"

With some difficulty they got the suffering girl into the carriage and started back. No one spoke; the banter had given place to a few muttered words that broke the moaning, delirious tones of the stricken girl.

"Going to drive into New Haven this way?" said Troutman, for the second time under his breath.

"Sure."

"Hell!"

They came to the city streets, and Stover drove on hastily, seeking from right to left for a doctor. All at once he drew up at the curb, flung the reins to Troutman, and rushed into a house where he had seen a sign displayed ---" Dr. Burke." He was back almost immediately with the doctor at his heels.

"I say, Dink, look here," said Schley, plucking him aside, as the doctor hurriedly examined the girl. "This is a deuce of a. mess."

"You bet it is," said Stover, thinking of the sufferer. I say, if this gets out it'll be a nasty business."

"What do you mean?"

"If we're seen driving back with --- well, with this bunch!"

"What do you propose?" said Stover sharply.

Troutman joined them.

"See here, leave her with the doctor, I'll put up all the money that's necessary, the doctor'll keep a close mouth! Man alive, you can't go back this way!"

Why not?"

"Good Lord, it'll queer us,---we'll never get over it."

"Think of the papers," said Schley, plucking at his glove.

"We can fix it up with the doctor."

At this moment Dr. Burke joined them, quiet, businesslike, anxious.

"She has all the symptoms of a bad attack of appendicitis. There's only one thing to do; get her to the hospital at once. I'll get my hat and join you."

"Drive to -drive to the hospital?" said Troutman, with a gasp, "right through the whole city, right in the face of every one?"

"Don't be a fool, Dink," said Schley nervously. "We'll fix up Burke; we'll give him a hundred to take her and shut up."

Stover, too, saw the danger and the inevitable scandal. He saw, also, that they were no longer men as he had thought. The thin veneer had disappeared ---they were boys, terrified, aghast at a crisis beyond their strength.

"You're right, it would queer you," he said abruptly. "Clear out --- both of you."

"And you?"

"You're going to stay?" said Schley. Neither could face his eyes.

"Clear out, I tell you!"

When Burke came running down the steps he looked at Stover in surprise.

"Hello, where are your friends?"

"They had other engagements," said Dink grimly.

"All ready."

"I've seen your face before," said Dr. Burke, climbing in.

"I'm Stover."

"Dink Stover of the eleven?"

"Yes, Dink Stover of the eleven," said Stover, his face hardening. "Where do I drive?"

"Do you want to go quietly?" said Dr. Burke, with a look of sympathetic understanding.

From behind the girl, writhing, began to moan:

"Oh, Doctor --- Doctor --- I can't stand it --- I can't stand it."

"What's the quickest way?" said Stover.

"Chapel Street," said the doctor.

Stover turned the horses' heads into the thoroughfare, looking straight ahead, aware soon of the men who saw him in the full light of the day, driving through the streets of New Haven in such inexplicable company. And suddenly at the first turn he came face to face with another carriage in which were Jean Story and her mother.

WHEN Stover returned to his rooms, it was long after supper.

"Where the deuce have you been?" said Hungerford, looking up from his books.

"Went for a drive, got home late," said Stover shortly. He filled the companionable pipe, and sank into the low arm-chair, which Regan had broken for comfort. Something in his abrupt procedure caused Bob Story to look over at Regan with an inquiring raise of his eyebrows.

"Got this psychology yet?" said Hungerford, to try him out.

"No," said Stover.

"Going to get it?"

"No."

The thinghood of a thing is its indefinable somewhatness," said Hungerford, with another slashing attack on the common enemy, to divert Stover's attention. "What in the name of peanuts does that stuff mean?"

Dink, refusing to be drawn into conversation, sat enveloped in smoke clouds, his eyes on the clock.

"Hello, I forgot," said Story presently. "I say, Dink, Troutman and Schley were around here hallooing for you.',

"They were, eh?"

"About an hour ago. Wanted to see you particularly. Said they'd be around again."

"I see."

At this moment from below came a bellow:

"Oh, Dink Stover --- hello above there!"

"That's Troutman now," said Joe Hungerforci.

Stover went to the window, flinging it up. Well, who's there?"

"Troutman and Chris Schley. I say, Dink, we've got to see you. Come on down."

"Thanks, I haven't the slightest desire to see you now or at any other time," said Stover, who closed the window and resumed his seat, eyeing the clock.

His three friends exchanged troubled glances, and Regan began to whistle to himself, but no questions were asked. At nine o'clock Stover rose and took his hat.

"I'm going out. I may be back late," he said, and went down the stairs.

"What the devil?" said Hungerford, closing his book.

"He's in some scrape," said Regan ruthfully.

"Oh, Lord, and just at this time, too," said Story.

Stover went rapidly towards the hospital. The girl had been operated on immediately, and the situation was of the utmost seriousness. He had been told to come back at nine. When he arrived he found Muriel Stacey already in the waiting-room, her eyes heavy with frightened weeping. He looked at her curiously. All suggestion of the provoking impertinence and the surface allurement was gone. Under his eyes was nothing but an ignorant boor, stupid and hysterical before the awful fact of death.

"What's the news?"' he asked.

"Oh, Mr. Stover, I don't know. I can't get anything out of them," the woman said wildly. "Oh, do you think she's going to die?"

"Of course not," he said gruffly. "See here, where's her family?"

"I don't know."

"Don't they live here?"

"They're in Ohio somewhere, I think. I don't know. Ask the doctor, won't you, Mr. Stover? He'll tell you something."

He left her, and, making inquiries, was met by a young intern, immaculate and alert, who was quite communicative to Dink Stover of the Yale eleven.

"She's had a bad case of it; appendix had already burst. You got her here just in time."

"What's the outlook?"

"Can't tell. She came out of the anaesthetic all right." He went into a technical discussion of the dangers of blood poisoning, concluding: "Still, I should say her chances were good. It depends a good deal on the resistance. However, I think your friend's family ought to be notified."

Stover did not notice the "your friend," nor the look which the doctor gave him.

"She's here alone as far as I can find out," he said. "Poor little devil. I'll call round about midnight."

"No need," said the doctor briskly, "nothing'll develop before to-morrow."

Stover sent the waiting girl home somewhat tranquilized, and, finding a florist's shop open, left an order to be sent in to the patient the first thing in the morning. Then, thoroughly exhausted by his sudden contact with all the nervous fates of the hospital, he walked home and heavily to bed.

The next morning as he went to his eating-joint with Regan and Hungerford, the newsboy, who had his papers ready, gave them to him with a hesitating look. All at once Joe Hungerford swore mightily.

"Now what's wrong, Joe?" said Regan in surprise.

"Nothing," said Hungerford hastily, but almost immediately he stopped, and said in a jerky, worried way: "Say, here's the devil to pay, Dink. I suppose you ought to know about it. Damn the papers."

With his finger he indicated a space on the front page of the New York newspaper he was reading. Stover took it, reading it seriously. It was only a paragraph, but it rose from the page as though it were stamped in scarlet.

Below followed in suggestive detail an account of the drive with friends "not exactly in recognized New Haven society," and the sudden seizure of Miss Fanny Le Roy, with an account of his drive back to the hospital.

"That's pretty bad," he said, frowning. "What do the others say?"

One paper had it that his presence of mind and prompt action had saved the girl's life. The third one hinted that the party had been rather gay, and said in ,a short sentence:

"It is said other students were with young Stover, who prefer not to incur any unnecessary notoriety."

"It looks ugly," said Stover grimly.

"Who was with you?" said Hungerford anxiously.

"I prefer not to tell."

"Troutman and Schley, of course," said Regan suddenly, and, starting out of his usual imperturbability, he began to revile them.

"But, Dink, old man," said Hungerford, drawing his arm through his, "how the deuce did you ever get into it?"

"Well, Joe, what's the use of explanations?" said Stover gloomily. "Every one'll believe what they want to. It's a thoroughly nasty mess. It's my luck, that's all."

"Is that all you can say?" said Hungerford anxiously.

"All just now. I don't feel particularly affable, Joe."

The walk from his eating-joint to the chapel was perhaps the most difficult thing he had ever done. Every one was reading the news, commenting on it, as he passed along, red, proud, and angry. He felt the fire of amazed glances, the lower classmen looking up at the big man of the junior class in disgrace, his own friends puzzled and uncomprehending.

At the fences there was an excited buzz, which dropped perceptibly as he passed. Regan was at one side, Hungerford loyally on the other. At the junior fence Bob Story, who had just got the report, came out hurriedly to him.

I say, Dink, it --- it isn't true?" he said. " Something's wrong --- must be!"

"Not very far wrong," said Stover. He saw the incredulity in Bob's face, and it hurt him more than all the rest.

"Even Bob thinks I'm that sort, that I've been doing things on the sly I wouldn't stand for in public. And if he thinks it, what'll others think?"

"Shut up, Bob," he heard Regan say. "It may look a nasty mess, and Dink may not tell the real story, but one thing I know, he didn't scuttle off like a scut, but faced the music, and that's all I want to know."

Stover laughed, a short, nervous, utterly illogical laugh, defiant and stubborn. He would never tell what had happened ---let those who wanted to misjudge him.

Several men in his class ---he remembered them ever after --- came up and patted him on the back, one or two avoided him. Then he had to go by the senior fence into chapel with every eye upon him, watching how he bore the scandal. He knew he was red and uncomfortable, that on his face was something like a sneer. He knew that what every one was saying under his voice was that it was hard luck, damned hard luck, that it was a rotten scandal, and that Stover's chances for Skull and Bones were knocked higher than a kite.

Then something happened that almost upset him. In the press about the chapel doors he suddenly saw Le Baron's tall figure across the scrambling mass. Their glances met and with a little solemnity Le Baron raised his hat. He understood; they might be enemies to the end of their days, but the hat had been raised as the tribute of a man to a man. Once in his seat he looked about with a little scorn --- Troutman and Schley were not there.

After first recitation he went directly to the hospital, stubbornly resolved to give no explanations, stubbornly resolved in his own knowledge of his right to affront public opinion in any way he chose. The news he received was reassuring, the girl was out of danger. Muriel Stacey not yet arrived, for which he was physically thankful.

He returned to his rooms, traversing the difficult campus with erect head.

"Now, boy, see here," said Hungerford, when he had climbed the stairs, "I want this out with you. What did happen, and who ran away?"

"You've got the story in the papers, haven't you?" said Stover wearily. "The New Haven ones have in a couple of columns and my photograph."

"Is that all, Dink, you're going to tell me?"

"Yes."

"Is that all you're going to let Jean Story know?" said Hungerford boldly.

Stover winced.

"Damn you, Joe!"

"Is it?"

"She'll have to believe what she wants to about me," said Stover slowly. "It's a test."

"No, it isn't a test or a fair test," said Hungerford hotly. "I know everything's all right, boy, but I want to stop anything that might he said. You're hurt now because you know you're misjudged."

"Yes, I am hurt."

"Sure; a rotten bit of luck has put you in a false position. That's the whole matter."

"Joe, I won't tell you," said Stover shortly. "I am mad clear through and through I'm going to shut up on the whole business. If my friends misjudge me---so much the worse for them. If some one else ---" He stopped, flung his hat on the couch, and sat down at the desk. "What's the lesson?"

But at this moment Regan and Story came in, bolting the door.

"Well, we've got the truth," said Story. He came over and laid his hand on Dink's shoulder.

"What do you mean?"

"Tom and I have had it out with Schley and Troutman. They've told the whole thing, the miserable little curs." His voice shook. "You're all right, Dink; you always were, but it's a shame ---a damn shame!"

"Oh, well, they lost their nerve," said Stover heavily.

"Why the devil didn't you tell us last night?"

"What was the use?"

"We could have stopped its getting into the papers, or had it right."

"Well --- it all comes down to a question of luck sometimes," said Stover. "I was just as responsible as they were ---it was only fooling, but there's the chance."

"Dink, I've done one thing you may not like."

"What's that?"

"I've written the whole story to your folks at home --sent it off."

"No --- I don't mind --- I --- that was rather white of you, Bob --- thank you," said Stover. He drew a long breath, went to the window and controlled himself. "What are Troutman and Schley going to do?"

"They're all broken up," said Story.

"Don't wonder."

"They won't face it out very long," said Regan, without pity.

"Well, it was a pretty hard test," said Stover, coming back ---and by that alone they knew what it had meant to him.

Despite the giving out of the true story, the atmosphere of scandal still clung to the adventure. His friends rallied stanchly to him, but from many quarters Stover felt the attitude of criticism, and that the thing had been too public not to affect the judgment of the senior societies, already none too well disposed toward him.

Stover was sensitively proud, and the thought of how the story had traveled with all its implications wounded him keenly. He had done nothing wrong, nothing for which he had to blush. He had simply acted as a human being, as any decent gentleman would have acted, and yet by a malignant turn of fate he was blackguarded to the outer world, and had given his enemies in college a chance to imply that he had two attitudes --- in public and in secret.

The next morning came a note to him from Jean Story, the first he had ever had from her --- just a few lines.

"My Dear Friend:

"You are coming in soon to see me, aren't you? I shall be very much honored.

The note brought a great lump to his throat. He understood what she wished him to understand, her loyalty and her pride in his courage. He read it over and over, and placed it in his pocket-book to carry always ---but he did not go at once to see her. He did not want sympathy; he shunned the very thought. Before, in his revolt, he had come against a college tradition, now he was face to face with a social prejudice, and it brought an indignant bitterness.

He called every day at the hospital; out of sheer bravado at first, furious at the public opinion that would have him go his way and ignore a human being alone and suffering, even when his motives were pure.

At the end of a week he was told that the girl wanted to see him. He found her in a cot among a row of other cots. She was not white and drawn as he had exjected, but with a certain flush of color in her face, and lazy eyes that eagerly waited his coming. When he had approached, surprised and a little troubled at her prettiness, she looked at him steadily a long moment until he felt almost embarrassed. Then suddenly she took his hand and carried it to her lips, and her eyes overflowed with tears, as an invalid's do with the strength of any emotion.

The nurse motioned him away, and he went, troubled at what his boyish eyes had seen, and the touch of her lips on his hand.

"By George, she can't be very bad," he thought. "Poor little girl; she's probably never had half a chance. What the devil will become of her?"

He knew nothing of her life --- he did not want to know.

When she left the hospital at last he continued to see her, always saying to himself that there was no harm in it, concealing from himself the pleasure it gave him to know himself adored.

She would never tell him where she lived, always giving him a rendezvous on a certain corner, from which they would take a walk for an hour or so. Guessing his desires, she began to change her method of dress, leaving aside the artifices, taking to simple and sober dress, which brought a curious, girlish, counterfeit charm.

"I am doing her good," he said to himself. "It means something to her to meet some one who treats her with respect- like a human being --- poor little girl."

He did not realize how often he met her, leaving his troubled room-mates with a curt excuse, nor how rapidily he consumed the distance to their meeting place. He had talked to her at first seriously of serious, things, then gradually, laughing in a boyish way, half tempted, he began to pay her compliments. At first she laughed with a little pleasure, but, as the new attitude continued, he felt her eyes on his face constantly in anxious, wistful scrutiny.

One night she did not keep her appointment. He waited troubled, then furious. He left after an hour's lingering, irritable and aroused.

The next night as he approached impatiently, half afraid, she was already at the lamp-post.

"I waited an hour," he said directly.

"I'm sorry; I couldn't come," she answered troubled, but without volunteering an explanation.

"Why?" he said with a new irritation.

"I couldn't," she said, shaking her head.

He felt all at once a new impulse in him ---to wound her in some way and make her suffer a little for the disappointment he had had to undergo the night before.

"You did it on purpose," he said abruptly.

"No, no," she said frowning.

"You did." Then suddenly he added: "That's why you stayed away ---to make me jealous."

"Never."

"Why, then?"

"I can't tell you," she said.

They walked along in silence. Her resistance in withholding the information suddenly made her desirable. He wondered what he might do with her. As they walked still in silence, he put out his hand, and his fingers closed over hers. She did not draw them away. He gave a deep breath and said:

"I would like ---"

"What?" she said, looking up as his pressure made her face him.

He put out his arms and took her in them, and stood a long moment, looking at her lips.

"Forgive me --- I -" he said, stepping back suddenly. "I --- I didn't mean to offend you."

"No---you couldn't do that---never," she said quietly.

"You---you're so pretty to-night --- I couldn't help it," he said. To himself-- he vowed he would never let himself be tempted again---not that night.

"I'm going to take you to your home," he said, when after small conversation they returned.

"Sure."

He was surprised and delighted at this, but almost immediately to be generous he said:

"No, no, I won't."

"I don't care."

They had reached their corner.

"To-morrow."

"Yes."

"At eight."

"Yes."

He resisted a great temptation, and offered his hand. She took it suddenly in both of hers and brought it to her lips as she had done in the hospital.

"You've been white, awful white to me," she said, and flitted away into the engulfing night.

When he left her, her words came back to him, and brought an unrest. He had almost yielded to what he had vowed never to do, he, who only wanted her to feel his respect. Yet the next day seemed endless. He regretted that he had not gone to where she lived, for then he could have found her in the afternoon.

A shower passed during the day, leaving the streets moist and luminous with long lances of light and star points on the wet stones. He went breathlessly as he had never gone before, a little troubled, always reasoning with his conscience.

"It was only a crazy spell," he said to himself. "I don't know what got into me. I'll be careful, now."

When he reached the lamp-post another figure was there, Muriel Stacey, painted and over-dressed, and n her hand was a white letter, that he saw half-way up the block. He stopped short, frowning.

"Where's Fanny?"

"Here's a note she sent you," said the girl; "she's gone."

"Gone?"

"This morning."

He looked at the envelope; his name was written there in a childish, struggling hand.

"All right; thank you," he said suffocating. He left hurriedly, physically uncomfortable in the presence of Muriel Stacey, her friend. At the first lamp-post he stopped, broke the envelope, and read the awkward painfully written script.

"I’m going away, it's best for you and me I know it. Guess I would care too much and I'm not good enough for you. Don't you be angry with me. Good luck. God bless you.

" F'."

He slipped it hurriedly in his pocket, and set off at a wild pace. And suddenly his conscience, his accusing conscience, rose up. He saw where he had been going. It brought him a solemn moment. Then he remembered the girl. He took the letter from his pocket and held it clutched like a hand in his hand.

"Good God," he said, "I wonder what'll become of her?"

He had found so much good that the tragedy revolted him. So he went through the busy streets with their flare and ceaseless motion, in the wet of the night, watching with solemn, melancholy eyes, other women pass with sidelong glances. All the horror and the hopelessness of a life he could not better thronged over him, and he stood a long while looking down the great bleak ways, through the gates that it is better not to pry ajar.

Then in a revulsion of feeling, terrified at what he divined, he left and went, almost in an instinct for protection, hurriedly to the Story home, white and peaceful under the elms. He did not go in, but he stood a little while opposite, looking in through the warm windows at the serenity and the security that seemed to permeate the place.

When he returned to his rooms, Joe and Regan were there. He sat down directly and told them the whole story, showing them her letter.

"She went away --- for my sake," he said. "I know it. Poor little devil. It's a letter I'll always keep." Solemnly, looking at the letter, he resolved to put this with the one, the first from Jean Story, and reverently he felt that the two had the right to be joined.

"What's terrible about it," he said, talking out his soul, "is that there's so much good in them. And yet what can you do? They're human, they, respond, you can't help pitying them --- wanting to be decent...to help --- and you can't. It's terrible to think that there are certain doors in life you open and close, that you must turn your back on human lives sometimes, that things can't be changed. Lord, but it's a terrible thing to realize."

He stopped, and he heard Regan's voice, moved as he had never heard it, say:

"That's my story ---only I married."

Suddenly, as though realizing for the first time what he had said, he burst out: "Good God, I never meant to tell. See here, you men, that's sacred ---you understand."

And Dink and Joe, looking on his face, realized all at once why a certain gentler side of life was shut out to him, and why he had never gone to the Storys'.

ONE result of Stover's sobering experience with Fanny Le Roy was that he met the problem of the senior elections with directness and honesty. What Brockhurst had said of the injurious effect of secrecy and ceremony on the imagination had always been with him. Yet in his desire to stand high in the eyes of Jean Story, to win the honors she prized, he had quibbled over the question. Now the glimpse he had had into the inscrutable verities of human tragedy had all at once lifted him above the importance of local standards, and left him with but one desire ---to be true to himself.

The tests that had come to him in his college life had brought with them a maturity of view beyond that of his fellows. Now that he seriously debated the question, he said to himself that he saw great evils in the system: that on the average intelligence this thraldom to formula and awe at the assumption of mystery had undeniably a narrowing effect, unworthy of a great university dedicated to liberty of thought and action. He saw that while certain individuals, such as Hungerford and Regan, laughed at the bugbear of secrecy, and went their way unconcerned, a great number, more impressionable, had been ruled from the beginning by fear alone.

With the aims and purposes of Skull and Bones he was in thorough sympathy---their independence of judgment, their seeking out of men who had to contend with poverty, their desire to reward ambition and industry and character---but the more he freely acknowledged their influence for democracy and simplicity at Yale, the more he revolted at the unnecessary fetish of it all.

"They should command respect and not fear. By George, that's where I stand. All this rigmarole is ridiculous, and it's ridiculous that it ever affected me; it is of the middle ages --- outgrown."

Then a problem placed itself before him. Admitting that he had even the ghost of a chance of being tapped, ought he to go into a senior society feeling as he did about so many of its observances, secretly resolved on their elimination? Finally, a week before Tap Day, he decided to go to Judge Story and frankly state his case, letting him know that he preferred thus to give notice of his beliefs.

When he arrived at the Story home the judge was upstairs in his study. Jean, alone in the parlor, looked up in surprise at his expressed intention to see her father. Since her letter they had never been alone. Stover had avoided it with his shrinking from sympathy, and, perhaps guessing his temperament, she had made no attempt to go beyond the safe boundaries of formal intercourse.

"Yes, indeed, Dad's upstairs," she said. Then she added a little anxiously: "You look serious---is it a very serious matter?"

He hesitated, knowing instinctively that she would oppose him.

"It's something that's been on my mind for a long time," he said evasively; and he added with a smile, "It's what you call my Quixotic fit."

"It's about Skull and Bones," she said instantly.

"Yes, it is."

"What are you going to say?"

"I'm going to tell him just where I stand --- just what I've come to believe about the whole business."

"And what's that?"

"That Skull and Bones, which does a great good here --- I believe it ---also does a great deal of harm; all of which is unnecessary and a weakness in its system. In a word, I've come to the point where I believe secrecy is un-American, undemocratic and stultifying; and, as I say, totally unnecessary. I should always be against it."

"But aren't you exaggerating the importance of it all?" she said hastily.

"No, I'm not," he said. "I used to silence myself with that, but I see the thing working out too plainly."

"But why speak about it?"

"Because I don't think it's honest not to. Of course," he added immediately, "I have about one chance in a thousand ---perhaps that's why I'm so all-fired direct about it."

"I wish you wouldn't," she said, rising and coming towards him. "It might offend them terribly; you never know."

He shook his head, though her eagerness gave him a sudden happiness.

"No, I've thought it out a long while, and I've decided. It all goes back to that sophomore society scrap. I made up my mind then I wasn't going to compromise, and I'm not now."

"But I want to see you go Bones," she said illogically, in a rush. "After all you've gone through, you must go Bones!"

He did not answer this.

"Oh, it's so unnecessary," she said. "No one but you would think of it!"

"Don't be angry with me," he said, a little troubled.

"I am --- it's absurd!" she said, turning away with a flash of temper.

"I'm sorry," he said, and went up the stairs.

When he returned, after an interview which, needless to say, had somewhat surprised the judge, he found a very different Jean Story. She was waiting for him quiet and subdued, without a trace of her late irritation.

"Did you tell him?" she said gently.

"Yes."

"What did he say?"

"I didn't ask for an answer. I told him how I felt, and that I would rather my opinions should be known. That's all."

"Are you going?" she said, as he made a movement.

"I didn't know-- -" he said, hesitating and looking at her.

"I am not angry," she said a little wistfully. You were quite right. I'm glad you did it. You are much bigger than I could be --- I like that."

"You were the first to wake me up," he said happily, sitting down.

"Yes, but you have gone so far ahead. You do things without compromise, and that sometimes frightens me." She stopped a moment, and said, looking at him steadily:

"You have kept away a long while. Now you see you are caught. You can't avoid being alone with me."

"I don't want to," he said abruptly.

"You are so proud, Dink," she said softly, using his nickname for the first time. "I have never seen any one so proud. Everything you do I think comes from that. But it must make you suffer terribly."

"Yes, it does."

They were in the front parlor, dimly lit, sitting on the window-seat, hearing from time to time the passing chug of horses' feet.

"I knew how it must have hurt you ---all this publicity," she said slowly. "Why didn't you come when I wrote you? Were you too proud?"

"Yes, I suppose so ---and then it didn't seem fair to you ---after all the talk."

"I was proud of you," she said, raising her head a little. She put out her hand again to his, leaving it in his for a long time, while they sat in silence. The touch that once had so. disturbed him brought now only a gentle serenity. He thought of the other woman, and what might have been, with almost a hatred, the hatred of man towards whatever he wrongs.

"You are right about me," he said slowly. "Most people think I don't care what happens, that I'm sort of a thick-skinned rhinoceros. How did you know?"

"I knew."

She withdrew her hand slowly, without resistance on his part; only when he held it no longer he felt alone, abandoned to the blackness of the street outside.

"I've kept my promise to you, Jean," he said a little unsteadily, "but don't make it too hard."

She rose and he followed. Together they stood in the shadows of the embrasure, half seeing each other. Only he knew that her large eyes were looking out at him with the look of the woman that he had first called forth when he had wounded the pride of the girl.

"I am glad you didn't listen to me just now," she said slowly.

"When?"

"When you went upstairs to Dad. You will never weaken, I know." She came a little towards him, and understanding, he took her gently, wonderingly, in his arms. "It's going to be very hard for you," she said, "Tap Day --- to stand there and know that you may be misjudged. I should be very proud to announce our engagement, then --- that same day."

Then he knew that he held in his arms one who had never given so much as her hand lightly, who came to him in unflinching loyalty, whose only interest would be his interest, who would know no other life but his life, whose joy would be the struggle that was his struggle.

Tap Day arrived at last, cloudy and misty. He had slept badly in fits and starts, nor had the others fared better, with the exception of Regan, who had rumbled peacefully through the night---but then Regan was one whom others sought. The morning was interminable, a horror. They did not even joke about the approaching ordeal. No one was so sure of election but that the possible rejection of some chum cast its gloom over the day.

Dink ran over a moment after lunch with Bob for a last word. with Jean. She was going with her father and mother to see the tapping from a window in Durfee.

"I shall only see you," she said to him, with her hands in his, and her loyal eyes shining. "I shall be so proud of the way you take it."

"So you think I won't be tapped," he said slowly.

"It means so little now," she said. "That can't add a feather's weight to what you are."

They went back to their rooms, joining Hungerford and Regan, who were whiling away the time playing piquet.

"Here," said Tom in relief when they entered, "one of you fellows keep Joe entertained, the darn fool has suddenly made up his mind he's going to be passed over."

Regan, relinquishing his place, went back to his book. "Why, Joe, you fluffy ass," said Story affectionately, "you're the surest of the lot. Shut up ---cheer us up instead."

"Look at that mound of jelly," said Hungerford peevishly, pointing to Regan. "Has he any nerves?"

"What's the use of fidgeting?" said Regan.

An hour later Hungerford stretched his arm nervously, rose and consulted the clock.

"Four-fifteen; let's hike over in about twenty minutes."

All right."

"Say, I don't mind saying that I feel as though I were going to be taken out, stuck full of holes, sawed up, drawn and quartered and boiled alive. I feel like jumping on an express and running away."

Stover, remembering Joe's keen suffering at the spectacle back in freshman year, said gravely:

"You're sure, Joe. You'll go among the first. Come back with smelling salts for me. I've got to stand through the whole thing and grin like a Cheshire cat---that's de rigueur. Do you remember how bully Dudley was when he missed out? Funny---then I thought I had a cinch."

"If it was left to our class, you would, Dink," said Bob.

"Thanks."

Stover smiled a little at this unconscious avowal of his own estimate, rose, picked out his favorite pipe, and said:

"I don't care so much --- there's a reason. Well, let's get into the mess."

The four went together, over toward the junior fence, already swarming.

"Ten minutes of five," said Hungerford, looking at the clock that each had seen.

"Yes."

Some one stopped Stover to wish him good luck. He looked down on a diminutive figure in large spectacles, trying to recall, who was saying to him:

"I --- I wanted to wish you the best."

"Oh, it's Wookey," said Stover suddenly. He shook hands, rather troubled. "Well, boy, there's not much chance for me."

"Oh, I hope so."

"Thanks just the same."

"Hello, Dink, old fellow."

"Put her there."

You know what we all want?"

He was in another group, patted on the back, his arm squeezed, listening to the welcome loyalty of those who knew him.

"Lord, if they'd only have sense enough."

He smiled and made his way towards his three friends, exchanging salutations.

"Luck, Dink."

"Same to you, Tommy Bain."

"Here's wishing."

"Back to you, Dopey."

"You've got my vote."

"Thanks."

He joined his room-mates under the tree, looking over the heads to the windows of Durfee where he saw Jean Story with her father and mother. Presently, seeking everywhere, she saw him. Their eyes met, he lifted his cap, she nodded slightly. From that moment he knew she would see no one else.

"Let's keep together," said Regan. "Lock arms."

The four stood close together, arms gripped, resisting the press that crushed them together, speaking no more, hearing about them the curious babble of the underclassmen.

"That's Regan."

"Story'll go first."

"Stand here."

"This is the spot."

"Lord, they look solemn enough."

"Almost time."

"Get your watch out."

"Fifteen seconds more."

"Five, four, three, two ---"

"Boom!"

Above their heads the chapel bell broke over them with its five decisive strokes, swallowed up in the roar of the college.

"Yea!"

"Here he comes!"

"First man for Bones!"

"Reynolds!"

From where he stood Stover could see nothing. Only the travelling roar of the crowd told of the coming seniors. Then there was a stir in the crowd near him, and Reynolds, in black derby, came directly for them; pushed them aside, and suddenly slapped some one behind.

A roar went up again.

"Who was it?" said Story quickly.

"Hunter, Jim Hunter."

The next moment Hunter, white as a sheet, bumped at his side and passed, followed by Reynolds; down the convulsive lane the crowd opened to him.

Roar followed roar, and reports came thick.

"Stone's gone Keys."

"Three Wolf's-Head men in the crowd."

"McNab gets Keys."

"Hooray!"

"Dopey's tapped!"

"Bully."

"Wiggins fourth man for Bones."

Still no one came their way. Then all at once a Bones man, wandering in the crowd, came up behind Bob Story, caught him by the shoulders, swung him around to make sure, and gave him the slap.

Regan's, Hungerford's, and Stover's voices rose above the uproar:

"Bully, Bob!"

"Good work!"

"Hooray for you!"

Almost immediately Regan received the eighth tap for Bones, and went for his room amidst the thundering cheers of a popular choice.

"Well, here we are, Dink," said Hungerford.

"You're next."

About them the curious spectators pressed, staring up into their faces for any sign of emotion, struggling to reach them, with the dramatic instinct of the crowd. Four more elections were given out by Bones --- only three places remained.

"That settles me," said Stover between his teeth.

If they wanted me I'd gone among the first. Joe's going to get last place --- bully for him. He's the best fellow in the class."

He folded his arms and smiled with the consciousness of a decision accepted. He saw Hungerford's face, and the agony of suspense to his sensitive nerves.

"Cheer up, Joe, it's last place for you."

Then another shout.

"Bones or Keys?" he asked of those around him.

"Bones."

"Charley Stacey."

"Thirteenth man."

"I was sure of it," he said calmly to himself. Then he glanced up at the window. Her eyes had never left him. He straightened up with a new defiance. "Lord, I'd like to have gotten it, just for Jean. Well, I knocked against too many heads. I don't wonder."

Suddenly Hungerford caught his hand underneath the crowd, pressing it unseen.

"Last man for Bones now, Dink," he said, looking in his eyes. "I hope to God it's you."

"Why, you old chump," said Stover laughing, so all heard him. "Bless your heart, I don't mind. Here's to you."

Above the broken, fitful cheers, suddenly came a last swelling roar.

"Bones."

"Last man."

The crowd, as though divining the election, divided a path towards where the two friends waited, Hungerford staring blankly, Stover, arms still folded, waiting steadily with a smile of acceptation on his lips.

It was Le Baron. He came like a black tornado, rushing over the ground straight toward the tree. Once some of one stumbled into his path, and he caught him and flung him aside. Straight to the two he came, never deviating, straight past Dink Stover, and suddenly switching around almost knocked, him to the ground with the crash of his blow.

"Go to your room!"

It was a shout of electrifying drama, the voice of his society speaking to the college.

Some one caught Stover. He straightened up, trying to collect his wits, utterly unprepared for the shock. About him pandemonium broke loose. Still dazed, he felt Hungerford leap at him, crying in his ears:

"God bless you, old man. It's great, great ---they rose to it. It's the finest ever!"

He began to move mechanically towards his room, seeing iothing, hearing nothing. He started towards the library, and some one swung him around. He heard them cheering, then he saw hundreds of faces, wild-eyed, rushing past him; he stumbled and suddenly his eyes were blurred with tears, and he knew how much he cared, after the long months of rebellion, to be no longer an outsider, but back among his own with the stamp of approval on his record.

The last thing he remembered through his swimming vision was Joe Hungerford, hatless and swinging his arms as though he had gone crazy, leading a cheer, and the cheer was for Bones.

That night, even before he went to the Storys', Stover went out arm in arm with Hungerford, across the quiet campus, so removed from the fray of the afternoon.

"Joe, it breaks me all up," he said at last. "You and I waiting there --–"

"Don't speak of it, old fellow," said Hungerford. "Now let me talk. I did want to make it, but, by George, I know now it's better I didn't. I've had everything I wanted in this world; this is the first I couldn't get. It's better for me; I know it already."

"You were clean grit, Joe, cheering for Bones."

"By George, I meant it. It meant something to feel they could rise up and know a man, and you've hit pretty close to them, old boy."

"Yes, I have, but I've believed it."

"It shows the stuff that's here," said Hungerford, "when you once can get to it. Now I take off my hat to them. I only hope you can make your influence felt."

"I'm going to try," said Stover solemnly. "The thing is so big a thing that it ought not to be hampered by bug-a-boo methods."

Brockhurst joined them.

"Well, the smoke's rolled away," said Brockhurst, who likewise had missed out. "It's over --- all over. Now we'll settle down to peace and quiet ---relax."

"The best time's coming," said Hungerford. "We'll live as we please, and really enjoy life. It's the real time, every one says so."

"Yes," said Brockhurst, rebel to the last, "but why couldn't it come before, why couldn't it be so the whole four years?"

"Well, now, old croaker," said Hungerford with a little heat, "own up the old college comes up to the scratch. We've surrendered the sophomore society system, and the seniors showed to-day that they could recognize honest criticism. That's pretty fine, I say."

"You're pretty fine, Joe," said Brockhurst to their surprise. "Well, it's good enough as it is. It takes an awful lot to stir it, but it's the most sensitive of the American colleges, and it will respond. It wants to do the right thing. Some day it'll see it. I'm a crank, of course." He stopped, and Stover felt in his voice a little note of bitterness. "The trouble with me is just that. I'm impractical; have strange ideas. I'm not satisfied with Yale as a magnificent factory on democratic business lines; I dream of something else, something visionary, a great institution not of boys, clean, lovable and honest, but of men of brains, of courage, of leadership, a great center of thought, to stir the country and bring it back to the understanding of what man creates with his imagination, and dares with his will. It's visionary --- it will come."