He paused, and Pudge spoke up. "Perhaps you are right," he said, "but I doubt it. Athletics are certainly far more important to us than anything else, and the captain of the football team is always the biggest man in college. But I don't care particularly about that. What I want to know is how the colleges justify their existence. I don't see that you have proved that they do."

"No, I haven't," Henley admitted, "and I don't know that I can prove it. Of course, the colleges aren't perfect, not by a long way, but as human institutions go, I think they justify their existence. The four years spent at college by an intelligent boy—please notice that I say intelligent—are well spent indeed. They are gloriously worth while. You said that you have had a wonderful time. Not so wonderful as you think. It is a strange feeling that we have about our college years. We all believe that they are years of unalloyed happiness, and the further we leave them behind the more perfect they seem. As a matter of fact, few undergraduates are truly happy. They are going through a period of storm and stress; they are torn by Weltschmerz. Show me a nineteen-year-old boy who is perfectly happy and you show me an idiot. I rarely get a cheerful theme except from freshmen. Nine tenths of them are expressions of deep concern and distress. A boy's college years are the years when he finds out that life isn't what he thought it, and the finding out is a painful experience. He discovers that he and his fellows are made of very brittle clay: usually he loathes himself; often he loathes his fellows.

"College isn't the Elysium that it is painted in stories and novels, but I feel sorry for any intelligent man who didn't have the opportunity to go to college. There is something beautiful about one's college days, something that one treasures all his life. As we grow older, we forget the hours of storm and stress, the class-room humiliations, the terror of examinations, the awful periods of doubt of God and man—we forget everything but athletic victories, long discussions with friends, campus sings, fraternity life, moonlight on the campus, and everything that is romantic. The sting dies, and the beauty remains.

"Why do men give large sums of money to their colleges when asked? Because they want to help society? Not at all. The average man doesn't even take that into consideration. He gives the money because he loves his alma mater, because he has beautiful and tender memories of her. No, colleges are far from perfect, tragically far from it, but any institution that commands loyalty and love as colleges do cannot be wholly imperfect. There is a virtue in a college that uninspired administrative officers, stupid professors, and alumni with false ideals cannot kill. At times I tremble for Sanford College; there are times when I swear at it, but I never cease to love it."

"If you feel that way about college, why did you say those things to us two years ago?" Hugh asked. "Because they were true, all true. I was talking about the undergraduates then, and I could have said much more cutting things and still been on the safe side of the truth. There is, however, another side, and that is what I am trying to give you now—rather incoherently, I know."

Hugh thought of Cynthia. "I suppose all that you say is true," he admitted dubiously, "but I can't feel that college does what it should for us. We are told that we are taught to think, but the minute we bump up against a problem in living we are stumped just as badly as we were when we are freshmen."

"Oh, no, not at all. You solve problems every day that would have stumped you hopelessly as a freshman. You think better than you did four years ago, but no college, however perfect, can teach you all the solutions of life. There are no nostrums or cure-alls that the colleges can give for all the ills and sicknesses of life. You, I am afraid, will have to doctor those yourself."

"I see." Hugh didn't altogether see. Both college and life seemed more complicated than he had thought them. "I am curious to know," he added, "just whom you consider the cream of the earth. That expression has stuck in my mind. I don't know why—but it has."

Henley smiled. "Probably because it is such a very badly mixed metaphor. Well, I consider the college man the cream of the earth."

"What?" four of the men exclaimed, and all of them sat suddenly upright.

"Yes—but let me explain. If I remember rightly, I said that if you were the cream of the earth, I hoped that God would pity the skimmed milk. Well, everything taken into consideration, I do think that you are the cream of the earth; and I have no hope for the skimmed milk. Perhaps it isn't wise for me to give public expression to my pessimism, but you ought to be old enough to stand it."

"The average college graduate is a pretty poor specimen, but all in all he is just about the best we have. Please remember that I am talking in averages. I know perfectly well that a great many brilliant men do not come to college and that a great many stupid men do come, but the colleges get a very fair percentage of the intelligent ones and a comparatively small percentage of the stupid ones. In other words, to play with my mixed metaphor a bit, the cream is very thin in places and the skimmed milk has some very thick clots of cream, but in the end the cream remains the cream and the milk the milk. Everything taken into consideration, we get in the colleges the young men with the highest ideals, the loftiest purpose."

"You want to tell me that those ideals are low and the purpose materialistic and selfish. I know it, but the average college graduate, I repeat, has loftier ideals and is less materialistic than the average man who has not gone to college. I wish that I could believe that the college gives him those ideals. I can't, however. The colleges draw the best that society has to offer; therefore, they graduate the best."

"Oh, I don't know," a student interrupted. "How about Edison and Ford and—"

"And Shakspere and Sophocles," Henley concluded for him. "Edison is an inventive genius, and Ford is a business genius. Genius hasn't anything to do with schools. The colleges, however, could have made both Ford and Edison bigger men, though they couldn't have made them lesser geniuses."

"No, we must not take the exceptional man as a standard; we've got to talk about the average. The hand of the Potter shook badly when he made man. It was at best a careless job. But He made some better than others, some a little less weak, a little more intelligent. All in all, those are the men that come to college. The colleges ought to do a thousand times more for those men than they do do; but, after all, they do something for them, and I am optimistic enough to believe that the time will come when they will do more."

"Some day, perhaps," he concluded very seriously, "our administrative officers will be true educators; some day perhaps our faculties will be wise men really fitted to teach; some day perhaps our students will be really students, eager to learn, honest searchers after beauty and truth. That day will be the millennium. I look for the undergraduates to lead us to it."



CHAPTER XXVI

The college year swept rapidly to its close, so rapidly to the seniors that the days seemed to melt in their grasp. The twentieth of June would bring them their diplomas and the end of their college life. They felt a bit chesty at the thought of that B.S. or A.B., but a little sentimental at the thought of leaving "old Sanford."

Suddenly everything about the college became infinitely precious—every tradition; every building, no matter how ugly; even the professors, not just the deserving few—all of them.

Hugh took to wandering about the campus, sometimes alone, thinking of Cynthia, sometimes with a favored crony such as George Winsor or Pudge Jamieson. He didn't see very much of Norry the last month or two of college. He was just as fond of him as ever, but Norry was only a junior; he would not understand how a fellow felt about Sanford when he was on the verge of leaving her. But George and Pudge did understand. The boys didn't say much as they wandered around the buildings, merely strolled along, occasionally pausing to laugh over some experience that had happened to one of them in the building they were passing.

Hugh could never pass Surrey Hall without feeling something deeper than sentimentality. He always thought of Carl Peters, from whom he had not heard for more than a year. He understood Carl better now, his desire to be a gentleman and his despair at ever succeeding. Surrey Hall held drama for Hugh, not all of it pleasant, but he had a deeper affection for the ivy-covered dormitory then he would ever have for the Nu Delta House. He wondered what had become of Morse, the homesick freshman. Poor Morse.... And the bull sessions he had sat in in old Surrey. He had learned a lot from them, a whole lot....

The chapel where he had slept and surreptitiously eaten doughnuts and read "The Sanford News" suddenly became a holy building, the building that housed the soul of Sanford.... He knew that he was sentimental, that he was investing buildings with a greater significance than they had in their own right, but he continued to dream over the last four years and to find a melancholy beauty in his own sentimentality. If it hadn't been for Cynthia, he would have been perfectly happy.

Soon the examinations were over, and the underclassmen began to depart. Good-by to all his friends who were not seniors. Good-by to Norry Parker. "Thanks for the congratulations, old man. Sorry I can't visit you this summer. Can't you spend a month with me on the farm...?" Good-by to his fraternity brothers except the few left in his own delegation. "Good-by, old man, good-by.... Sure, I'll see you next year at the reunion." Good-by.... Good-by....

Sad, this business of saying good-by, damn sad. Gee, how a fellow would miss all the good old eggs he had walked with and drunk with and bulled with these past years. Good eggs, all of them—damn good eggs.... God! a fellow couldn't appreciate college until he was about to leave it. Oh, for a chance to live those four years over again. "Would I live them differently? I'll say I would."

Good-by, boyhood.... Commencement was coming. Hugh hadn't thought before of what that word meant. Commencement! The beginning. What was he going to do with this commencement of his into life? Old Pudge was going to law school and so was Jack Lawrence. George Winsor was going to medical school. But what was he going to do? He felt so pathetically unprepared. And then there was Cynthia.... What was he going to do about her? She rarely left his mind. How could he tackle life when he couldn't solve the problem she presented? It was like trying to run a hundred against fast men when a fellow had only begun to train.

Henley had advised him to take a year or so at Harvard if his father proved willing, and his father was more than willing, even eager. He guessed that he'd take at least a year in Cambridge. Perhaps he could find himself in that year. Maybe he could learn to write. He hoped to God he could.

* * * * *

Just before commencement his relations with Cynthia came to a climax. They had been constantly becoming more complicated. She was demanding nothing of him, but her letters were tinged with despair. He felt at last that he must see her. Then he would know whether he loved her or not. A year before she had said that he didn't. How did she know? She had said that all he felt for her was sex attraction. How did she know that? Why, she had said that was all that she felt for him. And he had heard plenty of fellows argue that love was nothing but sexual attraction anyway, and that all the stuff the poets wrote was pure bunk. Freud said something like that, he thought, and Freud knew a damn sight more about it than the poets.

Yet, the doubt remained. Whether love was merely sexual attraction or not, he wanted something more than that; his every instinct demanded something more. He had noticed another thing: the fellows that weren't engaged said that love was only sexual attraction; those who were engaged vehemently denied it, and Hugh knew that some of the engaged men had led gay lives in college. He could not reach any decision; at times he was sure that what he felt for Cynthia was love; at other times he was sure that it wasn't.

At last in desperation he telegraphed to her that he was coming to New York and that she should meet him at Grand Central at three o'clock the next day. He knew that he oughtn't to go. He would be able to stay in New York only a little more than two hours because his father and mother would arrive in Haydensville the day following, and he felt that he had to be there to greet them. He damned himself for his impetuousness all during the long trip, and a dozen times he wished he were back safe in the Nu Delta house. What in hell would he say to Cynthia, anyway? What would he do when he saw her? Kiss her? "I won't have a damned bit of sense left if I do."

She was waiting for him as he came through the gate. Quite without thinking, he put down his bag and kissed her. Her touch had its old power; his blood leaped. With a tremendous effort of will he controlled himself. That afternoon was all-important; he must keep his head.

"It's sweet of you to come," Cynthia whispered, clinging to him, "so damned sweet."

"It's damned good to see you," he replied gruffly. "Come on while I check this bag. I've only got a little over two hours, Cynthia; I've got to get the five-ten back. My folks will be in Haydensville to-morrow morning, and I've got to get back to meet them."

Her face clouded for an instant, but she tucked her arm gaily in his and marched with him across the rotunda to the checking counter. When Hugh had disposed of his bag, he suggested that they go to a little tea room on Fifty-seventh Street. She agreed without argument. Once they were in a taxi, she wanted to snuggle down into his arm, but she restrained herself; she felt that she had to play fair.

Hugh said nothing. He was trying to think, and his thoughts whirled around in a mad, drunken dance. He believed that he would be married before he took the train back, at least engaged, and what would all that mean? Did he want to get married? God! he didn't know.

When at last they were settled in a corner of the empty tea-room and had given their order, they talked in an embarrassed fashion about their recent letters, both of them carefully quiet and restrained. Finally Hugh shoved his plate and cup aside and looked straight at her for the first time. She was thin, much thinner than she had been a year ago, but there was something sweeter about her, too; she seemed so quiet, so gentle.

"We aren't going to get anywhere this way, Cynthia," he said desperately. "We're both evading. I haven't any sense left, but what I say from now on I am going to say straight out. I swore on the train that I wouldn't kiss you. I knew that I wouldn't be able to think if I did—and I can't; all I know is that I want to kiss you again." He looked at her sitting across the little table from him, so slender and still—a different Cynthia but damnably desirable. "Cynthia," he added hoarsely, "if you took my hand, you could lead me to hell."

She in turn looked at him. He was much older than he had been a year before. Then he had been a boy; now he seemed a man. He had not changed particularly; he was as blond and young and clean as ever, but there was something about his mouth and eyes, something more serious and more stern, that made him seem years older.

"I don't want to lead you to hell, honey," she replied softly. "I left Prom last year so that I wouldn't do that. I told you then that I wasn't good for you—but I'm different now."

"I can see that. I don't know what it is, but you're different, awfully different." He leaned forward suddenly. "Cynthia, shall we go over to Jersey and get married? I understand that one can there right away. We're both of age—"

"Wait, Hugh; wait." Cynthia's hands were tightly clasped in her lap. "Are you sure that you want to? I've been thinking a lot since I got your telegram. Are you sure you love me?"

He slumped back into his chair. "I don't know what love is," he confessed miserably. "I can't find out." Cynthia's hands tightened in her lap. "I've tried to think this business out, and I can't. I haven't any right to ask you to marry me. I haven't any money, not a bit, and I'm not prepared to do anything, either. As I wrote you, my folks want me to go to Harvard next year." The mention of his poverty and of his inability to support a wife brought him back to something approaching normal again. "I suppose I'm just a kid, Cynthia," he added more quietly, "but sometimes I feel a thousand years old. I do right now."

"What were your plans for next year and after that until you saw me?" Her eyes searched his.

"Oh, I thought I'd go to Harvard a year or two and then try to write or perhaps teach. Writing is slow business, I understand, and teaching doesn't pay anything. I don't want to ask my father to support us, and I won't let your folks. I lost my head when I suggested that we get married. It would be foolish. I haven't the right."

"No," she agreed slowly; "no, neither of us has the right. I thought before you came if you asked me to marry you—I was sure somehow that you would—I would run right off and do it, but now I know that I won't." She continued to gaze at him, her eyes troubled and confused. What made him seem so much older, so different?

"Do you think we can ever forget Prom?" She waited for his reply. So much depended on it.

"Of course," he answered impatiently. "I've forgotten that already. We were crazy kids, that's all—youngsters trying to act smart and wild."

"Oh!" The ejaculation was soft, but it vibrated with pain. "You mean that—that you wouldn't—well, you wouldn't get drunk like that again?"

"Of course not, especially at a dance. I'm not a child any longer, Cynthia. I have sense enough now not to forfeit my self-respect again. I hope so, anyway. I haven't been drunk in the last year. A drunkard is a beastly sight, rotten. If I have learned anything in college, it is that a man has to respect himself, and I can't respect any one any longer who deliberately reduces himself to a beast. I was a beast with you a year ago. I treated you like a woman of the streets, and I abused Norry Parker's hospitality shamefully. If I can help it, I'll never act like a rotter again, I hate a prig, Cynthia, like the devil, but I hate a rotter even more. I hope I can learn to be neither."

As he spoke, Cynthia clenched her hands so tightly that the finger-nails were bruising her tender palms, but her eyes remained dry and her lips did not tremble. If he could have seen her on some parties this last year....

"You have changed a lot." Her words were barely audible. "You have changed an awful lot."

He smiled. "I hope so. There are times now when I hate myself, but I never hate myself so much as when I think of Prom. I've learned a lot in the last year, and I hope I've learned enough to treat a decent girl decently. I have never apologized to you the way I think I ought to."

"Don't!" she cried, her voice vibrant with pain. "Don't! I was more to blame than you were. Let's not talk about that."

"All right. I'm more than willing to forget it." He paused and then continued very seriously, "I can't ask you to marry me now, Cynthia—but—but are you willing to wait for me? It may take time, but I promise I'll work hard."

Cynthia's hands clenched convulsively. "No, Hugh honey," she whispered; "I'll never marry you. I—I don't love you."

"What?" he demanded, his senses swimming in hopeless confusion. "What?"

She did not say that she knew that he did not love her; she did not tell him how much his quixotic chivalry moved her. Nor did she tell him that she knew only too well that she could lead him to hell, as he said, but that that was the only place that she could lead him. These things she felt positive of, but to mention them meant an argument—and an argument would have been unendurable.

"No," she repeated, "I don't love you. You see, you're so different from what I remembered. You've grown up and you've changed. Why, Hugh, we're strangers. I've realized that while you've been talking. We don't know each other, not a bit. We only saw each other for a week summer before last and for two days last spring. Now we're two altogether different people; and we don't know each other at all."

She prayed that he would deny her statements, that he would say they knew each other by instinct—anything, so long as he did not agree.

"I certainly don't know you the way you're talking now," he said almost roughly, his pride hurt and his mind in a turmoil. "I know that we don't know each other, but I never thought that you thought that mattered."

Her hands clenched more tightly for an instant—and then lay open and limp in her lap.

Her lips were trembling; so she smiled. "I didn't think it mattered until you asked me to marry you. Then I knew it did. It was game of you to offer to take a chance, but I'm not that game. I couldn't marry a strange man. I like that man a lot, but I don't love him—and you don't want me to marry you if I don't love you, do you, Hugh?"

"Of course not." He looked down in earnest thought and then said softly, his eyes on the table, "I'm glad that you feel that way, Cynthia." She bit her lip and trembled slightly. "I'll confess now that I don't think that I love you, either. You sweep me clean off my feet when I'm with you, but when I'm away from you I don't feel that way. I think love must be something more than we feel for each other." He looked up and smiled boyishly. "We'll go on being friends anyhow, won't we?"

Somehow she managed to smile back at him. "Of course," she whispered, and then after a brief pause added: "We had better go now. Your train will be leaving pretty soon."

Hugh pulled out his watch. "By jingo, so it will."

He called the waiter, paid his bill, and a few minutes later they turned into Fifth Avenue. They had gone about a block down the avenue when Hugh saw some one a few feet ahead of him who looked familiar. Could it be Carl Peters? By the Lord Harry, it was!

"Excuse me a minute, Cynthia, please. There's a fellow I know."

He rushed forward and caught Carl by the arm. Carl cried, "Hugh, by God!" and shook hands with him violently. "Hell, Hugh, I'm glad to see you."

Hugh turned to Cynthia, who was a pace behind them. He introduced Carl and Cynthia to each other and then asked Carl why in the devil he hadn't written.

Carl switched his leg with his cane and grinned. "You know darn well, Hugh, that I don't write letters, but I did mean to write to you; I meant to often. I've been traveling. My mother and I have just got back from a trip around the world. Where are you going now?"

"Oh, golly," Hugh exclaimed, "I've got to hurry if I'm going to make that train. Come on, Carl, with us to Grand Central. I've got to get the five-ten back to Haydensville. My folks are coming up to-morrow for commencement." Instantly he hated himself. Why did he have to mention commencement? He might have remembered that it should have been Carl's commencement, too.

Carl, however, did not seem in the least disturbed, and he cheerfully accompanied Hugh and Cynthia to the station. He looked at Cynthia and had an idea.

"Have you checked your bag?"

"Yes," Hugh replied.

"Well, give me the check and I'll get it for you. I'll meet you at the gate."

Hugh surrendered the check and then proceeded to the gate with Cynthia. He turned to her and asked gently, "May I kiss you, Cynthia?"

For an instant she looked down and said nothing; then she turned her face up to his. He kissed her tenderly, wondering why he felt no passion, afraid that he would.

"Good-by, Cynthia dear," he whispered.

Her hands fluttered helplessly about his coat lapels and then fell to her side. She managed a brave little smile. "Good-by—honey."

Carl rushed up with the bag. "Gosh, Hugh, you've got to hurry; they're closing the gate." He gripped his hand for a second. "Visit me at Bar Harbor this summer if you can."

"Sure. Good-by, old man. Good-by Cynthia."

"Good-by—good-by."

Hugh slipped through the gate and, turned to wave at Carl and Cynthia. They waved back, and then he ran for the train.

On the long trip to Haydensville Hugh relaxed. Now that the strain was over, he felt suddenly weak, but it was sweet weakness. He could graduate in peace now. The visit to New York had been worth while. And what do you know, bumping into old Carl like that I Cynthia and he were friends, too, the best friends in the world, but she no longer wanted to marry him. That was fine.... He remembered the picture she and Carl had made standing on the other side of the gate from him. "What a peach of a pair. Golly, wouldn't it be funny if they hit it off...."

He thought over every word that he and Cynthia had said. She certainly had been square all right. Not many like her, but "by heaven, I knew down in my heart all the time that I didn't want to get married or even engaged. It would have played hell with everything."



CHAPTER XXVII

The next morning Hugh's mother and father arrived in the automobile. He was to drive them back to Merrytown the day after commencement. At last he stood in the doorway of the Nu Delta house and welcomed his father, but he had forgotten all about that youthful dream. He was merely aware that he was enormously glad to see the "folks" and that his father seemed to be withering into an old man.

As the under-classmen departed, the alumni began to arrive. The "five year" classes dressed in extraordinary outfits—Indians, Turks, and men in prison garb roamed the campus. There were youngsters just a year out of college, still looking like undergraduates, still full of college talk. The alumni ranged all the way from these one-year men to the fifty-year men, twelve old men who had come back to Sanford fifty years after their graduation, and two of them had come all the way across the continent. There had been only fifty men originally in that class; and twelve of them were back.

What brought them back? Hugh wondered. He thought he knew, but he couldn't have given a reason. He watched those old men wandering slowly around the campus, one of them with his grandson who was graduating this year, and he was awed by their age and their devotion to their alma mater. Yes, Henley had been right. Sanford was far from perfect, far from it—a child could see that—but there was something in the college that gripped one's heart. What faults that old college had; but how one loved her!

Thousands of Japanese lanterns had been strung around the campus; an electric fountain sparkled and splashed its many-colored waters; a band seemed to be playing every hour of the day and night from the band-stand in front of the Union. It was a gay scene, and everybody seemed superbly happy except, possibly, the seniors. They pretended to be happy, but all of them were a little sad, a little frightened. College had been very beautiful—and the "world outside," what was it? What did it have in store for them?

There were mothers and fathers there to see their sons receive their degrees, there were the wives and children of the alumni, there were sisters and fiancees of the seniors. Nearly two thousand people; and at least half of the alumni drunk most of the time. Very drunk, many of them, and very foolish, but nobody minded. Somehow every one seemed to realize that in a few brief days they were trying to recapture a youthful thrill that had gone forever. Some of the drunken ones seemed very silly, some of them seemed almost offensive; all of them were pathetic.

They had come back to Sanford where they had once been so young and exuberant, so tireless in pleasure, so in love with living; and they were trying to pour all that youthful zest into themselves again out of a bottle bought from a bootlegger. Were they having a good time? Who knows? Probably not. A bald-headed man does not particularly enjoy looking at a picture taken in his hirsute youth; and yet there is a certain whimsical pleasure in the memories the picture brings.

For three days there was much gaiety, much singing of class songs, constant parading, dances, speech-making, class circuses, and endless shaking of hands and exchanging of reminiscences. The seniors moved through all the excitement quietly, keeping close to their relatives and friends. Graduation wasn't so thrilling as they had expected it to be; it was more sad. The alumni seemed to be having a good time; they were ridiculously boyish: only the seniors were grave, strangely and unnaturally dignified.

Most of the alumni left the night before the graduation exercises. The parents and fiancees remained. They stood in the middle of the campus and watched the seniors, clad in caps and gowns, line up before the Union at the orders of the class marshal.

Finally, the procession, the grand marshal, a professor, in the lead with a wand in his hand, then President Culver and the governor of the State, then the men who were to receive honorary degrees—a writer, a college president, a philanthropist, a professor, and three politicians—then the faculty in academic robes, their many-colored hoods brilliant against their black gowns. And last the seniors, a long line of them marching in twos headed by their marshal.

The visitors streamed after them into the chapel. The seniors sat in their customary seats, the faculty and the men who were to receive honorary degrees on a platform that had been built at the altar. After they were seated, everything became a blur to Hugh. He hardly knew what was happening. He saw his father and mother sitting in the transept. He thought his mother was crying. He hoped not.... Some one prayed stupidly. There was a hymn.... What was it Cynthia had said? Oh, yes: "I can't marry a stranger." Well, they weren't exactly strangers.... He was darn glad he had gone to New York.... The president seemed to be saying over and over again, "By the power invested in me ..." and every time that he said it, Professor Blake would slip the loop of a colored hood over the head of a writer or a politician—and then it was happening all over again.

Suddenly the class marshal motioned to the seniors to rise. They put on their mortar-boards. The president said once more, "By the power invested in me...." The seniors filed by the president, and the grand marshal handed each of them a roll of parchment tied with blue and orange ribbons. Hugh felt a strange thrill as he took his. He was graduated; he was a bachelor of science.... Back again to their seats. Some one was pronouncing benediction.... Music from the organ—marching out of the chapel, the surge of friends—his father shaking his hand, his mother's arms around his neck; she was crying....

Graduation was over, and, with it Hugh's college days. Many of the seniors left at once. Hugh would have liked to go, too, but his father wanted to stay one more day in Haydensville. Besides, there was a final senior dance that night, and he thought that Hugh ought to attend it.

Hugh did go to the dance, but somehow it brought him no pleasure. Although it was immensely decorous, it reminded him of Cynthia. He thought of her tenderly. The best little girl he'd ever met.... He danced on, religiously steering around the sisters and fiancees of his friends, but he could not enjoy the dance. Shortly after eleven he slipped out of the gymnasium and made one last tour of the campus.

It was a moonlight night, and the campus was mysterious with shadows. The elms shook their leaves whisperingly; the tower of the chapel looked like magic tracery in the moonlight. He paused before Surrey Hall, now dark and empty. Good old Carl.... Carl and Cynthia? He wondered.... Pudge had roomed there, too. He passed on. Keller Hall, Cynthia and Norry.... "God, what a beast I was that night. How white Norry was—and Cynthia, too," Cynthia again. She'd always be a part of Sanford to him. On down to the lake to watch the silver path of the moonlight and the heavy reflections near the shore. Swimming, canoeing, skating—he and Cynthia in the woods beyond.... On back to the campus, around the buildings, every one of them filled with memories. Four years—four beautiful, wonderful years.... Good old Sanford....

Midnight struck. Some one turned a switch somewhere. The Japanese lanterns suddenly lost their colors and faded to gray balloons in the moonlight. Some men were singing on the Union steps. It was a few seniors, Hugh knew; they had been singing for an hour.

He stood in the center of the campus and listened, his eyes full of tears. Earnestly, religiously, the men sang, their voices rich with emotion:

"Sanford, Sanford, mother of men, Love us, guard us, hold us true. Let thy arms enfold us; Let thy truth uphold us. Queen of colleges, mother of men— Alma mater—Sanford—hail! Alma-mater—Hail!—Hail!"

Hugh walked slowly across the campus toward the Nu Delta house. He was both happy and sad—happy because the great adventure was before him with all its mystery, sad because he was leaving something beautiful behind....

THE END