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A Master's Degree

by Margaret Hill McCarter · English · Gutenberg #1348 · 317,717 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: A Master's Degree

Author: Margaret Hill McCarter


        
Release date: June 1, 1998 [eBook #1348]
                Most recently updated: October 29, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1348

Credits: Produced by Charles Keller, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A MASTER'S DEGREE ***

A MASTER'S DEGREE

By Margaret Hill McCarter




          TO THE KANSAS BOYS AND GIRLS
          WHO HAVE NOT YET EARNED THEIR DEGREES;
          AND TO THOSE OLDER IN YEARS, EVERYWHERE,
          “CAPTAINS OVER HUNDREDS,”
           WHO WOULD WIN TO THE LARGER MASTERY.




          In the old days there were angels who came and
          took men by the hand and led them away from the
          city of destruction. We see no white-winged angels
          now. But yet men are led away from threatening
          destruction: a hand is put into theirs, which leads
          them gently forth toward a calm and bright land, so
          that they look no more backward; and the hand may
          be a little child's.

          GEORGE ELIOT



CONTENTS

CHAPTER

            THE MEETING
      I.    “DEAN FUNNYBONE”
       II.   POTTER'S CLAY
      III.  PIGEON PLACE
      IV.   THE KICKAPOO CORRAL
      V.    THE STORM
      VI.   THE GAME
      VII.  THE DAY OF RECKONING
      VIII. LOSS, OR GAIN?
      IX.   GAIN, OR LOSS?
      X.    THE THIEF IN THE MOUTH
      XI.   THE SINS OF THE FATHERS
      XII.  THE SILVER PITCHER
      XIII. THE MAN BELOW THE SMOKE
      XIV.  THE DERELICTS
      XV.   THE MASTERY
            THE PARTING





A MASTER'S DEGREE




THE MEETING

     ...There is neither East nor West, Border, nor
      Breed, nor Birth,
      When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they
      come from the ends of the earth!
      KIPLING

IT happened by mere chance that the September day on which Professor
Vincent Burgess, A.B., from Boston, first entered Sunrise College as
instructor in Greek, was the same day on which Vic Burleigh, overgrown
country boy from a Kansas claim out beyond the Walnut River, signed up
with the secretary of the College Board and paid the entrance fee for
his freshman year. And further, by chance, it happened that the two
young men had first met at the gateway to the campus, one coming
from the East and the other from the West, and having exchanged the
courtesies of stranger greeting, they had walked, side by side, up the
long avenue to the foot of the slope. Together, they had climbed the
broad flight of steps leading up to the imposing doorway of Sunrise,
with the great letter S carved in stone relief above it; and, after
pausing a moment to take in the matchless wonder of the landscape over
which old Sunrise keeps watch, the college portal had swung open, and
the two had entered at the same time.

Inside the doorway the Professor and the country boy were impressed,
though in differing degrees, with the massive beauty of the rotunda over
which the stained glass of the dome hangs a halo of mellow radiance.
Involuntarily they lifted their eyes toward this crown of light and
saw far above them, wrought in dainty coloring, the design of the great
State Seal of Kansas, with its inscription They saw something more in
that upward glance. On the stairway of the rotunda, Elinor Wream,
the niece of the president of Sunrise College, was leaning over the
balustrade, looking at them with curious eyes. Her smile of recognition
as she caught sight of Professor Burgess, gave place to an expression of
half-concealed ridicule, as she glanced down at Vic Burleigh, the big,
heavy-boned young fellow, so grotesquely impossible to the harmony of
the place.

As the two men dropped their eyes, they encountered the upturned face
of a plainly dressed girl coming up the stairs from the basement, with a
big feather duster in her hand. It was old Bond Saxon's daughter Dennie,
who was earning her tuition by keeping the library and offices in
order. As if to even matters, it was Vic Burleigh who caught a token of
recognition now, while the young Professor was surveyed with fearless
disapproval.

All this took only a moment of time. Long afterward these two men knew
that in that moment an antagonism was born between them that must fight
itself out through the length of days. But now, Dr. Lloyd Fenneben, Dean
of Sunrise, known to students and alumni alike as “Dean Funnybone,” was
grasping each man's hand with a cordial grip and measuring each with a
keen glance from piercing black eyes, as he bade them equal welcome.

And here all likeness of conditions ends for these two. Days come and
go, moons wax and wane, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and
winter glide fourfold through their appointed seasons, before the two
young men stand side by side on a common level again. And the events
of these changing seasons ring in so rapidly, and in so inevitable a
fashion, that the whole cycle runs like a real story along the page.



STRIFE

 _With the first faint note out of distance flung,
     From the moment man hears the siren call
     Of Victory's bugle, which sounds for all,
     To his inner self the promise is made
     To weary not, rest not, but all unafraid
 Press on--till for him the paean be sung.

 The song for the victor is sweet, is sweet--
     Yet to the music a memory clings
     Of trampled nestlings, of broken wings,
 And of faces white with defeat!_
                         --ELIZABETH D. PRESTON




CHAPTER I. “DEAN FUNNYBONE”

     _Nature they say, doth dote,
     And cannot make a man
     Save on some worn-out plan,
     Repeating us by rote:
 For him her Old-World moulds aside she threw,
    .............................
 With stuff untainted,
 shaped a hero new_.--LOWELL

DR. LLOYD FENNEBEN, Dean of Sunrise College, had migrated to the Walnut
Valley with the founding of the school here. In fact, he had brought the
college with him when he came hither, and had set it, as a light not to
be hidden, on the crest of that high ridge that runs east of the little
town of Lagonda Ledge. And the town eagerly took the new school to
itself; at once its pride and profit. Yea, the town rises and sets with
Sunrise. When the first gleam of morning, hidden by the east ridge from
the Walnut Valley, glints redly from the south windows of the college
dome in the winter time, and from the north windows in the summer time,
the town bestirs; itself, and the factory whistles blow. And when the
last crimson glory of evening puts a halo of flame about the brow of
Sunrise, the people know that out beyond the Walnut River the day is
passing, and the pearl-gray mantle of twilight is deepening to velvety
darkness on the wide, quiet prairie lands.

Lagonda Ledge was a better place after the college settled permanently
above it. Some improvident citizens took a new hold on life, while some
undesirables who had lived in lawless infamy skulked across the Walnut
and disappeared in that rough picturesque region full of uncertainties
that lies behind the west bluffs of the stream. All this, after the
college had found an abiding place on the limestone ridge. For Sunrise
had been a migratory bird before reaching the outskirts of Lagonda
Ledge. As a fulfillment of prophecy, it had arisen from the visions and
pockets of some Boston scholars, and it had come to the West and was
made flesh--or stone--and dwelt among men on the outskirts of a booming
young Kansas town.

Lloyd Fenneben was just out of Harvard when Dr. Joshua Wream, his
step-brother, many years his senior, professor of all the dead languages
ever left unburied, had put a considerable fortune into his hands, and
into his brain the dream of a life-work--even the building of a great
university in the West. For the Wreams were a stubborn, self-willed,
bookish breed, who held that salvation of souls could come only through
possession of a college diploma. Young Fenneben had come to Kansas with
all his youth and health and money, with high ideals and culture and
ambition for success and dreams of honor--and, hidden deep down, the
memory of some sort of love affair, but that was his own business. With
this dream of a new Harvard on the western prairies, he had burned his
bridges behind him, and in an unbusiness-like way, relying too much upon
a board of trustees whom he had interested in his plans he had eagerly
begun his task, struggling to adapt the West to his university model,
measuring all men and means by the scholarly rule of his Alma Mater.
Being a young man, he took himself full seriously, and it was a
tremendous blow to his sense of dignity when the youthful Jayhawkers at
the outset dubbed him “Dean Funnybone”--a name he was never to lose.

His college flourished so amazingly that another boom town, farther
inland, came across the prairie one day, and before the eyes of the
young dean bought it of the money-loving trustees--body and soul and
dean--and packed it off as the Plains Indians would carry off a white
captive, miles away to the westward. Plumped down in a big frame
barracks in the public square of twenty acres in the middle of this new
town, at once real estate dealers advertised the place as the literary
center of Kansas; while lots in straggling additions far away across the
prairie draws were boomed as “college flats within walking distance of
the university.”

In this new setting Lloyd Fenneben started again to build up what had
been so recklessly torn down. But it was slow doing, and in a downcast
hour the head of the board of trustees took council with the young dean.

“Funnybone, that's what the boys call you, ain't it?” The name had come
along over the prairie with the school. “Funnybone, you are as likely
a man as ever escaped from Boston. But you're never going to build the
East into the West, no more'n you could ram the West into the Atlantic
seaboard states. My advice to you is to get yourself into the West for
good and drop your higher learnin' notions, and be one of us, or beat it
back to where you came from quick.”

Dean Fenneben listened as a man who hears the reading of his own
obituary.

“You've come out to Kansas with beautiful dreams,” the bluff trustee
continued. “Drop 'em! You're too late for the New England pioneers who
come West. They've had their day and passed on. The thing for you to do
is to commercialize yourself right away. Go to buyin' and sellin' dirt.
It's all a man can do for Kansas now. Just boom her real estate.”

“All a man can do for Kansas!” Fenneben repeated slowly.

“Sure, and I'll tell you something more. This town is busted, absolutely
busted. I, and a few others, brought this college here as an investment
for ourselves. It ain't paid us, and we've throwed the thing over. I've
just closed a deal with a New Jersey syndicate that gets me rid of every
foot of ground I own here. The county-seat's goin' to be eighteen
miles south, and it will be kingdom come, a'most, before the railroad
extension is any nearer 'n that. Let your university go, and come with
me. I can make you rich in six months. In six weeks the coyotes will be
howlin' through your college halls, and the prairie dogs layin' out
a townsite on the campus, and the rattlesnakes coilin' round the
doorsteps. Will you come, Funnybone?”

The trustee waited for an answer. While he waited, the soul of the young
dean found itself.

“Funnybone!” Lloyd repeated. “I guess that's just what I need--a funny
bone in my anatomy to help me to see the humor of this thing. Go with
you and give up my college? Build up the prosperity of a commonwealth
by starving its mind! No, no; I'll go on with the thing I came here to
do--so help me God!”

“You'll soon go to the devil, you and your old school. Good-by!” And the
trustee left him.

A month later, Dean Fenneben sat alone in his university barracks and
saw the prairie dogs making the dust fly as they digged about what had
been intended for a flower bed on the campus. Then he packed up his
meager library and other college equipments and walked ten miles across
the plains to hire a man with a team to haul them away. The teamster had
much ado to drive his half-bridle-wise Indian ponies near enough to
the university doorway to load his wagon. Before the threshold a huge
rattlesnake lay coiled, already disputing any human claim to this
kingdom of the wild.

Discouraging as all this must have been to Fenneben, when he started
away from the deserted town he smiled joyously as a man who sees his
road fair before him.

“I might go back to Cambridge and poke about after the dead languages
until my brother passes on, and then drop into his chair in the
university,” he said to himself, “but the trustee was right. I can never
build the East into the West. But I can learn from the East how to bring
the West into its own kingdom. I can make the dead languages serve me
the better to speak the living words here. And if I can do that, I
may earn a Master's Degree from my Alma Mater without the writing of a
learned thesis to clinch it. But whether I win honor or I am forgotten,
this shall be my life-work--out on these Kansas prairies, to till a soil
that shall grow MEN AND WOMEN.”

For the next three years Dean Fenneben and his college flourished on
the borders of a little frontier town, if that can be called flourishing
which uses up time, and money, and energy, Christian patience, and
dogged persistence. Then an August prairie fire, sweeping up from the
southwest, leaped the narrow fire-guard about the one building and
burned up everything there, except Dean Fenneben. Six years, and nothing
to show for his work on the outside. Inside, the six years' stay
in Kansas had seen the making over of a scholarly dreamer into a
hard-headed, far-seeing, masterful man, who took the West as he found
it, but did not leave it so. Not he! All the power of higher learning he
still held supreme. But by days of hard work in the college halls, and
nights of meditation out in the silent sanctuary spaces of the prairies
round about him, he had been learning how to compute the needs of men as
the angel with the golden reed computed the walls and gates of the New
Jerusalem--_according to the measure of a man_.

Such was Dean Fenneben who came after six years of service to the little
town of Lagonda Ledge to plant Sunrise on the crest above the Walnut
Valley beyond reach of prairie fire or bursting boom. Firm set as the
limestone of its foundations, he reared here a college that should live,
for that its builder himself with his feet on the ground and his face
toward the light had learned the secret of living.

Miles away across the valley, the dome of Sunrise could be seen by day.
By night, the old college lantern at first, and later the studding of
electric lights, made a beacon for all the open countryside. But if
the wayfarer, by chance or choice, turned his footsteps to those rocky
bluffs and glens beyond the Walnut River, wherefrom the town of Lagonda
Ledge takes its name, he lost the guiding ray from the hilltop and
groped in black and dangerous ways where darkness rules.

Above the south turret hung the Sunrise bell, whose resonant voice
filled the whole valley, and what the sight of Sunrise failed to do for
Lagonda Ledge, the sound of the bell accomplished. The first class to
enter the school nicknamed its head “Dean Funnybone,” but this gave him
no shock any more. He had learned the humor of life now, the spirit of
the open land where the view is broad to broadening souls.

And it was to the hand of Dean Fenneben that Professor Vincent Burgess,
A.B., Greek instructor from Boston, and Vic Burleigh, the big country
boy from a claim beyond the Walnut, came on a September day; albeit, the
one had his head in the clouds, while the other's feet were clogged with
the grass roots.



CHAPTER II. POTTER'S CLAY

 _This clay, well mixed with marl and sand,
 Follows the motion of my hand,
 For some must follow and some command,
     Though all are made of clay_.
                         --LONGFELLOW

THE afternoon sunshine was flooding the September landscape with molten
gold, filling the valley with intense heat, and rippling back in warm
waves from the crest of the ridge. Dean Fenneben's study in the south
tower of Sunrise looked out on the new heaven and the new earth, every
day-dawn created afresh for his eyes; for truly, the Walnut Valley in
any mood needs only eyes that see to be called a goodly land. And it
was because of the magnificent vista, unfolding in woodland, and winding
river, and fertile field, and far golden prairie--it was because of the
unconscious power of all this upon the student mind, that Dr. Fenneben
had set his college up here.

On this September afternoon, the Dean sat looking out on this land of
pure delight a-quiver in the late summer sunshine. Nature had done well
by Lloyd Fenneben. His height was commanding, and he was slender, rather
than heavy, with ease of movement as if the play of every muscle was
nerved to harmony. His heavy black hair was worn a trifle long on the
upper part of his head and fell in masses above his forehead. His eyes
were black and keen under heavy black brows. Every feature was strong
and massive, but saved from sternness by a genial kindliness and sense
of humor. Whoever came into his presence felt that magnetic power only a
king of his kind can possess.

Long the Dean sat gazing at the gleaming landscape and the sleepy town
beyond the campus and the pigeons circling gracefully above a little
cottage, hidden by trees, up the river.

“A wonderful region!” he murmured. “If that old white-haired brother of
mine digging about the roots of Greek and Sanscrit back in Harvard could
only see all this, maybe he might understand why I choose to stay here
with my college instead of tying up with a university back East. But,
maybe not. We are only step-brothers. He is old enough to be my father,
and with all his knowledge of books he could never read men. However, he
sent me West with a fat pocketbook in the interest of higher education.
I hope I've invested well. And our magnificent group of buildings up
here and our broad-acred campus, together with our splendid enrollment
of students justify my hope. Strange, I have never known whose money
I was using. Not Joshua Wream's, I know that. Money is nothing to the
Wreams except as it endows libraries, builds colleges, and extends
universities. Too scholarly for these prairies, all of them! Too
scholarly!”

The Dean's eyes were fixed on a tiny shaft of blue smoke rising steadily
from the rough country in the valley beyond Lagonda Ledge, but his mind
was still on his brother.

“Dr. Joshua Wream, D.D., Litt.D., LL.D., etc.! He has taken all the
degrees conferable, except the degree of human insight.” Something
behind the strong face sent a line of pathos into it with the thought.
“He has piled up enough for me to look after this fall, anyhow. It was
bad enough for that niece of ours to be left a penniless orphan with
only the two uncles to look after her and both of us bachelors. And now,
after he has been shaping Elinor Wream's life until she is ready for
college, he sends her out here to me, frankly declaring that she is too
much for him. She always was.”

He turned to a letter lying on the table beside him, a smile playing
about the frown on his countenance.

“He hopes I can do better by Elinor than he has been able to do, because
he's never had a wife nor child to teach him,” he continued, giving word
to his thought. “A fine time for me to begin! No wife nor child has ever
taught me anything. He says she is a good girl, a beautiful girl with
only two great faults. Only two! She's lucky. 'One'”--Fenneben glanced
more closely at the letter--“'is her self-will.' I never knew a Wream
that didn't have that fault. 'And the other'”--the frown drove back the
smile now--“'is her notion of wealth. Nobody but a rich man could ever
win her hand.' She who has been simply reared, with all the Wream creed
that higher education is the final end of man, is set with a Wream-like
firmness in her hatred of poverty, her eagerness for riches and luxury.
And to add to all this responsibility he must send me his pet Greek
scholar, Vincent Burgess, to try out as a professor in Sunrise. A
Burgess, of all men in the world, to be sent to me! Of course this
young man knows nothing of my affairs but is my brother too old and
too scholarly to remember what I've tried a thousand times to forget? I
thought the old wound had healed by this time.”

A wave of sadness swept the strong man's face. “I've asked Burgess to
come up at three. I must find out what material is sent here for my
shaping. It is a president's business to shape well, and I must do my
best, God help me!”

A shadow darkened Lloyd Fenneben's face, and his black eyes held a
strange light. He stared vacantly at the landscape until he suddenly
noted the slender wavering pillar of smoke beyond the Walnut.

“There are no houses in those glens and hidden places,” he thought. “I
wonder what fire is under that smoke on a day like this. It is a far cry
from the top of this ridge to the bottom of that half-tamed region down
there. One may see into three counties here, but it is rough traveling
across the river by day, and worse by night.”

The bell above the south turret chimed the hour of three as Vincent
Burgess entered the study.

“Take this seat by the window,” Dr. Fenneben said with a genial smile
and a handclasp worth remembering. “You can see an Empire from this
point, if you care to look out.”

Vincent Burgess sat at ease in any presence. He had the face of a
scholar, and the manners of a gentleman. But he gave no sign that he
cared to view the empire that lay beyond the window.

“We are to be co-workers for some time, Burgess. May I ask you why you
chose to come to Kansas?”

Fenneben came straight to the purpose of the interview. This keen-eyed,
business-like man seemed to Burgess very unlike old Dr. Wream, whom
everybody at Harvard loved and anybody could deceive. But to the direct
question he answered directly and concisely.

“I came to study types, to acquire geographical breadth, to have
seclusion, that I may pursue more profound research.”

There was a play of light in Dr. Fenneben's eyes.

“You must judge for yourself of the value of Sunrise and Lagonda Ledge
for seclusion. But we make a specialty of geographical breadth out here.
As to types, they assay fairly well to the ton, these Jayhawkers do.”

“What are Jayhawkers, Doctor?” Burgess queried.

“Yonder is one specimen,” Fenneben answered, pointing toward the window.

Vincent Burgess, looking out, saw Vic Burleigh leaping up the broad
steps from the level campus, a giant fellow, fully six feet tall.
The swing of strength, void of grace, was in his motion. His face was
gypsy-brown under a crop of sunburned auburn hair. A stiff new derby
hat was set bashfully on a head set unabashed on broad shoulders. The
store-mark of the ready-made was on his clothing, and it was clear that
he was less accustomed to cut stone steps than to springing prairie sod.
Clearly he was a real product of the soil.

“Why, that is the young bumpkin I came in with this morning. I thought
I was striding alongside an elephant in bulk and wild horse in speed,”
 Burgess said with a smile.

“You will have a share in taming him, doubtless,” Dr. Fenneben replied.
“He looks hardly bridle-wise yet. Enter him among your types. I didn't
get his name this morning, but he interested me at once, as a fellow of
good blood if not of good manners, and I have asked him to come in here
later. Some boys must be met on the very threshold of a college if they
are to run safely along the four years.”

“His name is Burleigh, Victor Burleigh. I remember it because it is not
a new name to me. Picture him in a cap and gown at home in a library,
or standing up to receive a Master's Degree from a university! His kind
leave about the middle of the second semester and revert to the soil,
don't they?”

Burgess laughed pleasantly, and leaned forward to get one more look at
the country boy, disappearing behind a group of evergreens in the north
angle of the building.

“They do not always leave so soon as that. You can't tell the grade of
timber every time by the bark outside.” There was a deeper tone in Dr.
Fenneben's voice now. “But as to yourself, you had a motive in coming to
Kansas, I judge. You can study types anywhere.”

Whether the young man liked this or not, he answered evenly:

“I am to give instruction in Greek here at Lagonda Ledge. Beastly name,
isn't it? Suggestive of rattlesnakes, somehow! I shall spend much time
in study, for I am preparing a comprehensive thesis for my Master's
Degree. The very barrenness of these dull prairies will keep me close to
my library for a couple of years.”

“Oh, you will do your work well anywhere,” Dr. Fenneben declared. “You
need not put walls of distances about you for that. I thought you might
have a more definite purpose in choosing this state, of all places.”

Fenneben's mind was running back to the days of his own first struggle
for existence in the West, and his heart went out in sympathy to the
undisciplined young professor.

“I have a reason, but it is entirely a personal matter.” Burgess was
looking at the floor now. “Did you know I had a sister once?”

“Yes, I know,” Dr. Fenneben said.

“She was married and came to Kansas. That was after you left Cambridge,
I suppose. She and her husband are both dead, leaving no children. My
father was bitterly opposed to her coming out here, and never forgave
her for it. He died recently, making me his heir. I've always thought
I'd like to see the state where my sister lived. She died young. She
could not have been as old as you are, and you are a young man yet,
Doctor. In addition, my father left in my care some trust funds for a
claimant who also lived in Kansas. He is dead now, but I want to find
out something more definite concerning him. Outside of this, I hope to
do well here and to succeed to higher places elsewhere, soon. All this
personal to myself, and worthy, I hope.”

He looked at Fenneben, who was leaning forward with his elbow on the
table and his head bowed. His face was hidden and his white fingers were
thrust through the heavy masses of black hair.

“You will find a great field here in which to work out your success,”
 the Dean said at length. “But I must give a word of warning. I tried
once to reproduce the eastern university here. I learned better. If
Kansas is to be your training ground, may I say that the man who opens
his front door for the first time on the green prairies of the West has
no less to learn than the man who first pitches his tent beside the blue
Atlantic? Don't say I didn't show you where to find the blazed trail if
you get lost from it for a little while.”

Dr. Fenneben's face was charming when he smiled.

“One other thing I may mention. You know my niece, Elinor? I've been out
here so long, I may need your help in making her feel at home at first.”

There was a new light in Burgess's eyes at the mention of Elinor Wream's
name.

“Oh, yes, I know Miss Elinor very well. I shall need her more to make me
feel at home than she will need me.”

Somehow the answer was a trifle too quick and smooth to ring right. Dr.
Fenneben forgot it in an instant, however, for Elinor Wream herself came
suddenly into the room, a tall, slender girl, with a face so full of
sunshiny charm that no great defect of character had yet made its mark
there.

“I beg your pardon, Uncle Lloyd; I thought you were alone. How do you
do, Professor Burgess.” She came forward smilingly and offered her hand.
“Makes me homesick for old Cambridge and Uncle Joshua when I see you. I
want to go down to Lagonda Ledge, and I don't know the streets at all.
Don't you want to show me the way?”

“Can't you wait for me to do that, Norrie? I have only one more
engagement for the afternoon, and Miss Saxon will be wanting to dust in
here soon.” Dr. Fenneben looked fondly at his niece, a man to make other
men jealous, if occasion offered.

“Please don't, Miss Elinor,” Vincent Burgess urged. “I shall be
delighted to explore darkest Kansas with you at any time.”

“There is no mistaking that look in a man's eyes,” Dr. Fenneben thought
as he watched the two pass through the rotunda and out of the great
front door. “I have guessed Joshua's plan easily enough, but I've only
half guessed him out. Why did he mention his money matters to me? There
is enough merit in him worth the shaping Sunrise will give him, however,
and I must do a man's part, anyhow. As for Elinor, there's a ready-made
missionary field in her, so Joshua warns me. But he is a poor judge
sometimes. I wish I might have begun with her sooner. I cannot think she
is quite as mercenary as he represents her to be.”

Through the window he saw a pretty picture. Outlined against the dark
green cedars of the north angle was Professor Burgess, tall, slender,
fair of face, faultless in dress. Beside him was Elinor Wream, all
dainty and sweet and white, from the broad-brimmed hat set jauntily on
her dark hair to the white bows on the instep of her neat little canvas
shoes. A wave of loneliness swept over Dr. Fenneben's soul as he looked.

“It must have been a thousand years ago that I was in love and walked in
my Eden. There are no serpents here as there were in mine.”

Just then his eyes fell upon the wide stone landing of the campus steps.
At the same moment Elinor gave a scream of fright. A bull snake, big
and ugly, had crawled half out of the burned grasses of the slope and
stretched itself lazily in the sunshine along the warm stone. It roused
itself at the scream, emitting its hoarse hiss, after the manner of bull
snakes. Elinor clutched at her companion's arm, pale with fear.

“Kill it! Kill it!” she cried, trying to force her slender white parasol
into his hand.

Before he could move, Vic Burleigh leaped out from behind the cedars,
and, picking up a sharp-edged bit of limestone, tipped his hand
dexterously and sent it clean as a knife cut across the space. It struck
the snake just below the head, half severing it from the body. Another
leap and Burleigh had kicked the whole writhing mass--it would have
measured five feet--off the stone into the sunflower stalks and long
grasses of the steep slope.

“How did you ever dare?” Elinor asked.

“Oh, he's not poison; he just doesn't belong up here.”

The bluntness of timidity was in Vic's answer, but the strength and
musical depth of his resonant voice was almost startling.

“There is no Eden without a serpent, Miss Elinor,” Professor Burgess
said lightly.

“Nor a serpent without some sort of Eden built around it. The thing's
mate will be along after it pretty soon. Look out for it down there. The
best place to catch it is right behind its ears,” came the boy's quick
response.

Burleigh looked back defiantly at Burgess as he disappeared indoors. And
the antagonism born in the meeting of these two men in the morning took
on a tiny degree of strength in the afternoon.

“What a wonderful voice, Vincent. It makes one want to hear it again,”
 Elinor exclaimed.

“Yes, and what an overgrown pile of awkwardness. It makes one hope never
to see it again,” her companion responded.

“But he killed that snake in a way that looked expert to me,” Elinor
insisted.

“My dear Miss Elinor, he was probably born in some Kansas cabin and has
practiced killing snakes all his life. Not a very elevating feat. Let's
go down and explore Lagonda Ledge now before the other snake comes in
for the coroner's inquest.”

And the two passed down the stone steps to the shady level campus and on
to the town beyond it.

“You are hard on snakes, Burleigh,” Dr. Fenneben said as he welcomed the
country boy into his study. “A bull snake is a harmless creature, and he
is the farmer's friend.”

“Let him stay on the farm then. I hate him. He's no friend of mine,” Vic
replied.

He was overflowing the chair recently graced by Professor Burgess and
clutching his derby as if it might escape and leave him bareheaded
forever. His face had a dogged expression and his glance was stern. Yet
his direct words and the deep richness of his voice put him outside of
the class of commonplace beginners.

“Are you fond of killing things?” the Dean asked.

The ruddy color deepened in Vic Burleigh's brown cheek, but the
steadfast gaze of his eyes and the firm lines of his mouth told the
head of Sunrise something of what he would find in the sturdy young
Jayhawker.

“Sometimes,” came the blunt answer. “I've always lived on a Kansas
claim. Unless you know what that means you might not understand--how
hard a life”--Vic stopped abruptly and squeezed the rim of his derby.

“Never mind. We take only face value here. Fine view from that window,”
 and Lloyd Fenneben's genial smile began to win the heart of the country
boy as most young hearts were won to him.

Burleigh leaned toward the window, forgetful of the chair arms he had
striven to subdue, the late afternoon sunlight falling on his brown face
and glinting in his auburn hair.

“It's as pretty as paradise,” he said, simply. “There's nothing like our
Kansas prairies.”

“You come from the plains out west, I hear. How long do you plan to stay
here, Burleigh?” Dr. Fenneben asked.

“Four years if I can make it go. I've got a little schooling and I know
how to herd cattle. I need more than this, if I am only a country boy.”

“Who pays for your schooling, yourself, or your father?” Fenneben
queried.

“I have no father nor mother now.”

“You are willing to work four years to get a diploma from Sunrise? It is
hard work; all the harder if you have not had much schooling before it.”

“I'm willing to work, and I'd like to have the diploma for it,” Vic
answered.

“Burleigh, did you notice the letter S carved in the stone above the
door?”

“Yes, sir; I suppose it stands for Sunrise?”

“It does. But with the years it will take on new meanings for you.
When you have learned all these meanings you will be ready for your
diploma--and more. You will be far on your way to the winning of a
Master's Degree.”

Vic's eyes widened with a sort of child-like simplicity. He forgot his
hat and the chair arms, and Dr. Fenneben noted for the first time that
his golden-brown eyes matching his auburn hair were shaded by long black
lashes, the kind artists rave about, and arched over with black brows.

“His eyes and voice are all right,” was the Dean's mental comment.
“There's good blood in his veins, I'll wager.”

But before he could speak further the shrill scream of a frightened
child came from the campus below the ridge. At the cry Vic Burleigh
sprang to his feet, upsetting his chair, and without stopping to pick it
up, he rushed from the building.

As he tore down the long flight of steps, Lloyd Fenneben caught sight of
a child on the level campus running toward him as fast as its fat little
legs could toddle. Two minutes later Vic Burleigh was back in the study,
panting and hot, with the little one clinging to his neck.

“Excuse me, please,” Vic said as he lifted the fallen chair. “I
forgot all about Bug down there, and the widow Bull”--he gave a
half-smile--“was wriggling around trying to find her mate, and scared
him. He's too little to be left alone, anyhow.”

Bug was a sturdy, stubby three-year-old, or less, dimpled and brown,
with big dark eyes and a tangle of soft little red-brown ringlets. As
Vic seated himself, Bug perched on the arm of the chair inside of the
big boy's encircling arm.

“Who is your friend? Is he your brother?” asked the Dean.

“No. He's no relation. I don't know anything about him, except that his
name is Buler. Bug Buler, he says.”

Little Bug put up a chubby brown hand loving-wise to Vic Burleigh's
brown cheek, and, looking straight at Dr. Fenneben with wide serious
eyes, he asked,

“Is you dood to Vic?”

“Yes, indeed,” replied the Dean.

“Nen, I like you fornever,” Bug declared, shutting his lips so tightly
that his checks puffed.

“How do you happen to have this child here, Burleigh?” questioned
Fenneben.

“Because he's got nobody else to look after him,” answered Vic.

“How about an orphan asylum?”

Vic looked down at the little fellow cuddled against his arm, and every
feature of his stern face softened.

“Will it make any difference about him if I get my lessons, sir? I
can't let Bug go now. We are the limit for each other--neither of us
got anybody else. I take care of him, but he keeps me from getting too
coarse and rough. Every fellow needs something innocent and good about
him sometimes.”

“Oh, no! Keep him if you want him. But would you mind telling me about
him?”

“I'd rather not now,” Burleigh said, quietly, and Lloyd Fenneben knew
when to drop a subject.

“Then I'm through with you for today, Burleigh. I must let Miss Saxon
have my room now. Come here whenever you like, and bring Bug if you care
to.”

Sunrise students always left Dr. Fenneben's study with a little more
of self-respect than when they entered it; richer, not so much from the
word as from the spirit of the head of Sunrise. Victor Burleigh with
little Bug Buler's fat fist clasped in his big, hard hand walked out
of the college door that afternoon with the unconscious baptism of the
student upon him, the dim sense of a fellowship with a scholarly master
of books and of men.

Back in his study Lloyd Fenneben sat looking out once more at the Empire
that meant nothing but dreary distances to the scholarly professor of
Greek, and seemed a paradise to the untrained young fellow from the
prairies.

“I see my stint of cloth for the day,” he murmured. “A college professor
in the making who has much to unlearn; a crude young giant who is fond
of killing things, and cares for helpless children; and a beautiful,
wilful, characterless girl to be shown into her womanly heritage. The
clay is ready. It is the potter whose hands need skill. Victor Burleigh!
Victor Burleigh! There's my greatest problem of all three. He has the
strength of a Titan in those arms, and the passion of a tiger behind
those innocent yellow eyes. God keep me on the hilltop nor let my feet
once get into the dark and dangerous ways!”

He looked long at the landscape radiant under the level rays of splendor
streaming from the low afternoon sun.

“I wonder who built that fire, and what that pillar of smoke meant this
afternoon. The mystery of our lives hangs some token in each day.”

The shadows were gathering in the Walnut Valley, the pigeons about the
cottage up the river, were in their cotes now, the heat of the day was
over, and with one more look at the far peaceful prairies Dr. Lloyd
Fenneben closed his study door and passed out into the cool September
air.



CHAPTER III. PIGEON PLACE

 _Strange is the wind and the tide,
 The heavens eternally wide;
 Less fathomed, this life at my side_.
                    --W. H. SIMPSON

THE Sunrise rotunda was ringing with a chorus from three hundred throats
as three hundred students poured out of doors, and over-flowed the ridge
and spilled down the broad steps, making a babel of musical tongues;
while fitting itself to every catchy college air known to Sunrise came
the noisy refrain:


          Rah for Funnybone!
          Rah for Funnybone!
          Rah for Funnybone!
          _Rah!_ RAH! RAH!!!


Again it was repeated, swelling along the ridge and floating wide away
over the Walnut Valley. Nor was there a climax of exuberance until
the appearance of Dr. Lloyd Fenneben himself, with his tall figure
and striking presence outlined against the gray stone columns of the
veranda. All this because it was mid-October, a heaven-made autumn day
in Kansas, with its gracious warmth and bracing breath; with the Indian
summer haze in shimmering amethyst and gold overhanging the land; and
the Walnut Valley, gorgeous in the glow of the October frost-fires,
winding down between broad seas of rainbow-radiant prairies. And all
this gladness and grandeur, by the decree of Dr. Fenneben, was given
in fee simple to these three hundred young people for the hours of one
perfect day--their annual autumn holiday. No wonder they filled the
air with shouts. And before the singing had ceased the crowd broke into
groups by natural selection, and the holiday was begun.

Whatever bounds of time Nature may give to the seed in which to become
a plant, or to the grub to become a butterfly, there is no set limit
wherein the country-bred boy may bloom into a full-fledged college
student.

Seven weeks after Vic Burleigh had come alongside the Greek Professor
into Sunrise, found the quick marvelous change from the timid,
untrained, overgrown young giant into a leader of his clan, the pride of
the Freshman, the terror of the Sophomores, the dramatic interest of
the classroom, and the hope of Sunrise on the football gridiron. His
store-made clothes had a jaunty carelessness of fit. The tan had left
his cheek. His auburn hair had lost its sun-burn. His powerful physique,
the charm of his deep voice, the singular beauty of his wide open
golden-brown eyes, with their long black lashes lighting up his rugged
face, gave to him an attractive personality.

Yet to Lloyd Fenneben, who saw below the surface, Victor Burleigh was
only at the beginning of things. Something of the tiger light in the
brown eyes, the pride in brute strength, the blunt justice lacking the
finer sense of mercy, showed how wide yet was the distance between the
man and the gentleman.

When Dr. Fenneben returned to his study after the hilarious
demonstration he found Dennie Saxon busy with the little film of dust
that comes in overnight. Old Bond Saxon, Dennie's father, had been one
of the improvident of Lagonda Ledge who took a new lease on a livelihood
with the advent of Sunrise. From being a dissipated old fellow drifting
toward pauperism, he became the proprietor of a respectable boarding
house for students, doing average well. At rare intervals, however, he
lapsed into his old ways. During such occasions he kept to the river
side of the town. Sober, he was good-natured and obliging; drunken, he
was sullen, with a disposition to skulk out of sight and be alone. His
daughter Dennie had her father's good-nature combined with a will power
all her own.

As Dr. Fenneben watched her about her work this morning, he noted
how comfortably she took hold of it. He noted, too, that her heavy
yellow-brown hair was full of ripples just where ripples helped, that
her arms were plump, that she was short and nothing willowy, and that
she had a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

“Why don't you take a holiday, Miss Dennie?” he asked, presently.

“I wanted this done so I wouldn't be seeing dusty books in my
daydreams,” Dennie answered.

“Where do you do your dreaming today?”

“A crowd of us are going down the river to the Kickapoo Corral. I must
make the cakes yet this morning,” she answered.

“Good enough Can't I do something for you? Do you need a chaperon?” the
Dean queried, smilingly.

“Professor Burgess is to be our chaperon. He is all we can look after.”
 Dennie's gray eyes danced, but she was serious a moment later.

“Dr. Fenneben, you can do something, maybe, that's none of your
business, nor mine.” Dennie wondered afterward how she could have had
the courage to speak these words.

“That's generally the easy thing. What is it?” the Dean smiled.

The girl hung her feather brush in its place and sat down opposite to
him.

“Do you know anything about Pigeon Place?” she began.

“The little place up the river where a queer, half-crazy woman lives
alone with a fierce dog?” he asked.

“Yes, you never heard anything more?” Dennie queried.

“Only that the house is hidden from the road and has many pigeons about
it, and that the woman sees few callers. I've never located the place.
Tell me about it,” he replied.

“Bug Buler and I were up there after eggs this morning. Bug is Victor
Burleigh's little boy. They board at our house,” Dennie explained.
“Pigeon Place is a little cottage all covered with vines and with
flowers everywhere. It's hidden away from the road just outside of town.
Mrs. Marian isn't crazy nor queer, only she seldom leaves home, never
goes to church, nor visits anywhere. She doesn't care for anybody, nor
take any interest in Lagonda Ledge, and she keeps a Great Dane dog, as
big as a calf, that is friendly to women and children, but won't let a
man come near, unless Mrs. Marian says so.” Dennie paused.

“Very interesting, Miss Dennie, but what can I do?” Fenneben asked.
“Shall I kill the dog and carry off the woman like the regulation grim
ogre of the fairy tales?”

Dennie hesitated. Few girls would have come to a college president on
such a mission as hers. But then few college presidents are like Lloyd
Fenneben.

“Of course nobody likes Mrs. Marian, and my father--when he's not quite
himself--says dreadful things if I mention her name.” Dennie's checks
were crimson as she thought of her father. “It's none of my business,
but I've felt sorry for Mrs. Marian ever since she came here. She seems
like an innocent outcast.”

“That is very pitiful.” Lloyd Fenneben's voice was sympathetic.

“This morning,” continued Dennie, “Bug was playing with the dog outside,
and I went into the house for the first time. Mrs. Marian is very
pleasant. She asked me about my work here and I told her about Sunrise
and you, and your niece, Miss Elinor, being here.”

“All the interesting features. Did you mention Professor Burgess?” The
query was innocently meant, but it brought the color to Dennie Saxon's
cheek.

“No, I didn't think he was in that class,” she replied, quickly. “But
what surprised me was her interest in things. She is a pretty, refined,
young-looking woman, with gray hair. When I was leaving I turned back
to ask about some eggs for Saturday. She thought I was gone, and she had
dropped her head on the table and was crying, so I slipped out without
her knowing.” Dennie's gray eyes were full of tears now. “Dr. Fenneben,
if talking about Sunrise made her do that, maybe you might do something
for her. I pity her so. Nobody seems to care about her. My father is
set against her when he is not responsible, and he might--” She stopped
abruptly and did not finish the sentence.

The Dean looked out of the window at the purple mist melting along the
horizon line. Down in the valley pigeons were circling above a wooded
spot at a bend in the Walnut River. Fenneben remembered now that he had
seen them there many times. He had a boyhood memory of a country home
with pigeons flying about it.

“I wish, too, that I might do something,” he said at last. “You say she
will not let men inside her gate now. I'll keep her in mind, though. The
gate may open some time.”

It was mid-afternoon when Lloyd Fenneben left his study for a stroll. As
he approached the Saxon House, he saw old Bond Saxon slipping out of the
side gate and with uncertain steps skulk down the alley.

“Poor old sinner! What a slave and a fool whisky can make of a man!” he
thought. Then he remembered Dennie's anxiety of the morning. “There must
be some cause for his prejudice against this strange hermit woman when
he is drunk. Bond Saxon is not a man to hate anybody when he is sober.”

“Is you Don Fonnybone?” Bug Buler's little piping voice from the
doorstep haled the Dean. “I finked Vic would turn, and he don't turn,
and I 's hungry for somebody. May I go wis you, Don Fonnybone?” The baby
lips quivered.

Lloyd Fenneben held out his hand and Bug put his little fist into it.

“Where shall we go, Bug? I 'm hungry for somebody, too.”

“Let's do find the bunny the bid dod ist scared away this morning. Turn
on!”

Lloyd Fenneben was hardly conscious that Bug was choosing their path
as the two strolled away together. Everywhere there was the pathos of a
waning autumn day, and a soft haze creeping out of the west was making a
blood-red carbuncle of the sun, set as a jewel on the amber-veiled bosom
of the sky. The air was soft, wooing the spirit to a still, sweet peace.
The two were at the outskirts of Lagonda Ledge now. The last board walk
was three blocks back, and the cinder-made way had dwindled to a bare
hard path by the roadside. A bend in the river cutting close to the road
shows a long vista of the Walnut bordered by vine-draped shrubbery and
overhung with trees. A slab of limestone beside a huge elm tree had
been placed at this bend to prevent the bank from breaking, or a chance
misdriving into the water.

“I 's pitty tired,” Bug said as the two reached the stone. “Will we tum
to the bunny's house pitty soon?”

“We'll rest here a while and maybe the bunny will come out to meet us,”
 Dr. Fenneben said, and they sat down on the broad stone.

“It was somewhere here the bunny runned.” Little Bug studied the
roadside with a quaint puzzled face. “Is you 'faid of snakes?”

“Not very much.” The Dean's eyes were on the graceful flight of pigeons
circling about the trees beyond the bend.

“Vic isn't 'faid. He killed bid one, two, five, free wattle, wattle
snakes--” Bug caught his breath suddenly--“He told me not to tell that.
I fordot. I don't 'member. He didn't do it--he didn't killed no snakes
fornever.”

Dr. Fenneben gave little heed to this prattle. His eyes were on the
pigeons cleaving the air with short, graceful flights. Presently he felt
the soft touch of baby curls against his hand, and little Bug had fallen
asleep with his drooping head on Fenneben's lap.

The Dean gently placed the tired little one in an easy position, and
rested his shoulder against the tree.

“That must be Pigeon Place,” he mused. “Every town has its odd
characters. This is one of Lagonda Ledge's little mysteries. Dennie
finds it a pathetic one. How graceful those pigeons are!” And his
thoughts drifted to a far New England homestead where pigeons used to
sweep about an old barn roof.

A fuzzy gray rabbit flashed across the road, followed by a Great Dane
dog in hot chase.

“Bug's bunny! I hope the big murderer will miss it,” Fenneben thought.

The roadside bushes half hid him. As the crashing sound of the huge dog
through the underbrush ceased he noticed a woman coming leisurely toward
him. Her arms were full of bitter-sweet berries and flaming autumn
leaves. She wore no hat and Fenneben saw that her gray hair was wound
like a coronal about her head. Before he could catch sight of her face a
heavy staggering step was beside him, and old Bond Saxon, muttering and
shaking his clenched fists, passed beyond him toward the woman. Lloyd
Fenneben's own fists clenched, but he sat stone still. The woman seemed
to melt into the bushes and obliterate herself entirely, while the
drunken man stalked unsteadily on toward where she had been. Then
shaking his fists vehemently at the pigeons, he skulked around the bend
in the road.

As soon as he was out of sight the woman emerged from the bushes, with
autumn leaves hiding her crown of hair. She hastened a few rods toward
the man watching her, then disappeared through a vine-covered gateway
into a wilderness of shrubbery, beyond which the pigeons were cooing
about their cotes.

As she closed the gate, she caught sight of Lloyd Fenneben, leaning
motionless against the gray bole of the elm tree. But she was looking
through a tangle of purple oak leaves and twining bitter-sweet branches,
and Fenneben was unconscious of being discovered.

“A woman never could whistle,” he smiled, as he listened, “but that call
seems to do for the dog, all right.”

The Great Dane was tearing across lots in answer to the trill of a
woman's voice.

“She is safe now. But what does it all mean? Is there a wayside tragedy
here that calls for my unraveling?”

Attracted by some subtle force beyond his power to check, he turned
toward the river and looked steadily at the still overhanging shrubbery.
Just below him, where the current turns, the quiet waters were lapping
about a ledge of rock. Between that ledge and himself a tangle of bushes
clutched the steep bank. He looked straight into the tangle, just plain
twig and brown leaf, giving place as he stared, for two still black
human eyes looking balefully at him as a snake at its prey. Lloyd
Fenneben could not withdraw his gaze. The two eyes--no other human token
visible--just two cruel human eyes full of human hate were fixed on him.
And the fascination of the thing was paralyzing, horrible. He could not
move nor utter a sound. Bug Buler woke with a little cry. The bushes by
the riverside just rippled--one quiver of motion--and the eyes were not
there. Then Fenneben knew that his heart, which had been still for an
age, had begun to beat again. Bug stared up into his face, dazed from
sleep.

“Where's my Vic? Who's dot me?” he cried.

“We came to hunt the bunny. He's gone away again. Shall we go back
home?” The gentle voice and strong hand soothed the little one.

“It's dettin' told. Let's wun home.” Bug cuddled against Fenneben's side
and hugged his hand. “I love you lots,” he said, looking up with eyes of
innocent trust.

“Yes, let's run home. There is a storm in the air and the sun is hidden
from the valley.” He stooped and kissed the little upturned face. “Thank
heaven for children!” he murmured. “Amid skulking, drunken men and
strange, lonely women, and cruel eyes of unknown beings, they lead us
loving-wise back home again.”

Behind the vine-covered gate a gray-haired, fair-faced woman watched the
two as they disappeared down the road.

And the blood-red sun out on the west prairie sank swiftly into a blue
cloudbank, presaging the coming of a storm.



CHAPTER IV. THE KICKAPOO CORRAL

 _And even now, as the night comes, and the shadows
     gather round,
 And you tell the old-time story, I can almost hear
     the sound
 Of the horses' hoofs in the silence, and the voices of
     struggling men;
 For the night is the same forever, and the time
     comes back again_.
                         --JAMES W. STEELE

FROM the beginning of things in the Walnut Valley, the Kickapoo Corral
had its uses. Nature built it to this end. The river course follows the
pattern of the letter S faced westward instead of eastward. The upper
half of the letter is properly shaped, but the sharpened curve at the
middle leaves only a narrow distance across the lower space. In this
outline runs the Walnut, its upper curve almost surrounding a little
wooded peninsula that slopes gently on its side to the water's edge. But
the farther bank stands up in a straight limestone bluff forming a high
wall of protection about the river-encircled ground. A less severe bluff
crosses the open part of the peninsula, reaching the hither side of
the river below the sharp bend. The space inside, stone-walled and
water-bound, made an ideal shelter for the wild life that should inhabit
it. And Nature saw that it was good and went away and left it, not
forgetting to lock the door upon it. For the enemy who would enter this
protecting shelter must come through the gateway of the river. There
was only one right place to do this. Deceivingly near to the shallow
rock-based ford before the Corral, so near that only the wise ones knew
how to miss it, Nature placed the cruelest whirlpool that ever swung an
even surface up stream, its gentle motion telling nothing of the
fatal suction underneath that level stretch of steady, slow moving,
irresistible water.

What use the primitive tribes made of this spot the river has
never told. But in the day of the Kickapoo supremacy it came to its
christening. Here the tribe found a refuge and harbored its stolen
plunder. From this wooded covert it sent its death-singing arrows
through the heart of its enemy who dared to stand in relief on that
stone bluff. Here it laughed at the drowning cries of those who were
caught in the fatal whirlpool beyond the curve in the river wall, and
here it endured siege and slaughter when foes were valiant enough, and
numerous enough to storm into its stronghold over the dead bodies of
their own vanguard.

Weird and tragical are the legends of the Kickapoo Corral, left for a
stronger race to marvel over. For, with the swing of time, the white man
cut a road down the steep bluff at the sharpest bend and made a ford
in the shallow place between the whirlpool and the old Corral, and the
Nature-built stockade became a peaceful spot, specially ordained by
Providence, the Sunrise Freshmen claimed, as a picnic ground for their
autumn holiday. At least the young folk for whom Professor Burgess was
acting as chaperon took it so, and reveled in the right.

Interest in Greek had greatly increased in Sunrise with the advent of
the handsome young Harvard man, and his desired seclusion for profound
research had not yet been fully realized. Types for study were
plentiful, however, especially the type of the presumptuous young fellow
who dared to admire Elinor Wream. By divine right she was the most
popular girl in Sunrise, which pleased Professor Burgess up to a certain
point. That point was Victor Burleigh. The silent antagonism between
these two daily grew stronger; why, neither one could have told up to
this holiday.

The day had been perfect--the weather, the dinner, the company, the
woodland--even the amber light in the sky softening the glow as the
afternoon slipped down toward twilight in the sheltered old Corral.

“Come, Vic Burleigh, help me to start this fire for supper,” Dennie
Saxon called. “We won't get our coffee and ham and eggs ready before
midnight.”

“Here, Trench, or some of you fellows, get busy,” Vic called back to the
big right guard of the Sunrise football squad. “Elinor and I are going
to climb the west bluff to see what's the matter with the sun. It looks
sick. I've been hired man all day; carried nineteen girls across the
shallows, packed all the lunch-baskets, toted all the wood, built all
the fires, washed all the dishes--”

“Ate all the dinner, drank all the grape juice, stepped on all the
custard pies, upset all the cream bottles. Oh, you piker, get out!”
 Trench aimed an empty lunch-basket at Vic's head with the words.

Being a chaperon was a pleasant office to Professor Burgess today but
for the task of throwing a barrier about Elinor every time Vic Burleigh
came near. And Burleigh, lacking many other things more than insight,
kept him busy at barrier building.

“Miss Wream, you can't think of climbing that rough place,” Burgess
protested, with a sharp glance of resentment at the big young fellow who
dared to call her Elinor.

The tiger-light blazed in the eyes that flashed back at him, as Vic
cried daringly.

“Oh, come on, Elinor; be a good Indian!”

“Don't do it, Miss Wream,” Vincent Burgess pleaded.

Elinor looked from the one to the other, and the very magnetism of power
called her.

“I mean to try, anyhow,” she declared. “Will you pick me up if I fall,
Victor?”

“Well, I wouldn't hardly go away and leave you to perish miserably,” Vic
assured her, and they were off together.

The Wream men were slender, and all of them, except Lloyd Fenneben, the
stepbrother, wore nose glasses and drank hot water at breakfast, and ate
predigested foods, and talked of acids and carbons, and took prescribed
gestures for exercise. The joyousness of perfect health was in every
motion of this young man. His brown sweater showed a hard white throat.
He planted his feet firmly. And he leaped up the bluffside easily. If
Elinor slipped, the strength of his grip on her arm reassured her, until
climbing beside him became a joy.

The bluff was less surly than it appeared to be down in the Corral, and
the benediction of autumn was in the view from its crest. They sat
down on the stone ledge crowning it, and Elinor threw aside her jaunty
scarlet outing cap. The breezes played in her dark hair, and her cheeks
were pink from the exercise. Victor Burleigh looked at her with frank,
wide-open eyes.

“What's the matter? Is my hair a fright?” she murmured.

“A fright!” Burleigh flung off his cap and ran his fingers through his
own hair. “Not what I call a fright,” he asserted in an even tone.

“What's that scar on your left arm? It looks like a little hole dug
out,” Elinor declared.

Vic's brown sweater sleeve was pushed up to the elbow.

“It is a little hole I put in where I dug out the flesh with a pocket
knife,” he replied, carelessly.

“Did you do that yourself?” Elinor cried. “What made you be so cruel?”

“I wasn't so cruel. 'I seen my duty and I done it noble,' as the essay
runs. I made that vacancy to get ahead of a rattlesnake that got me
there, a venomous big one with nine police calls on its tail, and that's
no snake story, either. I cut the flesh out to get rid of the poison.
I was n't in a college laboratory and I had to work fast and use what
tools I had with me. I killed the gentleman that did the mischief,
though,” Vic added carelessly, deftly slipping down his sleeve as if to
change the subject.

“Oh, tell me about it, do,” Elinor urged. “You were killing a snake the
first time I saw you.”

How dainty and sweet she was sitting there in her neat-fitting outing
suit of dark gray with scarlet pipings and buttons and pocket flaps,
and the scarlet of her full lips, and the coral tint of her cheeks, the
white hands and white throat and brow, the dark eyes and finely shaped
head with abundant beautiful hair.

Vic Burleigh sat looking straight at her and the light in his own eyes
told nothing of the glitter that had flashed in them when he glared at
Professor Burgess down in the Corral.

“I wasn't killing snakes. I was looking up at a girl on the rotunda
stairs the first time,” he said, “and I don't want to tell about this
scar, because I've wished a thousand times to forget it. See how much
darker it is down there than it is up here.”

The shadows were lengthening in the Corral where the supper fires were
gleaming. Across the low bluff the imprisoned sun was sending a dull red
glow along the waters of the Walnut.

“Look at that still place in the river, Victor. The ripples are all on
the farther side,” Elinor said, looking pensively downstream.

“Watch it a minute. Do you see that bit of drift coming upstream in the
still water?” Vic asked.

“Why, the water does move; toward us, too, instead of down the river.
I'd like to boat around in that quiet place.”

She was leaning forward, resting her chin in her hand. In outline
against the misty background shot through with the crimson light from
the storm-smothered sun, with the gray shadows of the old Kickapoo
Corral below them, hemmed in by the silver gleaming waters of the
Walnut, a picture grew up before Victor Burleigh's eyes that he was
never to forget. Like the cleft of the lightning through the cloud, like
the flash of the swallow's wing, the careless-hearted boy leaped to
the stature of a man, into whose soul the love of a lifetime is born.
Unconsciously, he drew away from her, and long afterward she recalled
the sweetness of his deep voice when he spoke again.

“Elinor Wream, I'd rather see you helpless up here with the hungriest
wild beast between us that ever tore a human form to pieces than to see
you in that quiet water below the shallows.”

“Why?” Elinor looked up into his face.

“Because I could save your life here, maybe, even if I lost mine. Down
there I could drown for you, but that would n't save you. Nobody
ever swam that whirlpool and lived to tell about it. There's a ledge
underneath that holds down what the infernal slow suction swallows. But
it's dead sure.”

“Why, that's awful,” Elinor said, lightly, for she had no picture of him
engulfed in the slow-moving treachery below them.

“There's an old Indian legend about that pool,” Vic said, staring down
at the water.

“Tell me about it.” Elinor was breaking the twigs from a branch of
buck-berry growing beside her.

“Oh, it's a tragical one, like everything else about that place,” Vic
responded, grimly. “Old Lagonda, Chief of the Wahoos, I reckon, I don't
know his tribe, did n't want to give up this valley to the sons and
heirs of Sunrise to desecrate with salmon cans and pop bottles and
Harvard-turned chaperons. He held out against putting his multiplication
sign to the treaty, claiming that land was like water and air and could
n't be bought and sold. But the white men with true missionary courtesy
held his head under water till he burbled 'Nuff,' and signed up with
a piece of charcoal. Then he went down the river to this smooth-faced
whirlpool, and laid a curse on the sons of men who had taken his own
from him.”

The twilight had deepened. The sun was lost in the cloudbank out of
which a hot wind was sweeping eastward. Vic was telling the story well,
and the magnetism of his voice was compelling. Elinor drew nearer to
him.

“What was the curse? I would n't want to go near that place, unless you
were with me.”

The very innocence of the words put a thrill in Vic Burleigh's every
pulse beat.

“Don't ever do it, if you can help it.” Vic could not keep back the
words. “Old Lagonda decreed a tribute to the river for the wrong done to
him, a life a year in that pool. And the Walnut has been exacting in its
rights. Life after life has gone out down there until sometimes it seems
like the old chief's curse would never be lifted.”

“I hope it may be, while I am at Sunrise, anyhow,” Elinor said. “I don't
like real tragedies about me. I like an easy, comfortable life, and
everybody good and happy. I hope the curse will be staid until I go back
home.”

Vic hadn't thought of this. Of course, she would leave Sunrise
some time. Her home was in Cambridge-by-the-Sea, not on the
Prairie-by-the-Walnut. She belonged to the dead-language scholars, not
to crude red-blooded creatures like himself. He turned his face to the
west and the threatening sky seemed in harmony with his storm-riven
soul. He was so young--less than half an hour older than the big
whole-hearted fellow who started up the bluff in picnic frolic with a
pretty girl whom Professor Burgess adored. That was one reason why he
had brought her up. He wanted to tease the Professor then. He hated
Burgess now, and the white teeth clinched at the thought of him.

A sudden shouting and beating of tom-toms down in the Corral, and the
call in crude rhyme to straggling couples to close in, announced supper.
High above other whooping the voice of Trench, the big right guard,
reached the top of the bluff:

 Victor Burleigh and Elinor Wream,
 Better wake from Love's Young Dream,
 Before the ants get into the cream.

The beating of a dishpan drowned the chorus. Then down by the river
Dennie's soprano streamed out,

 The sun is sot,
 The coffee's hot,
 The supper's got.
          What?
     Yes! Got!


Answering this call from the north end of the Corral, a heavy base
growled,

 Dennie is sad,
 The eggs are bad;
 The Professor's mad
 At a College lad.
 Burleigh! Burly! Burlee!
 Come home! Come home! Come home!


“The Kickapoos are on the warpath. Let's go down and get into the
running.”

Vic lifted Elinor to her feet with a sort of reverence in his touch. But
she did not note that it was otherwise than the good-natured grip of the
comrade who had helped her up the steep places half an hour ago.

Descent was more difficult, and it was growing dark rapidly. Vic held
her arm to keep her from falling, and once on a sliding rock, he had to
catch both of her hands, and half-lift her to solid footing. Her shining
eyes, starbright in the gloom, the dainty rose hue of her cheeks, the
touch of her soft white hands, and her need for his strength, made the
shadowy path delicious for her companion.

The call of the wild was in that evening camp in the autumn woodland,
in the charm of the deepening twilight warmed with the red glow of the
fires, in the appetizing odor of coffee, the unconventional freedom,
the carelessness of youth, the jolly good-fellowship of comrades. To
Professor Burgess it had the added charm of newness. All the pleasures
of popularity were his this evening, for he was young himself, he
dressed well, and he had the grace of a gentleman. The enjoyment of the
day gave him a thrill of surprise. He was already dropping the viewpoint
of Dr. Joshua Wream for Dean Fenneben's angle of vision. And in these
picturesque surroundings he forgot about the weather and the prudence of
getting home early.

“Throw that log on the fire, Vic. It begins to look spooky back
here. I've just had my ear to the ground and I heard an awful roaring
somewhere.” Trench, who had been sprawling lazily in the shadows, now
declared, “Say, I'd hate to be penned into this place so I couldn't get
out. There's no skinning up that rock wall even if a fellow could swim
the river, and I can't,” and the big guard stretched himself on the
ground again.

“What's that old story about the Kickapoos here?” somebody asked.
“Dennie Saxon knows it. Tell us about it, Dennie, AND THEN WE'LL ALL GO
HOME.” The last words were half-sung.

“Be swift, Dennie, be quite swift. I heard that noise again. I'm afraid
it's a stampede of wild horses.” Trench, who had had his ear to the
ground, sat up suddenly. But nobody paid any attention to him.

“Come, Denmark Saxon, let's close the day in song and story. You tell
the story and then I'll sing the song,” somebody declared.

“Aw-w-w!” a prolonged chorus. “Make your story long, Dennie; make it
lengthy.”

“Don't you do it, Dennie. I tell you this ground is shaking. I feel it,”
 Trench insisted.

“Say, who's got the bromo-seltzer? The right guard's supper is n't
treating him right. Go ahead, Dennie,” the crowd urged.

They were all in a circle about the fire. Its flickering glow lighted
Vic Burleigh's rugged face, and gleamed in his auburn hair. Elinor sat
between him and Vincent Burgess. Dennie was just beyond Vincent, who
noted incidentally the play of light and shadow on the blowsy ripples of
her hair that night and remembered it all on a day long afterward.

“Once upon a time,” Dennie began,

there was a beautiful Kickapoo Indian maiden--”

“Yep, any Kickapoo's a beaut. Hurry up, Dennie. I hear something
coming.” It was the big lazy guard again.

“Oh! Vic Burleigh, sit on his prostrate form. Go on, Dennie,” the
company insisted, and she continued.

“Her name was The Fawn of the Morning Light, her best lover was Swift
Elk.”

“You be Mrs. Swift Elk--” but Vic Burleigh's arm about Trench's throat
choked his words.

“And there was a wily Sioux, named Red Fox, who loved the Fawn and
wanted her to marry him. She wouldn't do it. The Kickapoos were heap-big
grafters, and they had this old Corral full of ponies and junk they had
relieved other tribes of caring for. And the only way to get in here,
besides falling over the bluff and becoming a pin-cushion for poisoned
arrows, was to come in by the shallows in the river where the ford is
now above old Lagonda's pool, and most Indians needed a diagram for
that.” Although Dennie spoke lightly, she shuddered a little at the
thought, and the whole company grew graver.

“An Indian doesn't forget. So, Red Fox, who had sworn to have The
Fawn, came down here with hundreds of Sioux who wanted the ponies the
Kickapoos had stolen, as Red Fox wanted Swift Elk's girl. The Kickapoos
wouldn't give up the ponies and Swift Elk wouldn't give up The Fawn. So
the siege began. Right where we are so safe and peaceful tonight those
Kickapoos fought, and starved, and died, while the Sioux kept cruel
watch on the top of that old stone ledge, never letting one escape. At
last, after hours and hours of siege, The Fawn and Swift Elk decided to
escape by the river in the night. A storm had come on suddenly, and
a cloudburst up the Walnut was sending a perfect surge of water down
around the bend. The two lovers were caught in its sweep and carried
beyond the shallows when a flash of lightning showed them to Red Fox
watching on the bluff up there. At the next flash he sent an arrow
straight through Swift Elk's body and into The Fawn's shoulder, pinning
the two together. The Sioux leaped into the stream to save the girl he
loved, but the heavy current swept them toward the whirlpool, and before
they could prevent the dying and wounded and rescuing were all caught
by the fatal suction. Then the Sioux warriors rushed in from all sides,
upstream, down the bluff from west prairie, and over the Corral, and
slaughtered every Kickapoo here. Their fierce yells and the shrieks of
the squaws and pappooses, the pounding of horses' hoofs in the stampede
of hundreds of ponies, the roar of the river, the wrath of the storm
made a scene this old Corral will never see again.” Dennie paused.

“I think I hear something like it, right now,” came Trench's
irrepressible voice from the shadows in the edge of the circle. But
nobody heeded it.

And all the while from far across the west prairie the stormcloud was
rolling in, black and angry, blowing its hot breath before it, while
from a cloudburst upstream an hour before a great surge of water was
rushing down the Walnut, turning the quiet river to a murderous flood.
But the high walls hid all this from the valley and the heedless young
folk took the full time limit of their holiday in the sheltering gloom
of the old Kickapoo Corral.



CHAPTER V. THE STORM

 _Rock and moan, and roar alone,
 And the dread of some nameless thing unknown_.
                         --LOWELL

THE silence following Dennie's story was broken by a sudden peal of
thunder overhead. At the same instant the blackness of midnight
lifted itself above the stone ledges and dropped down upon the Corral,
smothering everything in darkness. A rushing whirlwind, a lurid blaze
of lightning, and a second peal of thunder threw the camp into blind
disorder. In the minute's lull following the first storm herald, there
was a wild scrambling for wraps and lunch baskets. Then the darkness
thickened and the storm's fury burst upon the crowd--a mad lashing
of bending tree tops, a blinding whirl of dust filling the air, the
thunder's terrific cannonade, the incessant blaze of lightning, the
rattling of the distant rain; and above all these, unlike them all, a
steady, dreadful roaring, coming nearer each moment.

Professor Burgess was no coward, but he had little power of generalship.
As the crowd huddled together under the swaying trees, Trench called to
Burleigh:

“There's been a cloudburst up stream. The roar I've been hearing is a
wall of water coming down. We've got to get out of this.”

Then above all the crashing and booming they heard Vic Burleigh's voice:

“Every fellow take a girl and run for the ford. Come on!”

In the darkness, each boy caught the arm of the girl nearest him and
made a dash for the ford. A flash of lightning showed Burleigh that the
white-faced girl clinging to his arm was Elinor Wream. After that, the
storm was a plaything for him.

The first to reach the ford were Vincent Burgess and Dennie Saxon.
Dennie was sure-footed and she knew by instinct where to find the
shallows. But the river was rising rapidly and the waters were black and
angry under the lightning's glitter. As the crowd held back Vic shouted:

“You'll have to wade. It's not very deep yet. Professor, you must cross
first, and count 'em as they come. Go quick! One at a time. The way
is narrow. And for God's sake, keep to the upper side of the shallows.
Stand in the middle, Trench, and don't let them get down stream below
you.”

They were all safely across except Vic and Elinor, when Trench cried
out:

“Send your girl in quick, Burleigh, and you run west. The flood is at
the bend now. Hurry!”

“Run in, Elinor. Trench will take you through, and I'll follow, for I
can swim and he can't. I'll be right behind you. Run!”

A vision of the whirlpool and of Swift Elk and The Fawn flashed into
Elinor's mind, filling her with terror. Before Vic could push her
forward, Trench shouted:

“It's too late. Don't try it. I've got to run.”

He was strong and sure-footed and he fought his way gallantly to the
further side as a great wave swirled around the curve of the river,
engulfing the shallows in its mad surge. When he reached the east bank
the count of the company numbered all but two.

“It's Vic and Elinor,” Trench declared. “Vic wouldn't come till the
last, and Elinor was too dead scared to trust anybody else, I guess.
Nobody could cross there now, Professor. But Vic is as strong as an
ox and he's not afraid of the devil. He'll keep both their heads above
water. He wants to win out in the Thanksgiving game too much to get lost
now. Trust him to get up the bluff some way, and back to town by the
Main street bridge like as not, before we get there. There's no shelter
between here and Lagonda Ledge. Let's all cut for it before the rain
beats us into the mud.”

The deluge was just beginning, so, safe, but wet, and mud-smeared,
fighting wind and rain and darkness, taking it all as a jolly lark,
although they had slidden into safety but a hand's breadth in front of
death, the couples straggled back to town.

Vincent Burgess, anxious, angry, and jealous, found an unconscious
comfort in Dennie Saxon in that homeward struggle. She was so capable
and cheery that he forgot a little the girl who had as surely drawn him
Kansas-ward as his interest in types and geographical breadth had done.
It dimly entered his consciousness, as he told Dennie good-bye, that
maybe she had been the most desirable companion of the crowd on such a
night as this. He knew, at least, that he would have shown Elinor much
more attention than he had shown to Dennie, and he knew that Elinor
would have required it of him.

The light from the hall was streaming across the veranda of the Saxon
House, a beam as faithful and friendly at the border of the lower campus
as the bigger beacon in the college turret up on the lime-stone ridge.
As Burgess started away the worst deluge of the night fell out of the
sky, so he dropped down on a seat to wait for the downpour to weaken.
He was very tired and his mind was feverishly busy. Where could Burleigh
and Elinor be now? What dangers might threaten them? What ill might
befall Elinor from exposure to this beating storm? He was frantic with
the thought. Then he recalled Dennie, the girl who was working her
way through college, whom he--Professor Vincent Burgess, A.B., from
Harvard--had escorted home. How cheap Kansas was making him. The boys
and girls had taken Dennie as one of them today; and truly, she did add
to the comfort and pleasure of the outing. It seemed all right down in
the woods where all was unconventional. But now, alone, in how common a
grade he seemed to have placed himself, to be forced to pay attention to
the poorest girl in school. His cheeks grew hot at the very thought of
it.

In the shadows, beyond him, a form straightened up stupidly:

“Shay, Profesh Burgush, that you?”

Dennie's father, half-drunken still! Oh, Shades of classic culture! To
what depths in social contact may a college man fall in this wretched
land!

“Shay! Is't you, or ain't it you? You gonna tell me?” Old Bond queried.

“This is Vincent Burgess,” the young man replied.

“Dennie home?” the father asked.

“Yes, sir,” came the curt answer.

“Who? Who bring her home? Vic Burleigh?”

“I brought her home. She is a good girl, too.”

In spite of himself, Burgess resented the shame of such a father for the
capable, happy-spirited daughter.

“Yesh, Dennie's good girl, all right.”

Then a silence fell.

Presently, the old man spoke again.

“Shay, Prof esh, 'd ye mind doin' somethin' for me?”

“What is it?” Burgess was by nature courteous.

“If anything sh'd ever happen to me, 'd you take care of Dennie? Shay,
would you?”

“If I could do anything for her, I would do it,” the young man replied.

“Somethin' gonna happen to me. I ain't shafe. I know I'll go that way.
But you'll be good to Dennie. Now, wouldn't you? I'd ask Funnybone, but
he's no shafer 'n I am. No shafer! You'll be good to Dennie, you said
so. Shay it again!”

Bond was standing now bending threateningly toward Burgess, who had also
risen.

“I'll do all that a gentleman ought to do.” He had only one thought--to
pacify the drunken man and get away. And the old man understood.

“Shwear it, I tell you! Lif' up your right hand an'--an' shwear to take
care of Dennie, or I'll kill you!” Bond insisted.

He was a large, muscular man, towering over the slender young professor
like a very giant, and in his eyes there was a cruel gleam. Vincent
Burgess was at the limit of mental resistance. Lifting his shapely right
hand in the shadowy light, he said wearily:

“I swear it!”

“One more question, and you may go. You know that little boy Vic
Burleigh takes care of here?”

The Professor had heard of him.

“Vic keeps that little boy all right. He don't complain none. S'pose you
help me watch um, Profesh.” Then as an afterthought, Saxon added: “Young
woman livin' out north of town. Pretty woman. She don't know nothing
'bout that little boy. Now, honest, she don't. Lives all by herself with
a big dog.”

Jealousy is an ugly, suspicious beast. Vincent Burgess was no worse than
many other men would have been, because his mind leaped to the meaning
old Saxon's words might carry. And this was the man with Elinor in the
darkness and the storm. Before Burgess could think clearly, Saxon came a
step nearer.

“Shay, where's Vic tonight?”

“Across the river with Miss Wream. They were cut off by the deep water,”
 Vincent answered.

A quick change from drunkenness to sober sense leaped into Bond Saxon's
eyes.

“Across the river! Great God!” Then sternly, with a grim set of jaw, he
commanded: “You go home! If you dare to say a word, I'll kill you. If
you try to follow me, he'll kill you. Go home! I 'm going over there, if
I die for it.” And the darkness and rain swallowed him as he leaped away
to the westward!

Burgess gazed into the blackness into which Bond Saxon had gone until a
soft hand touched his, and he looked down to see little Bug Buler, clad
in his nightgown, standing barefoot beside him.

“Where's Vic?” Bug demanded.

“I don't know,” Burgess answered.

“Take me up, I'se told.” Bug stretched up his arms appealingly, and
Burgess, who knew nothing of babies, awkwardly lifted him up.

“Tuddle me tlose like Vic do,” and the little one snuggled lovingly in
the Professor's embrace. “Your toat's wet. Is Vic wet, too?”

“Yes, little boy. We are all in trouble tonight.” Burgess had to say
something.

“In twouble? Umph--humph!” Bug shut his lips tightly, puffing out his
cheeks, as was his habit. “I was in twouble, and I ist wented to Don
Fonnybone. He's dood for twouble-ness. You go see him. Poor man!” and
the little hand stroked Professor Burgess' feverish cheek.

“If you'll run right back to bed, I'll do it,” Burgess declared. “We
can learn even from children sometimes,” he thought, as Bug climbed down
obediently and toddled away.

Vincent Burgess went directly to Dr. Lloyd Fenneben, to whom he told the
story of the day's events, including the interview with Bond Saxon.
He did not repeat Bond's words regarding Vic, but only hinted at the
suspicion that there was something questionable in the situation in
which Vic was placed. Nor did he refer to the old man's maudlin demand
that he should take care of Dennie if she were left fatherless, and of
his sworn promise to do so.

Burgess felt as, if the Dean's black eyes would burn through him,
so steady was their gaze while the story was being told. When he had
finished, Lloyd Fenneben said quietly:

“You are worn out with the excitement of the day and night. Go home and
rest now. I've learned through many a struggle, that what I cannot
fight to a finish in the darkness, I can safely leave with God till the
daylight comes.”

The smile that lighted up the stern face and the firm handclasp with
which Lloyd Fenneben dismissed the young man were things he remembered
long afterward. And above all, he recalled many times a sense of secret
shame that he should have felt degraded because of his association with
Dennie Saxon on this day. But of this last, the memory was stronger than
the present realization.


Meanwhile, as the mad waters surged around the bend in the river, and
swept over the shallows, Victor Burleigh flung his arm around Elinor
Wream and leaped back from the very edge of doom.

“We must climb the bluff again. Be a good Indian!” he cried, groping for
a footing.

Climbing the west bluff by daylight for the sake of adventure was very
unlike this struggle in the darkness to escape the widening river, with
a wind-driven torrent of rain sweeping down the land behind the first
storm-fury, and Elinor Wream clung to her companion's arm almost
helpless with fear.

“Do you think you can ever get us out? she asked, as the limestone ledge
blocked the way.

“Do you know what my mother named me?” The carelessness of the tone was
surprising.

“Victor!” she replied.

“Then don't forget it,” Burleigh said. “It's a dreadfully rough way
before us, little girl, but we'll soon be safe from the river. Don't
mind this little bit of a storm, and you'll get personally conducted
into Lagonda Ledge before midnight.”

In her sheltered life, Elinor had never known anything half so dreadful
as this storm and darkness and booming flood, but the fearlessness of
the strong man beside her inspired her to do her best. It was only two
hours since they were here before. How could she know that these two
hours had marked the crisis of a lifetime for Victor Burleigh. With a
friendly little pressure on his arm, she said bravely:

“I'd rather be here with you than over the river with anybody else. I
feel safer here.”

Vic knew she meant only to be courteous, but the words were comforting.
On the crest of the ledge the fierceness of the storm was revealed.
Great sheets of wind-blown rain were flung athwart the landscape, and
the utter blackness that followed the lightning's glare, and the roaring
of the wind and river were appalling.

In all this tumult, away to the northeast, the beacon light above the
Sunrise dome was cutting the darkness with a steady beam.

“See that light, Elinor? We are not lost. We must get up stream a little
way. Then we'll find the bridge, all right. The crowd will get home
ahead of us, because this is the rough side of the river.”

“Oh, what a comfort a light can be!” Elinor murmured as she looked up
and caught the welcome gleam.

As they hurried along, the Sunrise light suddenly disappeared and they
found themselves descending a rough downward way. Presently there
were rock walls on either side hemming them in a narrow crevice in the
ledges. Then the rain ceased and Vic knew they had slidden down into a
rock-covered fissure, that they were getting underground. They tried
to turn back, but the up-climb was impossible, and in the darkness they
could reach nothing but the sharp ledge of the cliff sheer above the
raging river. Entrapped and bewildered, Vic felt cautiously about; but
the only certain things were the straight bluff overhanging the flood,
and the cavernous way leading downward; while the same deluge that was
keeping Vincent Burgess storm-staid on the veranda of the Saxon House,
was beating mercilessly down on Elinor Wream.

“We can't stay here and be threshed to pieces,” Vic cried. “This crack
is drier, anyhow, and it must lead to somewhere.”

It did lead to what seemed to Elinor an endless length of hideous
uncertainty, until Vic suddenly lost his footing and plunged headlong
down somewhere into the blackness of darkness. Elinor shrieked in terror
and sank down limply on the stone floor of the crevice.

“All a bluff,” Vic called up cheerily, in the same startlingly deep
sweet voice that had caught Elinor's ear on the September afternoon
before the door of Sunrise, and out in the edge of her consciousness
the thought played in again, “I'd rather be here with you than over the
river with anybody else. I feel safer here.”

“Slide down, Elinor. I'll catch you. It is n't very far, and there's a
little light somewhere.”

Elinor slipped blindly down the side of the rock into Vic Burleigh's
outstretched arms. As he set her on her feet, somehow, the little light
failed. In all their struggle, this part of the way seemed the darkest,
the chillest, the most dangerous, and a sudden sense of a presence
hidden nearby possessed them both, as they came against a blind wall. A
stouter heart than Vic Burleigh's might well have quailed now. The two
were lost underground. What deeper cavern might yawn beyond them? What
length of dead wall might bar their way? And more terrifying still,
was the growing sense of a human presence, a human menace, an unseen
treachery. As Vic felt his way along the stone, his hand closed over
something thrust into a little niche, shoulder-high in the wall. It
seemed to be a small pitcher of unique pattern, solid silver by its
weight. Was it the booty of some dead and forgotten robber chief, the
buried treasure of some old Kickapoo raiding tragedy, or the loot of a
living outlaw?

Vic thought he felt the outline of a letter graven in heavy relief
on the smooth side, and, for a reason of his own, dropped the thing.
Mercifully, he did not cry out at the discovery, but Elinor felt his
hand on her arm grow chill.

A dazzling glare, token of the passing of the storm's fireworks,
outlined an irregular opening in the wall before them, revealing at the
same time a large room beyond the wall.

“Here's the hole where we get out of this trap, Elinor Wream. If such a
big lightning like that can get in, we can get out,” Vic cried.

He crawled through the opening, and pulled her as gently as possible
after him. Presently, another blaze lit up the night outside, showing
a cavern-like space thirty feet in dimensions, with a rock roof above
their heads, and a low doorway through which the light from the outside
had come in, and beyond which the rain was beating tremendously.
Evidently they had found a rear entrance to this cavern.

“We are past our troubles now, Elinor,” Vic said. “There's the real
out-of-doors, and I feel sure of the rest of the way. This seems to be
a sort of cave, and we have come in kind of irregularly by the back door
or down the chimney. But here we are at the real front door. Shall we go
on?”

Elinor leaned wearily against the wall, wet and cold, and almost
exhausted.

“Let's wait a little, till this shower passes,” she pleaded.

“You poor girl! This has been an awful night,” Vic said gently.

Their eyes were getting accustomed to the darkness and they saw more
clearly the outline of the opening to the outside world. Suddenly Elinor
shivered as again the nearness of a presence somewhere possessed them
both.

“Let's go! Let's go!” she whispered, huddling close to her companion,
whose grip on her arm tightened.

He was conscious of a light behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he
caught a gleam beyond the opening in the rear wall through which they
had just crept; and in that gleam, a villainous face, with still black
eyes, looking straight at him. The light disappeared, and he heard the
faint sound of something creeping toward them. Vic could fight any man
living. Nature built him for that. He had no fear for himself. But here
was Elinor, and he must think of her first. At that instant, the doorway
darkened, and a form slipped into the cavern somewhere. Oh, wind and
rain, and forked blue lightning and the thunder's roar, the river's
mad floods, the steep, slippery rocks, and jagged ledges, all were kind
beside this secret human presence, cruelly silent and treacherous.

Victor Burleigh drew Elinor closer to him, and whispered low:

“Don't be afraid with me to guard you.”

Even in that deep gloom, he caught the outline of a white face with
star-bright eyes lifted toward his face.

“I'm not afraid with you,” she whispered.

Behind them stealthy movements somewhere. Between them and the doorway,
stealthy movements somewhere; but all so still and slow, they stretched
the listening nerve almost to the breaking point. Suddenly, a big, hard
hand gripped Burleigh's shoulder, and a dead still voice, that Vic could
not recognize, breathed into his ear, “Go quick and quiet! I'll stand
for it. Go!”

It was old Bond Saxon.

Vic caught Elinor's arm, and with one stride they sprang from the cave's
mouth up to the open ground beyond it. Something behind them, it might
have been a groan or a smothered oath, reached their ears, as they sped
away down a narrow ravine. The rain had ceased and overhead the stars
were peeping from the edges of feathery flying clouds; and all the
sodden autumn night was still at last, save for the gurgling waters of a
little stream down the rocky glen.

The Sunrise bell was striking eleven when they reached the bridge
across the Walnut, and the beacon light from the dome began to twinkle
a welcome now and then through the dripping branches of the leafless
trees. A few minutes later, Victor Burleigh brought Elinor safely to
Lloyd Fenneben's door.

“We made it in before midnight, anyhow,” he said carelessly.

Elinor looked up in surprise. The terrors of the night still possessed
her.

“What a horrible nightmare it has all been. The storm, the river, the
rocks, and the darkness, and that dreadful something behind us in the
cave. Was there really anything, or did we just imagine it all? It will
seem impossible when the daylight comes.”

Victor looked at her with a wonderful light in his wide-open brown eyes.

“Yes,” he said in a deep voice. “It will seem impossible when daylight
comes. But will it all be as a horrible nightmare?”

“No, no; not all.” Elinor's face was winsomely sweet. “Not all,” she
repeated. “It is fine to feel one's self so safeguarded as I have been.
I shall always remember you as one with whom I could never again be
afraid.”

Burleigh turned hastily toward the door, and, having delivered her to
the care of her uncle, he bade them both good night.

Dr. Fenneben looked keenly after the young man striding away from the
light. His clothes were torn and bedraggled, his cap was gone, and his
heavy hair was a mass of rough waves about his forehead. The direct
gaze of his golden-brown eyes took away distrust, and yet the face had
changed somehow in this day. A hint of a new purpose had crept into it,
a purpose not possible for Dr. Fenneben to read.

But he did note the set of the head, the erect form and broad shoulders,
and the easy swinging step as the boy went whistling away into the
shadows of the night.

“A splendid animal, anyhow,” the Dean thought. “Will the soul measure
up to that princely body? And what can be the purport of this maudlin
mouthing of old Bond Saxon? Bond is really a lovable man when he's
sober; but he's vindictive and ugly when he's drunk. I can wait for
developments. Whatever the boy's history may have been, like the courts,
it's my business to hold every man innocent till he's proven guilty;
to build up character, not to undermine and destroy it. And destruction
begins in suspicion.”



CHAPTER VI. THE GAME

 _Truly ye come of The Blood; slower to bless than
     to ban;
 Little used to lie down at the bidding of any man_.
                              --KIPLING

BITTER weather followed the night of the storm. Biting winds beat all
the autumn beauty from tree and shrub. Cold gray skies hung over a
cold gray land, and a heavy snowfall and a penetrating chill seemed to
destroy all hope for the Indian Summer that makes the Kansas Novembers
glorious.

Dennie Saxon was the only girl of the party who was not affected by the
storm at the Kickapoo Corral. Professor Burgess, who narrowly escaped
pneumonia himself, and who disliked irregular class attendance, took
comfort in the sight of Dennie. She was so fresh-checked and wholesome,
and she went about her work promptly, forgetful of storm and rain and
muddy ways.

“You seem immune from sickness, Miss Dennie,” Burgess said one day as
she was putting the library in order.

Under her little blue dusting cap, the sunny ripples of her hair framed
a face glowing with health. She smiled up at him comfortably--a smile
that played about the edges of his consciousness all that day.

“I've never been sick,” she said. “It 's a good thing, too, for our
house is a regular hospital this week. Little Bug Buler is the worst
of all. He took cold on the night of the storm. That's why Victor
Burleigh's out of school so much. He won't leave Bug.”

Vincent Burgess despised the name of Burleigh now. While Vic's safe
escort of Elinor Wream had increased his popularity with the students,
Burgess honestly believed that old Bond Saxon's drunken speech hinted at
some disgrace the big freshman would not long be able to conceal, and he
resented the high place given to such a low grade of character. To a man
like himself it was galling to look upon such a fellow as a rival. So,
he tightened the rules and exacted the last mental farthing of Vic in
the classroom. And Vic, easily understanding all this, because he was
frankly and foolishly in love with the same girl whom Vincent Burgess
seemed to claim, contrived in a thousand ways to make life a burden
to the Harvard man. Of course, Burgess showed no mercy toward Vic for
absence from the classroom while he was caring for little Bug, and the
black marks multiplied against him.

Elinor Wream had been ill after the night of the storm. Vic had not
seen her since the hour when he left her at Lloyd Fenneben's door. He
knew he was a fool to think of her at all. He knew she must sometime be
won by Burgess, and that she was born to gentle culture which his hard
life had never known. Besides, he was poor. Not a pauper, but poor,
and luxuries belonged naturally to a girl like Elinor. The storm of the
holiday was a balmy zephyr compared to the storm that raged every day
in him. For with all the hopelessness of things, he was in love.
Poor fellow! The strength of his spirit was like the strength of his
body--unbreakable.

He had no fear of pneumonia after the stormy night, for he was used to
hard knocks. And he meant to go again by daylight and explore the rocky
glen and hidden ways, and to find out, if possible, whose face it was
that was behind that cavern wall, whose voice had whispered in his ear,
and what loot was hidden there. For reasons of his own, he had mentioned
this matter to nobody. But the cold, wet days, little Bug's illness,
and the hard study to keep up his class standing, took all of his
time. Especially, the study, that he might not be shut out of the great
football game of the year on Thanksgiving day. Sunrise was stiff in
its scholastic requirements, and conscientious to the last degree. The
football team stood on mental ability and moral honor, no less than on
scientific skill and muscular weight and cunning. Dr. Fenneben watched
Burleigh carefully, for the boy seemed to be always on his heart. The
Dean knew how to mix common sense and justice into his rulings, so the
word was sent quietly from the head office--the suggestion of leniency
in the matter of Burleigh's absence. Burleigh was good for it. It
lay with his professors, of course, to grant or withhold scholarship
ranking, but the Dean would be pleased to have all latitude given in
Burleigh's case.

Bug was better now, and Vic was burning midnight oil in study, for the
hours of practice for the game were doubled.

On the evening before Thanksgiving the coach called Vic aside.

“Everything is safe. Only one report not in, but it will be in
tomorrow.” the coach declared. “I asked Professor Burgess about your
standing, and he says your grades are away above average. He's got
to reckon up your absent marks, but that's easy. All the teachers
understand about that. I guess Dean Funnybone fixed 'em. And now, Vic,
the honor of Sunrise rests on you. If you fail us, we're lost. Can I
count on you?”

The tiger light was behind the long black lashes under the heavy black
brows, as Vic shut his white teeth tightly.

“Count on me!” he said, and turning, he left the coach abruptly.

“Hey, there, Burleigh, hold on a minute,” Trench, the right guard,
called, as Vic was striding up the steep south slope of the limestone
ridge. “Say, wind a fellow, will you! You infernal, never-wear-out,
human steam engine. I'm on to some things you ought to know. Even a lazy
old scout like I am gets a crack at things once in a while.”

“Well, get rid of it once in a while, if you really do know anything,”
 Vic responded.

“Say, you're nervous. Coach says you spend too much time in your
nursery; says you'd better get rid of that little kid.”

“Tell the coach to go to the devil!” Vic spoke savagely.

“Say, Coach,” Trench roared down from the hillslope, “Vic says for you
to go to the devil.”

“Wait till after tomorrow,” the coach shouted back, “and I'll take you
fellows along if you don't do your best.”

“Now, that's settled, I'll tell you what I know,” Trench drawled lazily.
“First, Elinor Wream, what Dean Funnybone calls 'Norrie,' is heading the
bunch that's going to shower us with roses tomorrow, if we win. And
you know blamed well we'll win. They came in from Kansas City on the
limited, just now, the roses did. The shower's predicted for tomorrow P.
M.”

A sudden glow lighted Vic's stern face, and there was no savage gleam in
his eyes now.

“Is Elinor well enough to come out tomorrow?”

He had been caught unawares. Trench stared at him deliberately.

“Say, Victor Burleigh.” He spoke slowly. “Don't do it! DON'T DO IT!
It will kill a man like you to get in love. Lord pity you! and”--more
slowly still--“Lord pity the fool girl who can't see the solid gold in
the rough old nugget you are.”

“What's the rest of your news?” Vic asked.

“I gave the best first. Coach tells me ab-so-lute-lee, you are our only
hope. The hope of Sunrise, tomorrow. You've got the beef, the wind, the
speed, the head, and the will. Oh, you angel child!”

“The coach is clever,” Vic said carelessly.

“Burleigh, here's the rub as well as the Rub-i-con. Dennie Saxon's wise,
and she tells me--on the side; inside, not outside--that your absent
marks on Burgess' map are going to cut you out at the last minute. Don't
let Burgess do that, Vic, if you have to kill him. Couldn't we kidnap
him and drop him into the whirlpool? Old Lagonda's interest is about
due. Dennie just stood her ground today like a cherub, and asked the
Hahvahd Univusity man right out about it. I don't know how she got the
hint, only she's in all the offices and the library out of hours, you
know, and when the slim one from Boston, yuh know, said as how he had
to stand firm on the right, yuh know, old Dennie just says straight and
flat, 'Professor Burgess, I'm ashamed of you.' Dennie's a brick. And do
you know, Burgess, spite of his cussed thin hide, we've got to toughen
for him out here in Kansas; spite of all that, HE LIKES DENNIE SAXON.
The oracle hath orked, the sibyl hath sibbed. But say, Vic, if he does
come down hard on you, what will you do?”

“Come down hard on him, and play anyhow.”

The grim jaw and black frown left no doubt as to Vic's purpose.


Late November is idyllic in the Walnut Valley. Autumn's gold has all
been burned in Nature's great crucible, refining the landscape to a wide
range from frosted silver to richest Purple. Heliotrope and rose
and amethyst blend with misty pink and dainty gray, and the faint,
indefinable blue-green hue of the robin's egg, and outlined all in
delicate black tracery of leafless boughs and darkened waterways. Every
sunrise is a revelation of Infinite Beauty. Every midday, a shadowy soft
picture of Peace. Every sunset a dream of Omnipotent Splendor.

On such a November Thanksgiving day, the great game of the season was
played on the Sunrise football field, which all the Walnut Valley folks
came forth to see.

By one o'clock Lagonda Ledge was deserted, save for old Bond Saxon, who
sat on his veranda, watching the crowds stream by. At two o'clock the
bleachers were packed, and the side lines were broad and black with
a good-natured, jostling crowd. And every minute the numbers were
increasing. Truly Sunrise had never before known such an auspicious day,
such record-breaking gate receipts, nor such sure promise of success.
The game was called for half-past two. It was three o'clock now and the
line-up had not been formed. Even the gentle wrangle over details and
eligibility could hardly have spun out so much time as seemed to the
waiting throng to be uselessly wasted now. Evidently, something was
wrong. The crowd grew impatient and demanded the cause. Out in the open,
the two squads were warming up for the fray, while the officials hung
fire in a group by the goal posts and talked threateningly.

“What's the matter?”

“When will the freight be in?”

“Merry Christmas!”

So the crowd shouted. The songs were worn out, the yell-leaders were
exhausted, and the rooters were hoarse.

“Where's Vic Burleigh?” somebody called, and a chorus followed:

“Burleigh! Burly! Burlee! Come home! Come home! Come home!”

But Burleigh did not come.

“Maybe they are shutting him out,” somebody else suggested, and the
Sunrise bleachers took fire. Calls for Burleigh rent the air, roars and
yells that threatened to turn this most auspicious college event into
pandemonium, and the jolly company into a veritable mob.


Meantime, as the teams were leaving their quarters early in the
afternoon, the coach said to Vic:

“Run up to Burgess and get your grades, Burleigh. It's a mere form, but
it will save that gang of game-cocks from getting one over us.”

In the rotunda Vic and Vincent met face to face, the country boy in
his football suit and brown sweater, and the slender young college
professor, with faultless tailoring and immaculate linen. Ten minutes
before, Burgess had been in Dr. Fenneben's office, where Elinor Wream
and a group of fair college girls were chattering excitedly.

“See these roses, Uncle Lloyd.” Elinor was holding up a gorgeous bunch
of American Beauties. “These go to Vic Burleigh when he gets behind
the goal posts. Cost lots of my Uncle Lloyd's money, but we had to have
them.”

Small wonder that the very odor of roses was hateful to Burgess at that
moment.

“May I speak to you a minute?” Vic said as the two men met in the
rotunda.

Burgess halted in silence.

“The coach sent me after your statement of my standing. We've got a
bunch of sticklers to fight today.”

“I have turned in my report,” Burgess responded coldly.

“So the coach said, all but mine. I'm late. May I have my report now?”
 Vic urged, trying to be composed.

“I have no further report for you.” It was a cold-blooded thing to say,
but Burgess, though filled with jealousy, was conscientious now in
his belief that Burleigh was really a low grade fellow, deserving no
leniency nor recognition.

“But you haven't given me any standing yet, the coach says.” Vic's voice
was dead calm.

“I have no standing to give you. You are below grade.”

Vic's eyes blazed. “You dog!” was all he could say.

“Now, see here, Burleigh, there's no need to act any ruder than you can
help.” Burleigh did not move, nor did he take his yellow brown eyes from
his instructor's face. “What have you to say further? I thought you were
in a hurry.” Burgess did not really mean a taunt in the last words.

“I have this to say.” Victor Burleigh's voice had a menace in its depth
and power. “You have done this infamous thing, not because I deserve it,
but because you hate me on account of a girl--Elinor Wream.”

“Stop!” Vincent Burgess commanded.

“I forbid you to mention her name. You, who come in here from some
barren, poverty-stricken prairie home, where good breeding is unknown.
You, to presume to think of such a girl as Dr. Fenneben's beautiful
niece, whose reputation was barely saved by old Bond Saxon on the stormy
night after the holiday. You, who are forced for some reason to care
for an unknown child. You, whose true character will soon be fully known
here--if this is what you have to say, you may go,” he added with an
imperious wave of the hand.

The meanness of anger is in its mastery. Burgess had meant only to
discipline Burleigh, but it was too late for that now. The rotunda was
very quiet. Everybody was down on the field waiting impatiently for the
game to begin. Burgess was also impatient. There was a seat waiting for
him beside Elinor Wream.

“I'm not quite ready to go”--Vic's fierce voice filled the
rotunda--“because you are going to write my credentials for this game,
and you'll do it quick, or beg for mercy.”

“I refuse to consider a word you say.” Burgess was furious now, and the
white face and burning eyes of his opponent were unbearable. “I will not
grant you any credentials, you low-born prize-fighter--”

A sudden grip of steel held him fast as Vic towered over him. The
softened light of the dome of the rotunda, where the Kansas motto, “_Ad
Astra per Aspera_.” adorned the stained glass panes, had never fallen on
such a scene as this.

“See here, Burleigh, you'll repent this unwarranted attack,” Burgess
cried, trying to free himself. “Brute force will win only among brutes.”

“That's the only place I expect to use it,” Vic retorted, tightening his
grip. “No time for words now. The honor of Sunrise as well as my honor
is at stake, and it's my right to play in this game, because I have
broken no laws. I may have no culture except that of a prairie claim;
and I may be poor, and, therefore, presumptuous in daring to mention
Elinor Wream's name to you. But”--the brown eyes were a blazing
fire--“nobody can tell me that any man must rescue a girl from me to
save her reputation, nor that any dishonor belongs to me because of
little Bug Buler. Uncultured, as I am, I have the culture of a
courage that guards the helpless; and ill-bred, as I may be, I have a
gentleman's honor wherever a woman's need calls for my protection.”

Vic's face was ashy, for his anger matched his love, and both were
parallel to his wonderful physique and endurance. In his fury, the
temptation to throttle the man who had wronged him was gaining the
mastery.

“Vic, oh, Vic, they're waiting for you. Turn on! Don't hurt him, Vic.”
 Bug Buler's pleading little voice broke the momentary stillness.

Vic's hand fell nerveless, and Burgess staggered back.

“Was n't you dood to Vic? He would n't hurted you. He never hurted
me.” The innocent face and gentle words held a strange power over each
passion-fired man before him.


Five minutes later, Vic Burleigh walked across the gridiron with full
credentials for his place on the team.

The last man to enter the grounds was evidently a tramp, whose slouched
hat half-concealed a dark bearded face.

As Vic Burleigh, with Bug clinging to his finger, hurried by the ticket
window, the crippled student who sold tickets inside the little roofed
box called out:

“Come, stay with me, Bug, till I can go in, too, and I'll buy you
peanuts.”

Bug studied a moment. Then with a comfortable little “Umph-humph,”
 puffing out his pudgy cheeks with tightly tucked-in lips, he let go of
Vic's finger and trotted over to the ticket box.

The boy let him inside and turned to the window to see the face of the
tramp close to it. The man paid for a ticket, then, leaning forward,
stared eagerly at the open money box. At the same time, the cripple
caught sight of a revolver handle in a belt under the shabby coat.
Trust a college boy for headwork. Instantly he seized little Bug by the
shoulders and set him up on the shelf between the window and the money
box. Bug's hair was a mop of soft ringlets, and his brown eyes and
innocent baby face were appealing. The stranger stared hard at the
child, and with a sort of frightened expression, shot through the gate
and mingled with the crowd.

“Great protection for a cripple,” the student thought, as he locked the
money box. “How strong a baby's hand may be sometimes! Vic Burleigh's
beef can win the game out there, but Bug has saved the day at this end
of the line. That tramp seemed scared at the sight of him.”

“Funny folks turns to dames,” Bug observed.

“Yes, Buggie, the last one in before you came was a young woman with
gray hair, and she had a big dog with her. They don't let in dogs, so
he's waiting outside somewhere.”

The last man who did not go in was Bond Saxon, who came late and found
the gates deserted. But lying watchful in the open way, was a Great Dane
dog. Old Bond hesitated. It was his lifetime fault to hesitate. Then
he trotted back home. And, behold, a bottle of whisky was beside his
doorstep. But to his credit for once, he resisted and smashed the bottle
to bits on the stone step.

The day was made for such a game. There was no wind. The glare of the
sun was tempered by a gray mist creeping up the afternoon skies. The
air was crisp enough to prevent languor. The crowded bleachers were
inspiring; the season was rounding out in a blaze of glory for Sunrise.
The two teams were evenly matched,     And the stern joy that warriors feel
     In foemen worthy of their steel,
 spurred each to its best efforts. It was a battle royal, with all the
turns of strategy, and quickness, and straight physical weight, and
sudden shifting of signals, fake plays, forward passes, line bucks, and
splendid interference, flying tackles, speedy end runs, and magnificent
defense of goals with lines of invincible strength and spirit.

With the kick-off the enemy's goal was endangered by a fumbled ball,
and within three minutes Trench had torn a hole in the defense, through
which the Sunrise team were sending Vic Burleigh for a touchdown. The
bleachers went wild and the grandstand was almost shipwrecked in the
noise.

“Burleigh! Burly! Burlee!” shrieked the yell-leader as Vic leaped over
the goal line and the rooters roared:

     The Sunrise hope!
     And that's the dope!
     Never quails!
     Never fails!
     Burleigh! Burly! Burlee!


A difficult kick from a sharp angle sent the ball through the air one
inch wide of the goal post, and the bleachers counted five.

And then, came the forward swing again, the struggle for downs, the
gain and loss of territory, until Trench, too heavy for speed, failed
to break through the interference quickly enough to hold a swift little
quarterback, who slipped around the end of the line, and, shaking off
the tackles, swooped toward the Sunrise goal. The last defense was
thrown headlong, and the field was wide open for the run; and the
quarterback was running for the honor of his team, his school, his
undying fame in the college world. Three yards to the goal line, and
victory would be his. All Lagonda Ledge held its breath as Vic
Burleigh tore through a tangle of tackles and sprang forward with long,
space-eating bounds. He seemed to leap through ten feet of air, straight
over the quarterback's head and land four feet from the goal with the
quarterback in his grip, while a Sunrise halfback out beyond him was
lying on the lost ball.

The bleachers now went entirely mad, for from the very edge of disaster,
the tide of battle was turned into the enemy's territory. Before the
Sunrise rooters had time to cease rejoicing, however, the invincible
quarterback was away again, and with two guards and a center on top of
Burleigh, now the plucky runner broke across the Sunrise line, and a
minute later missed a pretty goal. And the opposing bleachers counted
five.

The second half of the game was filled with a tense, fruitless strife.
Five points to five points, and four minutes of time to play. The
struggle had ceased to be a turning of tricks and test of speed.
Henceforth, it was man against man, pound for pound. Suddenly, the
opposing team braced itself and began a steady drive down the gridiron.
With desperate energy, the Sunrise eleven fought for ground, giving way
slowly, defending their goal like true Spartans, dying by inches,
until only three yards of space were left on which to die. The rooters
shrieked, and the girls sang of courage. Then a silence fell. Three
yards, and the Sunrise team turned to a rock ledge as invincible as the
limestone foundation of their beloved college halls. The center from
which all strength radiated was Victor Burleigh. Against him the weight
of the line-bucking plunged. If he wavered the line must crumble. The
crowd hardly breathed, so tense was the strain. But he did not waver.
The ball was lost and the last struggle of the day began. Two minutes
more, the score tied, and only one chance was left.

Since the night of the storm, Vic had known little rest. His days had
been spent in hard study, or continuous practice on the field; his
nights in the sick room. And what was more destructive to strength
than all of this was the newness and grief of a blind, overmastering
adoration for the one girl of all the school impossible to him. The
strain of this day's game, as the strain of all the preparation for it,
had fallen upon him, and the half hour in the rotunda had sapped his
energy beyond every other force. Love, loss, a reputation attacked,
possible expulsion for assaulting a professor, injustice, anger--oh, it
was more than a burden of wearied muscles and wracked nerves that he had
to lift in these two minutes!

In a second's pause before the offense began, Vic, who never saw the
bleachers, nor heard a sound when he was in the thick of the game,
caught sight now of a great splash of glowing red color in the
grandstand. In a dim way, like a dream of a dream, he thought of
American Beauty roses of which something had been said once--so long
ago, it seemed now. And in that moment, Elinor Wream's sweet face,
with damp dark hair which the lamplight from Dr. Fenneben's door was
illumining, and the softly spoken words, “I shall always remember you as
one with whom I could never be afraid again”--all this came swiftly
in an instant's vision, as the team caught its breath for the last
onslaught.

“Victor, for victory. Lead out Burleigh,” Trench cried to his mates, and
the sweep of the field was on; and Lagonda Ledge and the whole Walnut
Valley remembers that final charge yet. Steady, swift, invincible, it
drove its strong foe down the white-crossed sod--so like a whirlwind,
that the watching crowds gazed in bewilderment. Almost before they
could comprehend the truth, the enemy's goal was just before the Sunrise
warriors, and half a minute of time remained in which to play. One more
line plunge with Burleigh holding the ball! A film came before his eyes.
A sudden blankness of failure and despair seized him. In the grandstand,
Elinor Wream stood clutching a pennant in both hands, her dark eyes
luminous with proud hope. Amid all the yells and cheers, her sweet voice
rang out:

“Victor, Victor! Don't forget the name your mother gave you!”

Vic neither saw nor heard. Yet in that moment, strength and pride
and indomitable will power came sweeping back to him. One last plunge
against this wall of defense upreared before him, and Burleigh, with
half the enemy's eleven clinched to drag him back, had hurled himself
across the goal line and lay half-conscious under a perfect shower of
fragrant crimson roses, while the song of victory in swelling chorus
pealed out on the November air. Half a minute later, Trench had kicked
goal. The bleachers chanted eleven counts, the referee's whistle blew,
and the game was done!



SACRIFICE

 _The air for the wing of the sparrow,
     The bush for the robin and wren,
 But always the path that is narrow
     And straight for the children of men_.
                         --ALICE CARY


CHAPTER VII. THE DAY OF RECKONING

 _Oh, it is excellent
 To have a giant's strength, but tyrannous
 To use it like a giant_.
                    --SHAKESPEARE

OF course, there came a day of reckoning for Victor Burleigh, now the
idol of the Walnut Valley football fans, the pride of Lagonda Ledge, the
hero of Sunrise. But the reckoning was not brought to him; he brought
himself deliberately to it.

The jollification following the game threatened to wreck the chapel and
crack the limestone ledge beneath it.

“Dust off your halo and wrap it up in cotton till next fall, Vic,”
 Trench whispered in the closing minutes. “We've got to face the real
thing now. We're civilians in citizens' clothes, amenable to law
henceforth; not a lot of athletic brigands, privileged outlaws, whose
glory dazzles all common sense. Quit bumping your head against the
Kansas motto up in the dome, get your hob-nailers down on the sod,
and trot off and tackle your Greek verbs awhile. And say, Vic, tackle
yourself first and forget the pretty girl who covered you with roses
down yonder five days ago. It was n't you, it was just the day's hero.
She'd have decorated old Bond Saxon just the same if he had waddled
across the last goal line then. You're a plug and she's a lady born, and
as good as engaged to Burgess besides. I had that straight from Dennie
Saxon, and you know Dennie's no gossip. They were far gone before they
came West--the Wream-Burgess folk were--stiffen up, Burleigh. You look
like a dead man.”

“I was never more alive in my life.” Vic's voice and eyes were alive
enough.

“By heck! I believe it,” Trench exclaimed. “Say, you got away with
Burgess about the game. If you want the girl, go after her, too. But
gently, Sweet Afton, go gently. Most girls want to do the pursuing
themselves, I believe. I'll block the interference, if necessary, and
you'll be the sought-after yet, not the seeking, dear child.”

A circular stairway winds from the Sunrise chapel down the south turret
to Dean Fenneben's study, intended originally as a sort of fire escape.
Some enterprising janitor later fixed a spring lock on the upper door
to this stairway (surprises had been sprung through this door upon the
chapel stage by prankish students at inopportune moments), so that
now it was only an exit, and was called by the students “the road to
perdition,” easy to descend but barred from retreat.

In the confusion following the chapel exercises Vic slipped into the
south turret, and the lock clicked behind him as he hurried down “the
road to perdition.”

The door to Dean Fenneben's study was slightly open and Vic heard his
own name spoken as he reached it. He hesitated, for a group of girls was
surrounding Elinor Wream, discussing him. There was no escape. The upper
door was locked, and he would rather have met that unknown villainous
face in the dark cave than to face this group of pretty girls. So he
waited.

“Oh, Elinor, you mercenary creature!”

“What if he is a bit crude?”

“I don't blame you. I'm daffy about Professor Burgess myself.”

“He's got the grandest voice, Vic has!”

“I just adore Greek!”

“I think Vic is splendid!”

So the exclamations ran.

“Now, Norrie Wream, cross your heart, hope you may die, if big, handsome
Victor Burleigh had his corners knocked off, and he was sandpapered down
a little, and had money, wouldn't you feel a whole lot different about
him, Norrie?”

“I certainly would. I couldn't help it.”

Norrie's eyes were shining and her cheeks were pink as peach blossoms.
To Vic she seemed exquisitely beautiful.

“But now?” somebody queried.

“Oh, now, she'll be sensible, and the Professor will take advantage
of 'now.' He won't wait till it's too late. Great hat! there goes the
bell.”

And the girls scuttled away.

Vic came in and sat down by the window through which one may find an
empire for the looking.

“Burgess was right,” he said to himself.

“I'm not only ill-bred on the outside, I'm that way clear through. A
disreputable eavesdropper! That's my size. But I didn't mean it. Fine
excuse!” He frowned in disgust, and turned to the window.

The Thanksgiving weather was still blessing the Walnut Valley. Wide away
beyond Lagonda Ledge rolled the free open prairies, swept by the free
air of heaven under a beneficent sky.

As Vic gazed his stern face softened, and the bulldog look, that he had
worn since the night of the storm, relaxed before some gentler mood. The
brown eyes held a strange glow under the long black lashes, as if a new
purpose were growing up in the soul behind them.

“No limit out there. It's a FREE LAND,” he murmured. “There shall be
no limit in here.” Unconsciously he struck his breast with his fist.
“There's freedom for such as I am somewhere.”

“Hello, Burleigh, what can I do for you?” As Dr. Fenneben came into the
study he recalled how awkwardly the same boy had filled the same chair
only a few months before.

“I've come in to be sentenced,” Vic replied.

“Well, plead your case first.”

If ever a father-heart beat in a bachelor's breast, Lloyd Fenneben had
such a heart.

“I want to settle about Thanksgiving Day,” Vic said. “I had a moral
right to play on the team in that game, but I had to get the legal right
by force. Professor Burgess refused to permit me to play until I MADE
him do it.”

Fenneben's eyes were smiling. “Why didn't you knock him down and fight
it out with him?”

“Because he's not in my class. When I fight I fight men. And, besides, I
was in a hurry. If I'm expected to apologize to Professor Burgess or be
expelled, I want to know it,” Vic added, hotly.

He knew he would not apologize, and he wanted the sentence of expulsion
to come quickly if it must come.

“We never expel boys from Sunrise. They have done it themselves
sometimes. Nor do we ever exact an apology. They offer it themselves
sometimes. In either case, the choice lies with the boy.”

“What do you do with a fellow like me?” Vic looked curiously at the
Dean.

“If a boy of your build wants to meet only men when he fights, we take
it he is something of a man himself, and therefore worth too much for
Sunrise to lose.”

Oh! blessed power of the college man to lead the half-tamed boy into the
stronger places of life; nor shove him to the dangerous ground where his
feet must sink in the quicksand or the mire!

Vic sat looking thoughtfully at the man before him.

“Your confession here is all right. Your claim to a place on the team in
Thursday's game was just.” The simple fairness of Fenneben's words made
their appeal, yet, it was so unlike what Vic had counted on he could
hardly accept it as genuine.

“You have made a great name for yourself as an athlete. I paid for the
roses. I know something of the degree of that greatness.” Dr. Fenneben
smiled genially. “You played a marvelous game and I am proud of you.”

Vic did not look proud of himself just then, and Lloyd Fenneben knew it
was one of life's crucial moments for the boy.

“The big letter S cut over the doorway out there stands for more than
Sunrise, you remember I told you.” Fenneben spoke earnestly. “It means
also the strife which you have already met and must expect to meet
all along the way. But, Burleigh”--Lloyd Fenneben stood up to his full
height, an ideal of grace and power--“if you expect to make your way
through college with your fists, come to me.”

“You?” Vic's eyes widened.

“Yes, I'll meet you on any grounds. And if you ever try to coerce a
professor here again, I'll meet you anyhow, and we'll have it out.”
 Fenneben was stern now.

“I wouldn't want to scrap with you, Dr. Fenneben,” Vic stammered.

“Why not?”

“I am too much of a gentleman for that.”

“When I fight, I fight men. You are in my class,” Fenneben quoted with a
smile in his eyes, which faded away with the next words.

“You are right, Burleigh. A gentleman does n't want to use his strength
like a beast to destroy. The only legitimate battle is when a man must
fight with a man as he would fight with a beast, to save himself, or
something dearer to him than himself, from beastly destruction. Get into
the bigger game, my boy, where the strife is for larger scores, and
add to a proud athletic record, the prouder record of self-control. The
prairies have given you a noble heritage, but culture comes most from
contact with cultured men. Don't take on airs because you have more
red blood than our Harvard man. The influence of the great universities,
directly or indirectly, on a life like yours is essential to your
usefulness and power. You may educate your conscience to choose the
right before the wrong, but, remember, an educated conscience does not
always save a man from being a fool now and then. He needs an educated
brain sometimes by which to save his soul. Meantime, settle with your
conscience, if you owe it anything. It is a troublesome creditor. I'll
leave you now to square yourself with that fellow you must live with
every day--Victor Burleigh. We'll drop everything else henceforth and
face toward tomorrow, not yesterday.”

Lloyd Fenneben grasped the boy's hand in a firm, assuring grip and left
him.

“If Sunrise means Strife, I'll face it,” Vic said to himself. “As to
money, I have only my two hands and that old mortgaged quadrangle of
prairie sod out West. But if culture like Fenneben's might win Elinor
Wream, God help me to win it.”

Up in the library a week later Professor Burgess came in while Dennie
Saxon was putting the books in order. Burgess was often to be found
where Dennie was, but Burgess himself had not noted it, and nobody else
knew it, except Trench. Trench was a lazy fellow, who always lived in
the middle of his pasture, where the feeding was good. That gave him
time to study mankind as it worried about the outer edges.

“Don't you get tired sometimes, Miss Dennie?” the Professor asked. He
was not happy himself for many reasons, and two of them were Elinor and
Vic, who separately, and differently, seemed to wear out his energy.
Dennie Saxon never wore on anybody's nerves.

“Yes, I do, often,” Dennie answered.

“Why do you do this?” he queried.

“To get my college education.” Dennie smiled, hopefully. “I like the
nice things and nice ways of life. So I'm working for them.”

“Elinor has all these without working for them,” Vincent thought.

Then for no reason at all his mind leaped to Dennie's father and his own
vow on the stormy night in October.

“What would you do if your father were taken from you, Miss Dennie?” he
asked.

“I've always had to depend on myself somewhat. I would keep on, I
suppose.” Dennie looked up bravely. Her father was her joy and her
shame.

Well, what had Burgess expected? That she would depend on him? He was in
love with Elinor Wream. Why should he feel disappointed? And why should
his eye follow the soft little ripples of her sunny hair, giving a
pretty outline to her face and neck.

“Could you really take care of yourself? He was talking at random.

“I might do like that woman out at Pigeon Place.” Burgess did n't catch
the pathos in Dennie's tone. He was only a man.

“How's that?” he asked.

“Oh, live alone and keep a big dog, and sell chickens. That's what Mrs.
Marian does. By the way, she looks just a little bit like you.”

“Thank you!”

“She was at the game on Thanksgiving Day, strange to say, for she seldom
leaves home. Did you see a pretty white-haired woman, right south of
where we were?”

“Is that how I look? No, I didn't see her. I was n't at the game.”

“You weren't? Why not? You missed a wonderful thing.”

And Burgess told her the whole story from his viewpoint, of course. What
he was too proud to mention to Dr. Fenneben or Elinor he spoke of freely
to Dennie, and he felt as if the weight of the limestone ledge was
lifted from him with the telling.

“Don't you think the young ruffian was pretty hard on me?” he asked.

“No, I don't,” Dennie said, frankly. “I think you were pretty hard on
him.”

A sudden resolve seized Burgess. He came around to Dennie's side of the
table.

“Miss Dennie, I want to tell you something, unimportant in itself, but
better shared than kept. On the night of our picnic in October your
father, who was not quite himself--”

“Yes, I understand,” Dennie said, with downcast eyes.

“Pardon me, Dennie, I would not hurt your feelings.” His voice was very
gentle, and Dennie looked up gratefully. “On that night your father made
me promise--made me hold up my hand and swear--I'm easily forced, you
will think--to look after you if he were taken away. I did it to pacify
him, not to ever embarrass you. He also told me enough about young
Burleigh to make me wish, in the office of protector, to warn you.”

“Was my father quite himself then?” Dennie asked.

“Not quite,” Burgess replied.

“Listen to him some day when he is. He is another man then. But,” she
added, “I know you mean well.”

In spite of her courage her eyes were full of tears, and for the first
time in his sheltered pleasant life the real spirit of sympathy woke in
the soul of Vincent Burgess.

“You are a brave, good girl, Dennie. If I can ever serve you in any way,
it will be a privilege to me to do it.”

Ten minutes after they had left the library Trench, who had been
stationary in the north alcove, slowly came to life. He had been posing
as a statue, Winged Victory with a head on, he declared afterward to Vic
Burleigh, to whom he told the whole story.

“Let me sing my swan song,” he declared. “Then me for Lagonda's
whirlpool. I'm not fit to live in a decent community, a blithering idiot
and rascally villain, who lies in wait to hear and see like a fool.
I thought Dennie knew I was there and would be in to dust me out in
a minute. And when it was too late I turned to a pillar of salt and
waited. But I believe I'll change my mind, after all. I'll live; and if
Professor Burgess, A.B. of Cambridge-by-the-bean-patch, dares to make
love to Dennie Saxon--on the side--he'll go head foremost into the
whirlpool to feed Lagonda's rapacious spirit. I've said it.”



CHAPTER VIII. LOSS, OR GAIN?

 _We cannot make bargains for blisses,
     Nor catch them like fishes in nets,
 And sometimes the thing our life misses
     Helps more than the thing which it gets_.
                         --CARY

ELINOR WREAM spent the holidays in the East and was two weeks late
in entering school again. Then her Uncle Lloyd tightened the rules,
exacting full measure for lost time, until she bewailed to her girl
friends that she had no opportunity even to make fudge or wash her hair.

“Were you sorry to come back, then, Norrie?” her uncle asked one evening
when they were alone in their library, and Elinor was lamenting her hard
lot.

“No, I want to be with you, Uncle Lloyd.”

She was sitting on the arm of his morris chair, softly stroking his
heavy hair away from his forehead.

“Looks like it, the way you hurried back,” Dr. Fenneben said, smiling.

“But Uncle Joshua is n't well, although, to be honest, he didn't seem
a bit anxious to have me stay. He's so wrapped up in Sanscrit he has no
time to live in the present. Why didn't he ever marry?”

“You have just said why,” her uncle answered her.

“Why did n't you ever marry. Were you ever in love?”

The library lamp cast only a shaded light over Lloyd Fenneben lounging
comfortably in his chair. To a woman's eye he would have seemed the
picture of an ideal husband.

“Yes, I was in love once. I did n't marry because--because--I didn't.”

“How romantic! Was it unrequited, or money, or what?” Norrie asked,
eagerly.

“Or what,” he answered, and her finer sense made her change the subject.

“Say, Uncle Lloyd, Uncle Joshua says he wants me to marry.”

“What's he up to now? Tell me about it.”

Norrie was charming tonight in a dainty red evening gown that set off
her pretty face, crowned with beautiful dark hair. Somehow the sight of
her made deeper the void in Fenneben's life--since that love affair of
his own long ago.

“Well,” Norrie went on, “Uncle says I'm to marry rich, because my papa
expected me to. He said papa had money which was mamma's and he used it
for college endowments, because the Wreams love colleges best, and that
it was his wish, and it's Uncle Joshua's too, that I should marry well.
I knew I came honestly by my love of spending. I inherited it from my
mother. Aren't the Wreams all funny men to just see nothing in money,
but a cap and gown and a Master's Degree? But you are a human being,
Uncle Lloyd. You wouldn't leave a daughter dependent on her uncles and
use her money to endow colleges, would you?” The white arm stole round
his neck affectionately, as Elinor added softly, “I'm going to tell you
something else. Uncle Joshua wants me to marry Professor Burgess.”

“Do you want to marry him?” Fenneben asked.

“He hasn't asked me to yet. But he is such a gentleman and he has a
fortune in his own name, or in trust, or something like that. It would
please the Cambridge folks, and Uncle Joshua expects me to consent,
and I've never disobeyed uncle's wishes, so I couldn't refuse now. And,
well, if he'll wait till I'm ready, I guess it will suit me.”

“He'll wait all right, if he wants you, Norrie. He must wait until you
graduate,” the Dean declared.

“Oh, yes; a Wream without a college diploma is like a ship without a
compass, a mere derelict on life's sea. I'm in no hurry anyhow,” and she
began to talk of other things.

In the months that followed Trench had no need to watch Professor
Burgess in his relation to Dennie Saxon, for Burgess had no thought of
her other than of kindly sympathy. That is, Burgess thought he had no
thought. He knew he was in love with Elinor, knew that back in Cambridge
before he was graduated from the university. He had been told that
Elinor liked luxurious living, and he had money--he had told Fenneben as
much in their first interview. Everything seemed to be settled now, for
Joshua Wream had written Burgess the kind of letter only a very old man,
and an abstract scholar, and a bachelor would ever write, telling all
that he had said to Norrie. He made it obligatory that Fenneben should
first give his sanction to the union. He requested also that Burgess
would never mention this letter to his dear young niece, and he
expressly stipulated that Norrie should graduate at Sunrise first. He
ended with an old man's blessing and with the assurance that with Elinor
safely provided for his conscience (why his conscience?) would be at
rest, and he could die in peace. So there was smooth sailing at Sunrise
for many months. Elinor was always charming, and Dr. Fenneben seemed
oblivious to the situation, least of all to putting up any objection,
which, according to brother Joshua, would have blocked the game of love.
There was time now for profound research, the study of types, seclusion,
and the advantage of geographical breath which had brought the Professor
to Kansas, and which he heeded less and less with the passing days. For
he found himself more and more living in the lives of the students. He
had been ashamed, once, of having been Dennie Saxon's escort; and he
never knew when she came to be the one person in Lagonda Ledge to whom
he turned for confidence and aid in many things.

Meanwhile the big boy from the western claim was as surely going up the
rounds of culture as the Professor was coming down to the common needs
of common minds, and both were unconscious then that back of each was
Dr. Fenneben, “dear old Funnybone” to the student body, playing each
man for his king row in the great game of life fought out in
Sunrise-by-the-Walnut.

Toward Elinor, Victor Burleigh seemed utterly indifferent. Even Lloyd
Fenneben, who had caught an insight into things on the night of the
October storm, and had begun to read that new line in the boy's face,
failed to grasp what lay back of those innocent-looking, wide-open eyes,
whose tiger-golden gleam showed but rarely now. Vic was easily the
most popular fellow in his class, and the year at Sunrise had worked a
marvelous change in him.

“You are a darned smooth citizen,” Trench drawled, as he and Burleigh
stood in the shade by the campus gate on the closing day of their
freshman year.

A group of girls had been bidding the two good-bye for the summer. As
Elinor Wream, who was the last one of the company, offered her hand to
Vic there was a look of expectancy in her glance which found no response
in his own eyes. As he turned away with indifferent courtesy to Trench,
the big right guard stared hard at him.

“You are a--well, any kind of a smooth citizen, I say,” he repeated.

“What's troubling your liver now?” Vic asked.

Trench did not heed the question, but said, slowly: “And-the-big-noble-
hearted-young-fellow-walked-in-and-out-beside-how-the-touch-of-her-hand-
thrilled-his-every-pulse-beat,-and-how-her-smile-was-the-light-of-his-
soul. And-he-grew-handsomer-and-more-beloved-with-the-passing-manhood--”

A sudden clutch on Trench's arm, the blaze of the old-time fury in
burning eyes, as Vic's hoarse voice cried:

“For God's sake, Trench, get out of my sight!”

“I will,” drawled Trench. “The only friend you ever had. I'll carry my
troubles up to Big Chief Funnybone. Like as not he'll sentence me to
tumble you through the chapel door of the south turret down the 'road to
perdition.' No use though, you go that road every day. Better treat me
right and tell me all your troubles. If there is any cool handle to take
hold of Gehanna by next to Funnybone, I'm the one fellow in Sunrise to
grab onto it.”

But Vic was out of hearing.

And the days of a long, hot Kansas summer, a glorious autumn, and a
short, nippy winter swung by in their appointed seasons. And now the
springtime was unrolling in dainty beauty of tender green leaf, and
growing grass, and warm, sweet air, and trill of song bird. College
students philosophize little in the springtime of their sophomore year.
Having learned all that books can teach, and a little more, they seek
other pastime. Nobody in Sunrise except Dr. Fenneben took the time to
remember how stiff and ungenial Professor Burgess was when he first came
West; nor what an awkward gosling Victor Burleigh was the day he entered
Sunrise; nor that once it could have seemed just a little odd to invite
Dennie Saxon, a poor student, daughter of a half-reformed drunkard, to
the class parties; nor that even Elinor Wream, “Norrie the beloved,” was
not supposed to be engaged to Vincent Burgess. Supposed! And that, when
her senior year was well along, the engagement would be openly spoken of
as now in her sophomore year, it was quietly accepted, even if Professor
Burgess was often Dennie Saxon's escort. That was because he was such a
gentleman. Nor that with all these changes Trench had remained the same
old lazy Trench, the comfortable idol of the girls, for he was right
guard to all of them, and cared for none. And they never knew till
afterward that for all the four years he was faithful to a little
sweetheart out in the sandy Cimarron River country, to whom he took
back clean hands and a pure heart, when he went home after four years of
college life.

None of these things were noted especially, save by Dr. Lloyd Fenneben,
and he wasn't a sophomore nor a professor in love with a pretty girl; a
professor learning for the first time that sympathy has also its culture
value, as well as perfectly translated Horace, and that the growth of
a human soul means something as beautiful as the growth of a complete
conjugation on an old Greek stem from an older Greek root. Fenneben had
learned all this while he was chasing about the Kansas prairies with a
college in his vest pocket.

There were some unchanged things, however, which Fenneben only guessed
at. Victor Burleigh had never apologized to Professor Burgess for his
rude attack, unless a certain strained dignified courtesy be the mark of
a tacit apology. And Burgess could give only cold recognition to the big
fellow who had choked him into submission and had gone unpunished by the
college authorities.

Between these two Fenneben guessed there was no change. But he did not
grieve deeply. There must be a personal phase in this grudge that no
third person could handle. It might be a girl--but the face of the
returns indicated otherwise. Meanwhile the college was doing its perfect
work for Burleigh, whose strength of mind, and self-control, and growing
graciousness of manner betokened the splendid manhood that should rest
on this foundation. While the spirit of the prairie sod, the benediction
of the broad-sweeping air of heaven, and the sturdy, wholesome life
of the sons and daughters of freedom-loving, broad-spirited men and
women--all were giving to Vincent Burgess a new happiness in his work
unlike any pleasure he had ever known before.

Little Bug Buler, now four years of age, had changed least of all among
changing things about Lagonda Ledge. A sweet-faced, quaint little fellow
he was, with big appealing eyes, a baby lisp to his words, and innocent
ways. He was a sturdy, pudgy, self-reliant youngster, however, who took
long rambles alone and turned up safe at the right moment. All Lagonda
Ledge petted him, even to Burgess, who never forgot the day in the
rotunda when Bug's pitying voice had broken Burleigh's grip on his neck.

Bond Saxon had not changed, nor the white-haired woman of Pigeon
Place--nor the reputation of the ravines and rocky coverts for hiding
law breakers across the Walnut River. And Fenneben noted often the
slender blue smoke rising where nobody had a house.

It was an April day in the Walnut Valley, with all the freshness of the
earth just washed and perfumed by April showers. The sunshine was pale
gold. There was a gray-green filmy light from budding trees, and the
old-time miracle of the grass was wrought out once more before the eyes
of men. The orchards along the Walnut were faintly pink, and the eggs in
the robin's nest, the south winds purring through the wooded spaces, the
odor of far-plowed furrows on the prairie farms, all gave assurance
of the year's gladdest days. From the Sunrise ledge the beauty of the
landscape was exquisite. There was no haze overhanging the earth now,
and the Walnut Valley was a picture beyond a Master's dream. Victor
Burleigh sat on the top of the flight of steps leading from the lower
campus, looking lazily out with dreamy eyes on all that the earth had to
give on this sweet April afternoon.

Presently Elinor Wream came around the north angle of the building,
hesitated a little, then walked straight to the steps.

“Good afternoon, Victor,” she said.

Burleigh looked up, glad then of his months of discipline and
self-control. A sight good for anybody on a day like this was this
college girl with beautiful dark hair and laughing dark eyes, a satiny
pink and white complexion, and a slender form, clad just now in dainty
pink gingham with faint little edgings of white and pale green, all
stylishly put together to reveal rounded arms, and white neck, and
dimpled chin.

“Hello, Elinor,” Vic said, calmly, making room for her on the stone
steps. “Take a seat.”

Elinor sat down beside him, throwing her hat on the ground.

“Whither away?” Vic asked.

“I'll tell you presently. I want to get over my stage fright first.”

“All right, look at this view. I'll give it to you if you like it.”
 Vic had turned to the west again and was looking away toward the dreamy
prairies beyond the valley.

Elinor recalled the September day when the bull snake lay sunning itself
on this very stone. How shy and awkward he seemed then, with only a deep
sweet voice to attract favorable attention. And now, big, and graceful,
and handsome, and reserved--any girl might be proud to have his regard.
Of course, for herself, there was Vincent Burgess in the pleasant
inevitable sometime. She gave little thought to that. She was living in
the present. And in the wooing spirit of the April afternoon Elinor was
glad to sit here beside Victor Burleigh.

“What time next month do we have the big baseball game?” she asked. “The
game that is to make Sunrise the champion college in Kansas, and you our
college champion?” Vic's lips suddenly grew gray.

“Friday, the thirteenth--auspicious date!” he answered. “But I may not
play in it. I might fail.”

“Oh, we must win this game, anyhow, and you never do fail. Don't forget
the name your mother gave you. Do you remember when you told me that?”

“A couple of thousand years ago, wasn't it?” Vic asked, smiling down
on her. “If I don't play Sunrise needn't fail, even for Friday, the
thirteenth.”

“But it will fail without you. You pulled us to victory a year ago
at the Thanksgiving game, and last fall the Sunrise goal line wasn't
crossed the whole season with 'Burleigh! Burly! Burlee!' for a slogan.
We must win this year. Then it will be a complete championship:
football, basket-ball, and baseball. We won't do it though unless we
have 'Burleigh at the bat'.”

A shadow crossed his face and he looked away to where a tiny film of
blue smoke was rising above the rough ledges beyond the river.

“I'm getting over my stage fright now,” Elinor said, the pink deepening
on her fair cheek, “and I'll tell you what I want.”

“Command me!” he said, gallantly.

“Well, it's awful, and the girls are too mean to live. But they are
getting even with me, they say, for something I did last fall.”

“All right.” Vic was waiting, graciously.

“A lot of us have broken some of the rules of the Sorority and it's
decreed that I must go over the route we came home by on the night of
the storm down in the Kickapoo Corral. They are having a 'spread' down
there at five o'clock and we are to get there in time for it, going
by the west side of the river, and they'll bring us home. They said I
should ask you to go with me, and if you would n't go for me to ask Mr.
Trench to go. They are too silly for anything.”

“Trench was executed for manslaughter at two forty-five today. It's
three o'clock now. Let's go.” He lifted her to her feet and stooped to
pick up her hat.

“Do you really mind going with me, Victor?” Elinor asked.

“Do I mind? I've been waiting two years for you to ask me to go.” His
voice was very deep and there was a soft light in his brown eyes.

Elinor's pulse beat felt a thrill. A sudden sense of the sweetness of
the day and of a joy unlike any other joy of her life possessed her.

Down on the bridge they stopped to watch the sunlit waters of the Walnut
rippling below them.

“Are we the same two who crept up on this bridge, wet, and muddy and
tired, and scared one stormy October night eighteen months ago?” Elinor
asked.

“I've had no reincarnation that I know of,” Vic replied.

“I have,” Elinor declared, and Vic thought of Burgess.

Up the narrow hidden glen they made their way, clambering about broken
ledges, crossing and recrossing the little stream, hugging the dry
footing under overhanging rock shelves, laughing at missteps and
rejoicing in the springtime joy, until they came suddenly upon a grassy
open space, cliff-walled and hidden, even from the rest of the glen.
At the farther end was the low doorway-like entrance to the cave. The
song-birds were twittering in the trees above them, the waters of the
little stream gurgled at their feet, the woodsy odor of growing things
was in the air, and all the little glen was restful and quiet.

“Isn't it beautiful and romantic--and everything nice?” Elinor cried.
“I don't mind this sentence to hard service. It is worth it. Do you mind
the loss of time, Victor?”

“I counted it gain to be here with you, even in the storm and terror.
How can this be loss?” he answered her. His voice was low and musical.

Elinor looked up quickly. And quickly as the thing had come to Victor
Burleigh on the west bluff above the old Kickapoo Corral two Octobers
ago, so to Elinor Wream came the vision of what the love of such a man
would be to the woman who could win it.

“Do you really mean it, Victor? Was n't I a lump of lead? A dead weight
to your strength that night? You have never once spoken of it.”

She looked up with shining eyes and put out her hand. What could he do
but keep it in his own for a moment, firm-held, as something he would
keep forever.

“I have never once forgotten it,” he murmured.

The cave by daylight was as the lightning had shown it, a big chamber,
rock-walled, rock-floored, rock-roofed, in the side of the bluff, but
little below the level of the ground and easy of entrance. It was cool
and damp, but, with the daylight through the doorway, it was merely
shadowy inside. In the farther wall yawned the ragged opening to the
black spaces leading off underground. Through this opening these two
had crept once, feeling that behind the wall somebody was crouching
with evil intent. They peered through the opening now, trying to see the
miraculous way by which they had come into the cave from the rear.
But they stared only into blackness and caught the breath of the damp
underground air with a faint odor of wood smoke somewhere.

“Elinor, it's a good thing we came through here in the night. It would
have been maddening to be forced in here by daylight. We must have
slipped down through a hole somewhere in our stumbles and hit a passage
leading out of here only to the river, a sort of fire escape by way of
the waters. You remember we couldn't get anywhere on the back track,
except to the cliff above the Walnut. It's all very fine if the escaper
gets out of the river before he reaches Lagonda's whirlpool.”

He was leaning far through the opening in the wall, gazing into the
darkness and seeing nothing.

“Somewhere back in there, while I was pawing around that night, I found
something up in a chink that felt like the odd-shaped little silver
pitcher my mother had once--an old family heirloom, lost or stolen some
time ago. I came back and hunted for it later, but it was winter time
and cold as the grave outside and darker in here, and I couldn't find
anything, so I concluded maybe I was mistaken altogether about its being
like that old pitcher of ours. It was a bad night for 'seein' things';
it might have been for 'feelin' things' as well. There's nothing here
but damp air and darkness.”

And even while he was speaking close beside the wall, so near that a
hand could have reached him, a man was crouching; the same man whose
cruel eyes had stared through the bushes at Lloyd Fenneben as he sat by
the river before Pigeon Place; the same man whose eyes had leered at Vic
Burleigh in this same place eighteen months before; the same man whom
little Bug Buler's innocent face had startled as he was about to seize
the money box at the gateway to the Sunrise football field; and this
same man was crouching now to spring at Vic Burleigh's throat in the
darkness.

“It's a good thing a fellow has a guardian angel once in a while,” Vic
said, as he hastily withdrew his head and shoulders. “We get pretty
close to the edge of things sometimes and never know how near we are to
destruction.”

“We were pretty close that night,” Elinor replied.

“Shall we rest here a little while, or do your savage sorority sisters
require you to do time in so many minutes?” Vic asked, as they left
the cave and came again into the sunlight, and all the sweetness of the
April woodland, and the rugged beauty of the glen.

“I'm glad to rest,” Elinor said, dropping down on a stone. Her cheeks
were blooming from the exercise of the tramp, and her pretty hair was in
disorder.

Far away from the west prairie came the faint note of a child's voice in
song.

“Victor,” Elinor said, as they listened, “do you know that the Sunrise
girls envy Bug Buler? They say you would have more time for the girls
if it wasn't for him. What you spend for him you could spend on light
refreshments for them, don't you see?”

“I know I'm a stingy cuss,” Vic said, carelessly, but a deeper red
touched his cheek.

“You know you are not,” Elinor insisted, “and I've always thought it
was a beautiful thing for a big grown man like you to care for a little
orphan boy. All the girls think so, too.”

Burleigh looked down at her gratefully.

“I thought once--in fact, I was told once--that my care for him was
sufficient reason why I should let all the girls alone, most of all why
I should not think of Elinor Wream.”

“How strange!” Elinor's face had a womanly expression. “I've never had
a little child to love me. I've been brought up with only AEneas's
small son Ascanius, and other classical children, on Uncle Joshua's Dead
Language book shelves. I feel sometimes as if I'd been robbed.”

“You? I didn't know you had ever wanted anything you did n't get.”

Victor had thought all things were due to her and came as duly. The
womanly look on her face now was a revelation to him. But then he had
not dared to study her face for months, and he did not yet realize what
life in Dr. Fenneben's home must mean to her character-building.

“I'll tell you some time about something I ought to have had, a
sacrifice I was forced to make; but not now, Tell me about Bug.”

There was no bitterness in Elinor's tone, yet the idea of her having the
capacity to endure gave her a newer charm to the man beside her.

“I have never known whose child Bug is,” he began. “The way in which
he came to me is full of terrible memories, and it all happened on
the blackest day of my life--the hard life of a lonely boy on a Kansas
claim. That's why I never speak of it and try always to forget it. I
found him by mere accident, helpless and in awful danger. He was about
two years old then and all he could say was 'bad man' and his name, 'Bug
Buler.' I've wondered if Bug is his name, or if he could not speak his
real name plainly then.”

Burleigh paused, and a sense of Elinor's interest brought a thrill of
joy to him.

“Where was he?” she asked.

Vic slowly unfastened his cuff and slipped his coat sleeve up to his
elbow.

“Do you remember that scar?” he asked. “It is not the only one I have.
I fought with death for that baby boy and I shall always carry the scars
of that day. Bug was alone in a lonely little deserted dugout. Somebody
had left him there to perish. He was on a low chair, the only furniture
in the room, and on the earth floor between him and me were five of the
ugliest rattlesnakes that ever coiled for a deadly blow. Little Bug held
out his arms to me, and I'll never forget his baby face--and--I killed
them all and carried him away. It was a dangerous, hard job, but the boy
I saved has been the blessing of my life ever since. I could not have
endured the days that followed without his need for care and his love
and innocence. He's kept me good, Elinor. When I got back home with
him my mother, who had been very sick, was dead, and our house had been
robbed of every valuable by some thief--a wayside tragedy of western
Kansas. That was the day the pitcher was stolen. A note was left warning
me not to follow nor try to find out who had done the stealing, but I
thought I knew anyhow. That's why I killed that bull snake the first day
I came to Sunrise and that's why I must have looked like a bulldog to
you, soft-sheltered Cambridge folks. Life has been mostly a fist fight
for me, but Dr. Fenneben has taught me that there are other powers
beside physical strength. That the knock-down game doesn't bring the
real victory always. I hope I've learned a little here.”

A little! Could this be the big awkward freshman of a September day gone
by? Then college culture is surely worth the cost.

Elinor leaned forward, eagerly.

“Tell me about your father,” she said.

“My father lost his life because he dared to tell the truth,” Victor
replied.

“Oh, glorious!” Elinor cried, earnestly.

“I have always loved my father's memory for his courage,” Victor
continued. “He was a believer in law enforcement and he was a terror
to the bootleggers who carried whisky into our settlement. A man named
Gresh was notorious for selling whisky to the claim holders. He gave it,
Elinor, gave it, to a boy, a widow's son, made him drunk, robbed him,
and left him to freeze to death in a blizzard. The boy lived long enough
to tell my father who did it, and it was his testimony that helped to
convict Gresh and start him to the penitentiary. He escaped from the
sheriff on the way--and, so far as I know, there's one bad man still at
large, a fugitive before the law. Whisky is the devil's own best tool,
whether a man drinks it himself or gets other people to drink it.”

“That's a bad name,” Elinor said. “My grandfather adopted a boy named
Gresh, who turned out bad. I think he was killed in a saloon row in
Chicago. Did this Gresh ever trouble you again?”

Burleigh's face was grim as he answered:

“My father was waylaid and murdered with a club by this man. He escaped
afterward into Indian Territory. He left his own name, Gresh, scrawled
on a piece of paper pinned to my father's coat to show whose revenge
was worked out. He was a volcano of human hate--that man Gresh. After
my father's name was written--'The same club for every Burleigh who ever
crosses my path.' I expect to cross his path some day, and if I ever lay
my eyes on that fiend it will go hard with one of us.” The yellow
glow burned again in Victor Burleigh's eyes and his fists clinched
involuntarily. They were silent a while, until the sweetness of the
day and the joy of being together wooed them to happier thoughts. Then
Elinor remembered her disordered hair and, throwing aside her hat, she
deftly put it into place.

“Am I presentable for the supper at the Kickapoo Corral?” she asked, as
she picked up her hat again.

“You suit me,” Burleigh replied. “What are the Kickapoo requirements?”

“That Victor Burleigh shall be satisfied,” she answered, roguishly.
“Really, that's right. Four girls offered to substitute for me in this
penitential pilgrimage and write some long translations for me beside.”

“Four, individually or collectively?” he asked.

“Either way,” she answered.

“Why did n't you let them do it?

“Which way?”

“Either way,” he replied.

“Would you rather have had the four either way, than me?” she
questioned, with pretty vanity.

“Much rather.” His voice was stern.

“Why?” She was stung by the answer.

The glen was all a dreamy gray-green ruggedness of shelving rock with
mossy crevices and ferny nooks. The sunlight filtering through the
young leaves fell about them in a shadow-flecked softness. There was a
crooning song of some bird on its nest, the murmur of waters rippling
down the stony shallows, and a beautiful girl in a dainty pink dress
with her fingers just touching her fluffy masses of hair.

“Why?”

With the question Elinor looked up and saw why. Saw in Victor Burleigh's
golden-brown eyes a look she had never read in eyes before; saw the
whole face, the rugged, manly face lighted with a man's overmastering
love. And the joy of it thrilled her soul.

“Do you know why?”

He leaned toward her ever so little. And Elinor Wream, forgetful of
the Wream family rank, forgetful of her tacit consent to Uncle Joshua's
wishes, forgetful of Vincent Burgess and his heritage of culture,
beautiful Elinor Wream, with her starry eyes, and cheeks of
peach-blossom pink, put out her hands to Victor Burleigh, who took them
eagerly.

“Let me hold them a minute,” he said, softly. “There are sixty years to
remember, but only one hour like this.”

Then, forgetful of the world and the demands of the world, keeping her
hands in his, he bent and kissed her, as from the foundation of the
world it was his right to do. And Love's Young Dream, not bought
with pain, as mother love is bought, nor wrought out with prayer and
sacrificial service, as love for all humanity is won, came again on this
April day to the little, rock-sheltered glen beside the bright waters
of the Walnut, and briefly there rebuilt in rainbow hues the old, old
paradise of joy for these two alone.

And into the new Eden came the new serpent also for to destroy. Before
Elinor and Victor was the sunlit valley. Behind them was the cave's
mouth with its shadowy gloom deepening back to dense darkness. And
creeping stealthily through that blackness, like a serpent warming its
venom and writhing slowly toward the light, a human form was slowly,
stealthily crawling outward, with head upreared and cruel eyes alert.
The brutal face was void of pity, as if the conscience behind it had
long been bound and gagged to human sympathy.

While Burleigh was speaking the caveman had reached the doorway and
reared up just beside it in the shadow. Clutching a brutal-looking club
in his hairy, rough hand, he stood listening to the story of the murder
that had left Victor fatherless. The face of the listener made clear the
need for guardian angels. One leap, one blow, and Victor Burleigh would
carry only one more scar to his grave.

Suddenly a faint piping voice floated in upon the glen:

 Little childwen pwessing near
     To the feet of Thwist, the Ting,
 Have you neiver doubt nor fear
     Or some twibute do you bwing?


And Bug Buler, flushed and splashed, and generally muddy and happy, came
around the fallen ledges and debauched into the grassy sunshiny space
before the cavern. Only a tiny, tumbled-up, joyous child, with no power
in his pudgy little arm; and Victor Burleigh, tall, muscular and agile.
Against this man of tremendous strength the caveman's club was lifted.
But with the sound of the child's voice and the sight of the innocent
face the club fell harmless. A look of fright, deepening to a maniac's
terror, seized the creature, and noiselessly and swiftly as a serpent
would escape he crawled back into the darkness and burrowed deep from
the eyes of men. So strength that day was ruled by weakness.

“I ist followed you, Vic,” Bug said, clutching Vic's hand.

“This is n't a safe place to come, Bug. You must n't follow me here.”

“Nen you must n't go into is n't safe places, so I won't follow. Little
folks don't know,” Bug said, with cunning gravity.

“He is right,” Elinor said. “I think we'd better leave now.”

They knew that henceforth this spot would be holy ground for them, but
they did not dare to think further than that. They only wished that the
moments would stay, that the sun would loiter slowly down the afternoon
sky.

“I know a way out,” Bug declared. Turn, “I'll show you.”

Then, with a child's sense of direction, he led away from the cave out
to where the deep ravine headed in a rough mass of broken rock.

“Tlimb up that and you're out,” Bug declared.

They climbed up to the high level prairie that sweeps westward from the
Walnut bluffs.

“Doodby, folks. I want to Botany wiv urn over there. I turn wiv Limpy
out here.”

Bug pointed to a group of students wandering about in search of dogtooth
violets and other botanical plunder from Nature's springtime treasury.
Among the group was Bug's chum, the crippled student.

“Well, stay with them this time, you little wandering Jew,” Vic
admonished, nor dreamed how his guardian angel had come to him this day
in the guise of this same little wanderer.

When Victor and Elinor had come at last to the west bluff above the
Walnut River, the late afternoon was already casting long shadows across
the grassy level of the old Kickapoo Corral. And again the camp fires
were glowing where a Sorority “spread” was merrily in the making.

They must go down soon and join in the hilarity. But a golden half hour
yet hung in the west--and the going down meant the going back to all
that had been.

“Look at the foam on the whirlpool, Elinor. See how deliberately it
swings upstream. Isn't that a most deceiving bit of treachery?” Vic said
as he watched the river.

Elinor looked thoughtfully at the slow-moving water.

“I cannot endure deceit,” she said at last. “I like honesty in
everything. I said I would tell you sometime about a sacrifice I was
forced to make. I'll tell you now if you will not speak of what I say.”

How delicious to have her confidence in anything. Vic smiled assent.

“My father had a fortune from my mother. When he died he left me to
the care of my two uncles, and gave all his money to endow chairs in
universities. He thought a woman could marry money, and that he was
doing mankind a service in this endowment. Maybe he was, but I've always
rebelled against being dependent. I've always wanted my own. Uncle
Joshua thinks I am frivolous, and he has told Uncle Lloyd that it's just
my love of spending and extravagant notions that makes me rebel against
conditions. It is n't. It's the sense of being robbed, as it were. It
was n't right and honest toward me, even in a great cause, to leave
me dependent. Uncle Lloyd would never have done it. I hope he does n't
think I'm as bad as Uncle Joshua does. You won't mind my telling you
this, nor think me ungrateful to my relatives for their care of me.
Nobody quite understands me but you.”

The time had come for them to join the jolly picnic crowd in the
Corral. She would go back to Vincent Burgess in a little while, and this
glorious day would be only a memory. And yet, down in the pretty glen,
Victor had held her hands and kissed her red lips. And she had been
glad down there. The void in his life seemed blacker than the blackness
behind the cavern.

“Elinor,” he asked, suddenly, “are you bound by any promise--has
Professor Burgess--?” He hesitated.

“No,” she answered, turning her face away.

“Pardon my rudeness. You know I am not well-bred,” he said, gently.

“Victor Burleigh, you ill-bred, of all the gentle, manly fellows in
Sunrise! You know you are not.”

A great hope leaped to life now, as Vic recalled the query, “If Victor
Burleigh had his corners knocked off and was sandpapered down and
had money?”--and of Elinor's blushing confession that it would make a
difference she could not help if these things were. The corners were
knocked off now, and Dean Fenneben had gently but persistently applied
the sandpaper. The money must be henceforth the one condition.

“Elinor.” Vic's voice was sweet as low bars of music.

“Oh, Victor, there's something I can't prevent.”

She was thinking of Uncle Joshua, whose money had supported her all
these years and of her obligation to heed his wishes. It was all settled
for her now. And all the while Victor was thinking of his own limited
means as the rock that was wrecking him with her.

For all his life afterward he never forgot the sorrow of that moment. He
looked into Elinor's face, and all the longing, all the heart-hunger
of the days gone by, and of the days to come seemed to lie in those
wide-open eyes shaded by long black lashes.

“Elinor, my father's cruel murder and my mother dying alone were one
kind of grief. My fight with those deadly poison things to rescue little
Bug was another kind. My days of hardship and poverty on the claim, with
only Bug and me in that desolate loneliness, was still another. But none
of these seem a sorrow beside what I must face henceforth. And yet I
have one joy mine now. You did care down in the glen. May I keep that
one gracious joy--mine always?”

“You have always won in every game. You will in this struggle. Don't
forget the name your mother gave you.” Her eyes were luminous with
tears. “We must go down to the Corral now. Tomorrow will make things all
right. I shall be proud of you and your success everywhere, for you will
succeed.”

“I may not be worthy of victory,” he said, sadly.

“You have never been unworthy. Don't be now.” She smiled bravely.

They turned from the west prairie and the sunset, and slowly they passed
out of its passing radiance down to the darkening spaces of the old
Kickapoo Corral.

And the day with its gladness and sorrow, whether for loss or gain,
slipped into the shadowy beauty of an April twilight.



CHAPTER IX. GAIN, OR LOSS?

 _Ye know how hard an Idol dies, an' what that meant
     to me--E'en take it for a sacrifice, acceptable to Thee_.
                              --KIPLING
THE ball game on Friday, the thirteenth, was a great event this year.
The Sunrise football eleven had held the championship record with an
uncrossed goal line in the autumn. The basket-ball team had had no
defeat this year. Debating tests had given Sunrise the victory. That
came through Trench and the crippled student. And the state oratorical
struggle repeated the story, a conquest, all the greater because Victor
Burleigh, the athlete, wore also the laurels of oratory. And why should
he not, with that fine presence and magnificent voice? As Dr. Fenneben
listened to his forceful logic he saw clearly the line for the boy's
future, a line, he thought, that could end at last only in the pulpit.

One more battle to fight now and Lagonda Ledge and the whole Walnut
Valley would go down in history as famous soil. It was a banner year for
Sunrise, and enthusiasm was at fever pitch, which in college is the only
healthy temperature. In this last battle Sunrise turned again to Victor
Burleigh as its highest hope. Although this was his first game for the
season, he had never failed to bring victory to the Sunrise banners, and
in all his base-ball practice he was as unerring as he was speedy. And
then success was his habit anyhow. So “Burleigh at the bat” was the
slogan now from the summit of the college ridge to the farthest corners
of Lagonda Ledge; and idol worship were insignificant compared to the
adulation poured out on him. And Burleigh, being young and very human,
had all the pleasure the adoration of a community can bring to its local
hero. For truly, few triumphs in life's later years can be fraught with
half the keen joy these school day victories bring. And the applause of
listening senates means less than good old comrades' yells.

Vincent Burgess, A.B., Greek Professor from Boston, seemed to have
forgotten entirely about types and geographical breadths and seclusion
for profound research amid barren prairies. He was faculty member on the
Athletic board now and enthusiastic about all college sports. Sunrise
had done this much for him anyhow. In addition, the young educator was
taking on a little roundness, suggestive of a stout form in middle life.

But Vincent Burgess had not forgotten all of the motives that had
pulled him Kansas-ward, although unknown to Dr. Fenneben, he had already
refused to consider a position higher up in an eastern college. He was
not quite ready to leave the West yet. Of course, not. Elinor Wream was
only half through school and growing more popular as she was growing
more womanly and more beautiful each year. His salvation lay in keeping
on the grounds if he would hold his claim undisturbed.

Burgess had come to Kansas, he had told Fenneben, in order to know
something of the state where his only sister had lived. He did not know
yet all he wished to know about her life and death here. Her name was
never spoken in his father's presence after she came West, so great was
that father's anger over her leaving the East. And deep in Vincent's
mind he fixed the impression that his daughter had died as unreconciled
to her brother as to her father himself.

This was all his own business, however, and hidden deep, almost out of
sight of himself, was a selfish motive that had not yet put a visible
mark on the surface.

Burgess wanted to marry Norrie Wream, and he wanted her to have all the
good things of life which in her simple rearing had been denied her.
The heritage from his father's estate included certain trust funds
ambiguously bestowed by an eccentric English ancestor upon someone who
had come West not long before his death. These funds Vincent held by his
father's will--to which will Joshua Wream was witness--on condition that
no heir to these funds was living. If there were such person or persons
living--but Burgess knew there were none. Joshua Wream had made sure of
that for him before he left Cambridge. And yet it might be well to
stay in Kansas for a year or two--much better to settle any possible
difficulty here than to have anything follow him East later. For Burgess
had his eye on Dr. Wream's chair in Harvard when the old man should
give it up. That was a part of the contract between the two men, the old
doctor and the young professor. Until the night when Bond Saxon forced
him to take an unwilling oath, Burgess had had a comfortable conscience,
sure that his financial future was settled, and confident that this
assured him the hand of Elinor Wream when the time was ripe. With that
October night, however, a weight of anxiety began that increased with
the passing days. For as he grew nearer to the student life and took on
flesh and good will and a broader knowledge of the worth of humanity, so
he grew nearer to this smoothly hidden inner care. And, outside and in,
he wanted to stay in Kansas for the time.

In the weeks before the big ball game, Victor Burleigh seemed to have
forgotten the glen and the west bluff above the Kickapoo Corral. The
girls who would have substituted for Elinor in the afternoon ramble took
up much of the big sophomore's time, and he never seemed more gay nor
care free. And Elinor, if she had a heartache, did not show it in her
happy manner.

On the afternoon before the ball game, a May thunderstorm swept the
Walnut Valley and the darkness fell early. As Dennie Saxon waited on
the Sunrise portico before starting out in the rain, Professor Burgess
locked the front door and joined her. Victor Burleigh was also waiting
beside a stone column for the shower to lighten. Burgess did not see
him in the darkening twilight and Burleigh never spoke to the young
instructor when it was not necessary.

“I must be nervous,” Professor Burgess said, trying to manage Dennie's
umbrella and catching it in her hair. “I had a letter today that worried
me.”

“Too bad!” Dennie said sympathetically.

“I'll tell you all about it sometime.”

He was trying to loose the wire rib-joint from Dennie's hair, which
the dampness was rolling in soft little ringlets about her forehead and
neck. Half-consciously, he remembered the same outline of rippling
hair, as it had looked in the glow of the October camp fire down in the
Kickapoo Corral when she was telling the old legend of Swift Elk and The
Fawn of the Morning Light. She smiled up at him consolingly. Dennie was
level-headed, and life was always worth living where she was.

“I'll be your rain beau.” He took her arm to assist her down the steps.

So courteous was his action, she might have been a lady of rank instead
of old Bond Saxon's daughter carrying her own weight of a sorrow greater
than Lagonda Ledge dreamed of. As the two walked slowly homeward under
the dripping shelter of the trees, Vincent Burgess felt a sense of
comfort and pleasure out of all keeping for a man in love elsewhere.
Victor Burleigh watched them from the shadow of the portico column.

“I believe Trench is right. He insists that Burgess likes Dennie, or
that he is mean enough to deceive Dennie into liking him. A man like
that ought to be killed--a scholar, and a rich man, and Dennie such a
brave little poor girl with a kind, weak-kneed, old father on her heart.
Norrie ought to know this, but who am I to say a word?”

“Victor Burleigh, won't you release the fair princess from the tower?” a
girl's voice called.

Vic turned to see Elinor framed in the half-way window of the south
turret. And in that dripping shadowy light, no frame could want a rarer
picture.

“I've fallen into the pit and am far on the road to perdition,” Elinor
said. “I hurried down this way from choir practice and Uncle Lloyd's
gone and left the lower door locked. It thundered so, and Dennie didn't
come into the study, and nobody heard my screams. But if I perish, I
perish,” she added with mock resignation.

“If you'll let up on perishing for half a minute, Rapunzel, I'll to
the rescue,” Vic cried, “if I have to climb the dome and knock the _per
aspera_ out of the State Seal and come down through the hole, _per astra
ad aspera_.” And then he rushed off to find an unlocked exit to the
building.

From the Chapel end of the circular stairs, he called presently.

“Curfew must not ring for a couple of seconds. Rise to the surface, fair
mermaid.”

Elinor came up the winding stair into the dimly lighted chapel at his
call. The two had avoided each other since the April day in the glen.
They were not to blame for this chance meeting now.

“When you are in trouble and the nights are dark and rainy, call me,
Elinor,” Vic said as they were crossing the rotunda.

“If I show you sometimes how to look up and find the light, as you
showed me the Sunrise beacon on the night of the storm out on West
Bluff, you may be glad you heard me. See that glow on the dome! You
would have missed that down in Lagonda Ledge.”

A level ray from a momentary cloudrift in the western sky smote the
stained glass of the dome, lighting its gleaming inscription with a
fleeting radiance.

“But the light comes rarely and is so far away, and between times, only
the cave, and the dark ways behind it leading to the river,” he said
gravely. The sorrow of hopelessness was his tone.

“Not unless one chooses to burrow downward,” she replied softly. “Let's
hurry home. Tomorrow you will be 'Victor the Famous' again. I hope this
shower won't spoil the ball game.”

As night deepened, the rain fell steadily. Up in Victor Burleigh's room
Bug Buler grew drowsy early.

“I want to say my pwayers now, Vic,” he said.

The big fellow put down his book and took the child in his arms. Bug
had a genius for praying briefly and for others rather than for himself.
Tonight he merely clasped his chubby hands and said, reverently:

“Dear Dod, please ist make Vic dood as folks finks he is, for Thwist's
sake. Amen-n-n.”

When he fell asleep, Victor sat a long while staring at the window where
the May rain was beating heavily. At length, he bent over little Bug and
pushed back the curls from his brow. Bug smiled up drowsily and went on
sleeping.

“As good as folks think I am, Bug!” he mused. “You have gotten between
me and the rattlesnakes that were after my soul a good many times,
little brother-of-mine. As good as folks think I am! Do you know what it
costs to be that good?”

Ten minutes later he sat in Lloyd Fenneben's library.

“I have come for help,” he said in reply to the Dean's questioning face.

“I hope I can give it,” Fenneben responded.

“It's about tomorrow's game. There are sure to be some professional
players on the other team. I want Sunrise to win. I want to win myself.”
 Vic's voice was harsh tonight. And the Dean caught the hard tone.

“I want Sunrise to win. I want you to win. There will probably be some
professionals to play against, but we have no way of proving this,”
 Fenneben said.

“What do you think of such playing, Doctor?” Vic asked.

“I think the rule about professionalism is often a strained piece of
foolishness. It is violated persistently and persistently winked at, but
so long as it is the rule there is only one square thing to do, and that
is to live up to the law. You should not dread any professionalism in
the game tomorrow, however. You'll bring us through anyhow, and keep the
Sunrise name and fame untarnished.” The Dean smiled genially.

Burleigh's face was very pale and a strange fire burned in his eyes.

“Dr. Fenneben”--his musical voice rang clear--“I'm only a poor devil
from the short-grass country where life each year depends on that year's
crop. Three years out of four, the wind and drouth bring only failure
at harvest time. Then we starve our bodies and grip onto hope and
determination with our souls till seedtime comes again. I want a college
education. Last summer burned us out as usual within a month of harvest.
Then the mortgage got in its work on my claim and I had to give it up.
I had barely enough to get through here at pauper rates this year--but
I could n't do it and keep Bug, too. I went into Colorado and played
baseball for pay, so I could come here and bring him with me. That's why
I can out-bat our team, and could win dead easy for Sunrise tomorrow.
Nobody in Kansas knows it. Now, what shall I do?”

The words were shot out like bullets.

“What shall you do?” Lloyd Fenneben's black eyes held Burleigh. “There
is only one thing to do. When you ranked high in grades with only the
trivial matter of excusable absence against you--no broken law--you took
Professor Burgess gently by the throat and told him you meant to play
anyhow. You stood your ground like a man, for your own sake and for the
honor of Sunrise. Stand like a man for your own sake and the honor of
Sunrise, now. Go to Professor Burgess and take him gently--by the hand,
this time--and tell him you do not mean to play, and why you cannot.”

Burleigh sat still as stone, his face white as marble, his wide-open
eyes under his black brows seeing nothing.

“But our proud record--the glorious honor of this college,” he said at
length, and back of his words was the thought of Victor Burleigh, the
idol of Sunrise, dethroned, where he had been adored.

“There is no honor for a college like the honesty of its students. There
is no prouder record than the record of daring to do the right. You
could get into the game once by a brute's strength. Get out of it now by
a gentleman's honor.”

Behind the speech was Lloyd Fenneben himself, sympathetic, firm,
upright, before whom the harshness of Victor Burleigh's face slowly gave
place to an expression of sorrow.

“My boy,” Fenneben said gently, “Nature gave us the Walnut Valley with
its limestone ledges and fine forest trees. But before our Sunrise could
be builded the ledge had to be shapen into the hewn stone, the green
tree to the seasoned lumber, quarter-sawed oak--quarter-sawed, mind you.
Mill, forge and try-pit, ax and saw and chisel, with cleft and blow
and furnace heat, shaped them all for Service. Over our doorway is
the Sunrise initial. It stands also for Strife, part of which you know
already; but it stands for Sacrifice as well. You are in the shaping.
God grant you may be turned out a man fitted by Sacrifice for Service
when the shaping is done.”

Burleigh rose, silent still, and the two went out together. At the
doorway, he turned to Fenneben, who grasped his hand without a word. And
once again, the firm hand clasp of the Dean of Sunrise seemed to bind
the country boy to the finer things of life. It had done the same on
that day after the Thanksgiving game when he sat in Fenneben's study,
and understood for the first time what gives the right to pride in
brawny arm and steel-spring nerve.

After Burleigh left him, Lloyd Fenneben stood for a long time on his
veranda in the light of the doorway watching the steady downpour of the
warm May rain. As he turned at length to enter the house a rough-looking
man with rain-soaked clothing and slouched hat, sprang out of the
shadows.

“Stranger,” he called hastily. “There's a little child fell in the river
round the bend, and his mother got hold of him, but she can't pull him
out, and can't hold on much longer. Will you come help me, quick? I've
only got one arm or I would n't have had to ask for help.”

An empty sleeve was flapping in the rain, and Fenneben did not notice
then that the man kept that side of himself all the time in the shadows.
Fenneben had only one thought as he hurried away in the darkness, to
save the woman and child. His companion said little, directing the
course toward the bend in the river before the gateway of Pigeon Place.
As they pushed on with all speed through rain and mud, Fenneben was
hardly conscious that Dennie Saxon's words about the lonely gray-haired
hermit woman were recurring curiously to his mind.

“If talking about Sunrise made her cry like that, maybe you might do
something for her,” Dennie had said. He had never tried to do anything
for her. Somehow she seemed to be the woman who was in peril now, and
he was half-consciously blaming himself that he had never tried to help
her, had not even thought of her for months. Women were not in his line,
except the kindly impersonal interest he felt for all the Sunrise
girls, and his sense of responsibility for Norrie, and the memory of a
girl--oh, the hungry haunting memory!

All this in a semi-conscious fleetness swept across his mind, that was
bent on reaching the river, and on that woman holding a drowning child.
At the bend in the river, the man halted suddenly.

“Look out! There's a stone; don't stumble!” he said hoarsely, dodging
back as he spoke.

Then Fenneben was conscious of his own feet striking the slab of stone
by the roadside, of a sudden shove from somebody behind him, a two-armed
man it must have been, of stumbling blindly, trying to catch at the elm
tree that stood there, of falling through the underbrush, headforemost,
into the river, even of striking the water. As he fell, he was very
faintly conscious of a sense of pity for Victor Burleigh fighting out a
battle with his own honor tonight, and then he must have heard a dog's
fierce yelp, and a woman's scream. Somehow, it seemed to come through
distance of time, as out of past years, and not through length of
space--and then of a brutal laugh and an oath with the words:

“Now for Josh Wream, and--”

But Fenneben's head had struck the stone ledge against which the Walnut
ripples at low tide, and for a long time he knew no more.

It was raining still when Victor Burleigh reached the Saxon House.
At the door he met Professor Burgess, who was just leaving. Strangely
enough, the memory of their first meeting at the campus gate on a
September day flashed into the mind of each as they came face to face
now. They never spoke to each other except when it was necessary. And
yet tonight, something made them greet each other courteously.

“Professor, will you be kind enough to come up to my room a few
minutes?” Burleigh asked, lifting his cap to his instructor with the
words.

“Certainly,” Vincent Burgess said with equal grace.

Bug Buler had kicked off the bed covering and lay fast asleep on his
little cot with his stubby arms bare, and his little fat hands, dimpled
in each knuckle, thrown wide apart.

“I saw a picture like this once for the sign of the cross,” Vic said as
he drew the covering over the little form. “Bug has been a cross to me
sometimes, but he's oftener my salvation.”

Professor Burgess wondered again, why a boy like Burleigh should have
been given a voice of such rare charm.

“I will not keep you long,” Vic said, turning from Bug. “I cannot play
in tomorrow's game, and be a man.”

Then, briefly, he explained the reason.

“It is raining still. Take my umbrella,” he said at the close of his
simply told story. “But tomorrow's sunshine will dry the field for the
game, all right. Good night.”

“Good night,” Vincent Burgess said hoarsely, and plunged into the
darkness and the rain.

Ten steps from the Saxon House, he came plump into Bond Saxon, who
staggered a little to avoid him.

“My luck on rainy nights,” Vincent thought. “The old fellow's sprees
seem to run with the storms. He hasn't been 'off' for a long time.”

But Bond Saxon was never more sober in his life, and he clutched the
young man's arm eagerly.

“Professor Burgess, won't you help me!” he cried.

“What do you want to do on a night like this?” Burgess asked,
remembering the vow he had been forced to make, by this same man.

“Come help me save a man's life!” Bond urged.

“Look here, Saxon. You've got some wild notion out of a boot-legger's
bottle. Straighten up now. It's an infamous thing in a college town like
Lagonda Ledge, where neither a saloon nor a joint would be allowed, that
some imp of Satan should forever be bringing you whisky. Who does it,
anyhow?”

“I'm not drunk and haven't been for six months. Come on, for God's sake,
and help me to save a life, maybe two lives, from the very man that's
done the boot-leggin' and robbin' in this town for months and months.”
 Saxon's words were convincing enough.

“What can I do?” Burgess asked. “I'm not a policeman.”

“Come on! Come on!” Saxon urged, tugging at the professor's arm. “It 's
a life, I tell you.”

Vincent yielded unwillingly, the night, the beating rain, the man who
asked it of him, the purpose, his own unfitness--all holding him back.
Before they had gone far, Bond Saxon suddenly exclaimed:

“Say, Professor, do you remember the night I asked you to take care of
Dennie if anything should happen to me?”

“Do YOU remember it?” Burgess responded. “You didn't ask; you demanded.”

“I was drunk then. I'm sober now. Burgess, if anything should happen to
me now, would you still be willing?” Bond Saxon asked in tense anxiety.

“I've already taken oath,” Burgess said. “I think your daughter may need
somebody's care before anything happens if you keep up this gait.”

They hurried on through the rain until they had left the board walk and
the town lights, and were staggering along the cinder-made path, when
Burgess halted.

“Saxon, who's the man, or two men, you want to save? I believe you are
drunk.”

Bond Saxon grasped his arm, and said hoarsely:

“Don't shriek here. We are in danger, now. It's not two men. It's a man
and a woman, maybe. It's Dean Funnybone. Come on!”



CHAPTER X. THE THIEF IN THE MOUTH

 _O, thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no,
 name to be known by, let us call thee, devil!_
                    --SHAKESPEARE

WHEN Lloyd Fenneben could think again, the waters had receded, the
rock ledge had turned to a pillow under his head, the river bank was a
straight white hospital wall, sunlight and sweet air for the darkness
and the rain, and Norrie Wream was beside him instead of the brutal
stranger. His heavy black hair was shorn away and his head was bound
with much soft cotton stuffs. His left arm was full of prickles, as if
the blood had just resumed circulation.

“And meantime?” he said, looking up at Elinor.

“Yes, meantime, it's June time,” Elinor replied.

“Well, and what of Sunrise? Did we--”

“Oh, yes, we did. The college first. The ruling passion, strong in the
hospital. When a Wream gets to kingdom-come, he always asks Saint
Peter first for a mortar board and gown instead of a crown and wings.”
 Norrie's eyes were shining. “And he's a little particular about the
lining of the wings, too--Purple, for Law; White, for Letters; Blue,
for Philosophy; Red, for Divinity. Take this quieting powder. College
presidents should be seen and not heard.” She smilingly silenced him.

Under her gentle ministrations, Dr. Fenneben could picture what comfort
might be in store for Vincent Burgess in a day, doubtless only two years
away. He resented Joshua Wream's estimate of Elinor. Surely Joshua had
never seen her in the place of nurse.

“Now, meantime, Uncle Lloyd,” Elinor was saying, “commencement passed
off beautifully under Acting-Dean Burgess, considering how sad and
heavy-hearted everybody was. The trustees want to raise Professor
Burgess's salary next year--he's so competent.”

Lloyd Fenneben's eyes were not bandaged, and as he looked at Elinor he
wondered at her utter lack of reserve and sentiment, when she spoke of
Burgess in such a frank, matter-of-fact way. When he was in love years
ago--but times must have changed.

“The arrangements for next year are all looked after. Everything will be
done exactly as you would have it done. There's not one thing to put a
worry into that cotton round your head.”

“Good! Now, tell me of 'beforehand.'” His smile was as charming as ever.

“In your fever you've been telling us about a one-armed man who had
two arms to push people into the river, of his wanting you to save some
child's life, and of your stumbling over the stone. That's all we know
about that. Bond Saxon and Professor Burgess found you in the water at
the north bend in the Walnut close to that hermit woman's house. Either
you fell in, or somebody pushed you down the bank, headforemost, and
you struck a ledge of rock.” Elinor's eyes were full of tears now. “You
would have been drowned, if that white-haired woman had n't jumped in
and held your head above water while she clung to the bushes with one
hand. Her dog helped, too, like a real hero. It stood on the bank and
held to her shawl that she had fastened round you to hold you. And the
river was rising so fast, too. It was awful. I don't know just how it
was all managed, Uncle Lloyd, but it was managed between the woman and
her dog at first, and Professor Burgess and Bond Saxon at last, and
you are safe now, and on the high road, the very elevated tracks, to
recovery. When your fever was the highest, the doctors kept telling me
about your splendid constitution and your temperate life. You must get
well now.”

She bent over him and softly caressed his hand.

“Where is that woman now? Dennie Saxon asked me once to do something for
her in her loneliness. She got ahead of my negligence and did something
for me, it seems.”

“She left Lagonda Ledge the very day they rushed us up here to the
hospital. Is n't she strange? And she is so gentle and sweet, but so
sad. I never saw such apathetic face as hers, Uncle Lloyd.”

“When did you see her?” Fenneben asked.

“She came to ask after you. Nobody thought you would get over it.”
 Elinor's voice trembled. “The fever was burning you up and it took three
doctors to hold you. I saw her face when Dennie Saxon said they thought
you wouldn't pull through. Your own sister couldn't have turned whiter,
Uncle Lloyd.”

“And the one-armed man I seemed to remember?”

“I don't know. I've been too busy to ask many questions. Lagonda Ledge
is in mourning for you. It will run up the flag above half-mast when I
write how much better you are. Bond Saxon has a theory that some thief
wanted to rob you and decoyed you away on pretense of helping somebody
out of the river. You are an easy mark, Uncle.”

“Why should Bond Saxon have a theory? And how did he know where to find
me? And how did that gray-haired woman and her dog happen in on the
scene just then? This is a grim sort of dime novel business, Norrie.
Things don't fall out this way in real life unless there is some reason
back of them. I think I'll bear investigating.”

“I think so myself--you or your romantic rescuing squad. You might call
the dog to the witness stand first, for he was the first on the scene.
I forgot though that the dog is dead. They found him down the river
with his throat cut. The plot thickens.” Elinor's frivolous spirit was
returning with the lessening of care.

“Tell me about the ball game,” Fenneben said next.

“Oh, it rained for hours and hours, and there wasn't any train service
for Lagonda Ledge for a week, and all the Inter-Collegiate Athletic
events for the season were called off for Sun rise-by-the-Walnut.”

“And the students, generally?” Dr. Fenneben questioned.

“Mr. Trench will be back,” Elinor exclaimed, “and folks have just found
out that it's old Trench who's keeping that crippled boy in school, the
one they call 'Limpy.' Trench rustles jobs for him and divides his own
income for college expenses with the boy for the rest of the cost. I
don't know how the story got out, but I asked him about it when he was
up here to see you. He just grinned and drawled lazily, 'I can save a
little on shoe leather, that some fellows wear out hurrying so, and I
don't burst up so many hats with a swelled head as some do. So I keep a
little extra change on these accounts. We're going down to Oklahoma when
we graduate. Limpy's going to be a Methodist preacher and I a stockman.
I'll keep him in raw material for converts out of the cowboys I'll have
to handle.' Isn't old Trenchy a hero? He says Dean Funnybone showed him
how to think about somebody else beside Trench a little bit.”

“Oh, yes; Trench is a hero and I've known about that whole thing for a
long while,” the Dean asserted. “And Victor Burleigh?”

A shadow in the beautiful dark eyes, a half-tone lowering of the voice,
and a general indifference of manner, as Elinor answered:

“I'm sure I don't know anything about him, except that he's coming back
next year.”

Dr. Fenneben read the whole story in the words and manner of the answer,
and he smiled grimly as he thought of Burgess and of the conflict of
Wream against Wream if Elinor and his brother Joshua ever came to the
clash of arms. But he was too weak now to direct matters.


And meantime, while Lagonda Ledge was holding its breath in anxiety and
dread, and all the churches were joining in union prayer service for the
life of their beloved Dean Fenneben, and the c

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