Chapter IV

The various and varying newspaper accounts of the affair awoke Ann Arbor from its peaceful slumber and for a space the town lived. For two days interest developed with the passage of the hours. Speculation became general. Opinions were as many as those who offered them; until there was not a man or woman from the Cat Hole to Ashley Street who did not advance a theory, new or old.

A like puzzlement, but one tempered by more original conjecture, characterized the attitude of the undergraduate body as a whole. For two days Catherwood had not appeared upon the campus, but at all hours friends and mere nodding acquaintances called at his rooms only to be refused admittance by Mrs. Turner, whom he had bade inform all callers that he was ill, very ill, quite too ill to be seen.

Little Green was one of these callers. He had expected the refusal of admission which Mrs. Turner, with many apologies, gave him and straightway he telegraphed his papers that Catherwood was dying as the result of the great bodily injuries he had received at the hands of his unknown undergraduate assailants. For little Green knew by instinct what many a reporter requires long years to learn--that a "story" is "good" just as long as there is a drop of "life" blood left in it, and not an instant longer.

Little Green fairly reveled in the commotion he had caused. The regular college correspondents, anæmic, frightened little fellows, were at a loss to know who had beaten them in their own papers. It was little Green's game, absolutely his, and he purposed playing it alone, aided and abetted in the achievement of this purpose by the various telegraph editors whom he sought to serve. And so far as the faculty was concerned, the frequenter the dispatches, the more woefully addled did the professorial brain become.

Out in the state, and in adjoining states, wise editors, looking down, as it were, from some high place, wrote venomous and vicious editorials in which the legislature was called upon to pass laws abolishing hazing in institutions of the commonwealth by making the practice of it a felony, punishable by imprisonment. Parents in the further west with sons and daughters at Ann Arbor feared for their children's lives. School boards passed resolutions. Guardians wrote to the heads of various university departments asking if their wards were quite safe, alone and unprotected in Ann Arbor. A New York newspaper, on the second day, dispatched its most ingenious "woman reporter" to the scene of action and in three hours the sprightly creature had woven a fictional fabric beside which the tale of Ali Baba was the glowing, gleaming truth. She revived all the half-forgotten stories of ancient hazing rites, dead these many years, and wrote of them as of contemporary practice. And the imaginative artist in the home office illustrated her vivacious article elaborately, seeking to convey to the eye horrors of undergraduate torture that words were useless to describe.

Skeletonized, the story was wired across the sea and the ponderous _Times_ gave forth an editorial in which it averred that such refined cruelty had never been heard of in English academic life; not even in the palmiest days of Rugby and of Eton at the height of the fagging system.

Amidst the wild excitement, little pink-cheeked Green grinned at his reflection in his mirror and exclaimed:

"Gad! You've got 'em goin', Greeny; you've got 'em goin'. Greeny, _you're it_!"

And he was; for three swift, brilliant days.

For then the president came.

He came unannounced save by the telegram the dean received at breakfast on the second day.

He was driven direct to his home; and ten minutes after entering the front door he issued from the back and hastened across the campus.

The registrar met him in the main corridor.

"What is this I have been reading?" he asked sharply. "This that the papers are full of? What is it?"

The registrar followed him into his private office where, as the president unlocked his desk, he explained accurately, tersely, the frenzy that had seized the University, and the town; the state, the nation, and the world.

As he spoke he was interrupted again and again by the characteristic "ah" of the president, who as he listened, toyed with a steel envelope opener.

"And those are the facts in the case as you--that is to say the faculty--know them; are they?" he asked, when the other had done.

The registrar nodded.

"Ah, yes," murmured the president--"now let me see if I have them correct and in their order;" and he recited the story as he had heard it from the other's lips, accurately, succinctly, with no point missing.

"Those are the facts, doctor," the registrar corroborated.

"Ah yes,--quite simple--yes."

The registrar was about to move away.

"Ah, just a moment," the president called. "You know Mr. Catherwood's address----"

"One hundred and three, Williams Street----"

"Ah, yes." And he hastily wrote a note which he folded and addressed.

"Have this delivered to Mr. Catherwood at once at his rooms."

The registrar nodded.

"And if he should call here at the office, have him wait, please--have him wait. I wish a word with professor Lowe."

He vanished into the corridor.

He was absent ten minutes and as he passed through the waiting-room to the inner private office he glanced into the office of the registrar.

He closed the door noiselessly and seating himself at his desk, proceeded with slow deliberation to open his accumulated mail.

* * * * *

The bells in the library tower clanged twelve o'clock. As the last detonation sounded through the high corridors of the main building a timid knock fell upon the door.

The president glanced up quickly. He drew from an inner pocket of his coat two envelopes, which he laid on the top of the desk.

Then:--

"Come in!" he called.

The door opened and Catherwood, streaked of face and hollow eyed, stood upon the threshold.

The president rose.

"Ah, Mr. Catherwood," he exclaimed, smiling.

He advanced upon his caller with outstretched hand.

Catherwood was not conscious of the warm clasp; he only knew one thing--that he had been summoned and that now he was in the presence of the genius of the institution of which he himself was a little part.

"You--you sent for me, sir," he managed to say.

"Yes--ah--you got my note of course. Sit down."

The president seated himself at his desk and wheeled that he might face the odd creature near the door.

"Well, well, Mr. Catherwood," he exclaimed, after a moment, "they appear to have been treating you rather badly, eh?"

Catherwood pleaded with his eyes alone.

"Well, well; what does it all mean, Mr. Catherwood?" he went on, kindly. "You've no enemies here, have you----"

The young man brightened perceptibly--"Not one, sir; that is to say, not one that I know of," he added, less brightly.

"Ah, so I'm told. How do you account for this attack upon you, then?"

Catherwood's eyes dropped to the carpet. The president watched him covertly, fumbling the seal that dangled from his watch-chain.

"I can't," Catherwood replied at last, looking up.

"No, of course you can't. I hardly expected you could," the president exclaimed. "But, Mr. Catherwood"--he spoke slowly--"have you no _idea_ who it was committed this most dastardly assault upon you?"

There was an instant's silence during which Catherwood followed the scroll design of the carpet up one row and down another.

"Yes, sir--_I have._"

"Who?" The president leaned forward.

"I don't feel justified in saying, sir."

Catherwood did not look up as he spoke.

The president leaned back and passed his hand across his forehead.

"Ah, yes; I think I understand, Mr. Catherwood--you--you--perhaps fear the blame may be placed where it should not--a fine sense of justice; Mr. Catherwood--a very fine sense of justice--I congratulate you upon it, sir."

Catherwood glanced up now, moved to a sort of secret impatience by what he assumed to be a note of sarcasm in the president's voice.

But the face his eyes encountered was most kindly.

His eyes fell again.

The president took up the envelope opener and placed the steel point to his lips.

"Mr. Catherwood," he began, and hesitated.

"Yes, sir."

"Of course you know," he went on, "that since my return the facts in your case have been placed before me by certain members of the faculty who are familiar with them."

"Yes, sir," Catherwood murmured.

"Now, Mr. Catherwood, while they have told me many things of interest, there is one little detail that seems to me to have a very important bearing upon the case, but which, for some unaccountable reason, they all seem to have missed. Perhaps you can throw some light upon this dark place." The president indulged here in a round, full laugh.

Encouraged by the infinite kindness of this voice, Catherwood lifted his eyes.

"Yes, sir; if I can--what is it?"

"Ah, yes." The president cleared his throat. "Mr. Catherwood," he resumed calmly, twirling the envelope opener between his fingers, "what I wish so very much to know is _how you managed to tie your hands behind you_!"

"Why I----" Catherwood began, and stopped. He tried to wrench his eyes from those of the president,--calm, blue--but could not. The room whirled. The design in the carpet became the design of the walls and of the ceiling; and there were no windows in the room, or doors--and all was black--black--black, save for two points of light; for there were those calm blue eyes, shining back at his.

And then as though it spoke from some great height he heard the mellow voice in his ears again.

"Go on, Mr. Catherwood," the voice said.

At last he managed to wrench his eyes away and stood up, and strode over to the window and looked out upon the white world. He saw two sparrows poise an instant on the crest of a drift.

"Well, Mr. Catherwood----" The voice again.

He turned slowly. His face was pale beneath the disfiguring streaks and stripes of brown.

"I--I--I confess, sir--I confess."

He flung himself into the chair at the end of the desk and covering his poor face with his two hands, sobbed aloud.

The president waited for the paroxysm to pass.

"Why did you do it, Mr. Catherwood?" he asked, quietly.

"I--I--was afraid of that history examination." The reply came faint.

Turning his face away, he stood up. He groped for his hat.

"But wait a moment, Mr. Catherwood."

Shame-faced the impostor turned, his hand upon the knob of the door.

"You have, I believe, neither credit nor condition in that course. Professor Lowe was at a loss which to give you; and awaited my return. Ah, sit down, Mr. Catherwood."

He obeyed, meekly. He fumbled his cap.

"Ah, Mr. Catherwood." The voice still was calm and even.

"Yes, sir," Catherwood murmured without changing his position.

"Mr. Catherwood, this is a delicate case--I may say a most delicate case. It is unique in my experience. Indeed I believe it is _absolutely_ unique. Moreover, honesty compels me to say that it was most ingeniously managed--_most_ ingeniously."

The president coughed and raised his hand to his lips. Catherwood looked up an instant and then away again.

"Now, Mr. Catherwood," the president went on in the same dispassionate tone, "let us look first at the case from your point of view. You were zealous to pass your history course, ahem, too zealous, perhaps. However, be that as it may. And I am right, am I not, when I infer that your zeal, your desire in the matter, is still unabated?"

Catherwood nodded, slightly.

"Ah, I thought so. So be it. It is your zeal, then, that induces a certain definite longing for the credit in that course? Am I right?"

"Yes, sir." Weakly.

"Ah, yes. But, Mr. Catherwood, there is that beside our zeal to which we must listen. There is our conscience."

Catherwood shifted uneasily.

"Consult _your_ conscience, Mr. Catherwood. Shall I tell you what it whispers? Very well. It bids you ask for a condition--a condition, Mr. Catherwood."

"Give it me, doctor; give it me."

The suddenness, the eagerness of the request caused the president to raise his eyebrows. The pale ghost of a smile lingered an instant about his lips.

He held out a restraining hand.

"Just a moment, Mr. Catherwood," he said. "There is another point of view. Mine."

Catherwood had sunk back into his previous attitude of dejection.

"I may state it briefly," the president continued. "My interest in the proper conduct of this University, Mr. Catherwood, bids me give you a condition in the course to which we--ah--have referred. But--and I say this frankly--my interest in you, my boy, bids me hesitate. You are young. Your whole life is before you. A misstep now might mean the ruin of that life."

Catherwood caught his breath with a little spasm of the throat.

"Far be it from me to be the cause of such a misstep." The president spoke less rapidly now. "Too, you have brains. This--ah--your recent exploit is proof of that. Such ingenuity properly directed might work great good for not only you, but--ah--the country at large. Mr. Catherwood,"--every word was voiced with a cutting precision--"my genuine interest in you prompts me to give you your credit in this course; but----"

Catherwood started in his chair. The face he turned to the president was aglow; the eyes alight.

"_But_," the speaker emphasized--"I am not permitted to do this, Mr. Catherwood. Had you taken that examination you might--mind you I say 'might'--have passed. Again you might not. There would have been, you see, an element of chance. Mr. Catherwood, we shall let Chance hold the scales this morning."

The young man looked up wonderingly.

"I don't understand, sir," he said, weakly.

In his hand the president held two envelopes.

"Mr. Catherwood," he said, "you see these envelopes? Yes. Well, in one of them--I do not know which one--is a credit-slip; in the other is a condition. The envelopes are sealed."

He held them out to the limp creature at the end of the desk.

"Choose," he commanded.

Catherwood shrank back. "Oh, sir," he murmured, brokenly.

"Choose."

Their eyes met then; and there was that in the president's that forbade his disobeying.

He put forth a trembling hand. His fingers touched the smooth paper. He drew. He crushed the envelope in his hand.

"Is--is--that all, sir?" he begged, falteringly.

"That is all, Mr. Catherwood, good-morning."

And he seized his cap and rushed from the room.

The president, alone, leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. Then he looked down. He still held the second envelope.

He ran the slim blade of the ebon-handled dagger beneath the flap and ripped it open.

He drew out the slip that it contained.

A queer little look came into his eyes. Then he pursed his lips, and smiled.

He tore the slip into tiny flakes and let them fall from his open hand like snow, into the waste-basket.

Just then the bells in the library tower clanged out four times.

"Dear, dear!" exclaimed the president. "Half-past one! I shall be late for luncheon!"

And gathering up his coat and hat he left his office, hurriedly.

THE DOOR--A NOCTURNE

There is a pale moon, consequently the electric street-lamps are unlighted. The setting is nowise picturesque. The street is narrow, unpaved, and fringed on either side with maples in leaf. It is late June. To right and left, are to be discerned behind the trees rows of characterless frame houses, that, for the greater part, are set well back in yards, where, here and there, are lilac bushes, rose trees, smoke trees, and silver birches, ghostly in the thin light. The moon's rays, glimmering upon the latched green blinds of the lower stories--which seem black--streak them with white.

At the end of the block, on the east side of the street, stands a house markedly different from the others. It is three stories in height, whilst they are two; the lawn, cut by a gravel path, slopes gently to the walk, and is close cropped; across the front of the house and continuing unbroken along either side to the back is a broad, covered porch with a spindled rail at its edge like a little fence. The only door is at the top of the path, in front. In a window directly above the door is a card the legend on which the moon makes clear--"Rooms to Rent." There is no fence about the place. On the south side another gravel path, narrower than the one in front and bordered with box, links the sidewalk to the porch. The main path prongs to still another set of steps on the north side. The house is white and looms big in the paleness. In a pear-tree near the south porch-steps a katydid scrapes her dreary tune; whilst, on the north steps, a vagrant cat sits in silent adoration of the night, contemplating, presumably, the joys thereof. A stillness made the more tangible by the katydid's song pervades the scene.

The deep throated bells in the library tower on the campus ring out six times--ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong. Accurately it lacks but fifteen minutes of being midnight.

Suddenly the song of the katydid ceases, and the cat, seized with panic, leaps from the north steps and vanishes beneath the grape trellis at the back. Footfalls sound on the cement, and presently a couple slant across the lawn to the porch, issuing from the shadow of the trees into the white light that floods the lawn. He is seen to be a well set up youth who looks twenty-three. It is the moon, for he is twenty. Upon his blond head is perched a slouch hat of a dirty gray color and bound with a wide black band. His trousers, turned up at the ankles, are baggy at the hips and bulge beneath the belted Norfolk jacket that he wears. His hat is pulled down rakishly in front. She is a head shorter than he, and plump. Were it high noon her face would glow ruddy. She wears a straw sailor-hat such as no sailor ever wore; a shirt waist, and a white duck skirt that flares at the hem and appears somewhat crumpled. Her steps are mincing; he slouches. Between them they carry by its two out-springing handles a small luncheon hamper. He is a junior; his walk gives the clue to his class. So is she; so does hers. At the porch he sets the basket on the lowest step and turns to her:--

JAMIE. Well, we beat 'em; didn't we?

HILDA [_fumbling in her finger purse_]. Uh huh. Let's go up-stairs and wait.

JAMIE [_doubtfully_]. Had we better? Won't your landlady think---- It's awful late.

HILDA [_testily_]. We don't pay her three dollars a week to think; besides, they'll surely be here in a minute. We couldn't have been more than a mile ahead of them. They're at the livery now, probably. [_During this speech she fumbles in her purse._] Oh, dear!

JAMIE [_endeavoring to smother a yawn_]. Wha's mat'r?

HILDA [_looking up at him and making a little moüe_]. I can't find my key!

JAMIE [_with a quick show of interest_]. You haven't lost it, have you?

HILDA [_snappishly_]. Well, it isn't here, anyway. Oh, oh, oh, how mad it makes me to lose things--but--I remember now; I left it on the _chiffonier_ while we were dressing. Just to think I should have come away and left it lying there--oh, dear! [_She gazes up at him appealingly._]

JAMIE [_a note of resignation in his voice, perhaps, which she, however, does not seem to perceive_]. What's the difference? We'll wait for 'em. Minnie'll have hers, won't she? It'll be nicer waiting out here, anyway. Look at that moon! Beaut, isn't it? [_He takes up the basket and moves away._]

HILDA. Where are you going?

JAMIE [_perhaps significantly_]. 'Round on the side porch; this is too near the street.

HILDA [_following him, and aside_]. I can't see why they don't come. [_Aloud._] Can we hear them?

JAMIE. Sure! [_He sets the basket beside one of the pillars of the north porch. They both sit on the top step, she with her elbows on her knees, her chin in her two hands. For a space he whistles softly between his teeth. Thereafter they converse in half-whispers._]

JAMIE. They'll be along in a minute.

HILDA. I hope so. They will unless Herbert's persuaded her to go hunting for flowers by moonlight. I wouldn't be as crazy over botany as he is for all the degrees the old university gives. [_She edges nearer him and, taking his hand in one of hers, draws his arm around her waist. Sighing._] Oh, dear!

JAMIE [_bringing his face closer to hers_]. What is it--angel?

HILDA [_with infinite--or, almost infinite, tenderness_]. Oh, nothing. I was only thinking about the day; how happy it has been.

JAMIE [_tenderly_]. Has it been, dear?

HILDA [_her head against his shoulder_]. You know it has--lovely--perfect!

JAMIE. What made it?

HILDA. You know what....

JAMIE No, I don't; tell me. What?

HILDA [_with tender impatience_]. Why you, of course, foolish--because we were together, and all that....

JAMIE. Oh!

HILDA. Now, what did you say "oh" for?

JAMIE. I don't know--because I'm glad you enjoyed the day, I guess.

HILDA. Did you want me to enjoy it--very much?

JAMIE. Of course I did, dear; I want you to be happy all the time---- We are going to be happy always, aren't we?

HILDA. Are we?

JAMIE. Aren't we?

HILDA [_tenderly_]. Y-e-s---- [_Their lips are very close. The moon rushes behind a cloud._] There! Now you've shocked the man in the moon!

JAMIE. I guess he's used to it. I wish I had a dollar for all the times he's seen that!

HILDA. And just think! There isn't a soul he can talk to about it!

JAMIE. Maybe he tells Mars; you don't know.

HILDA. Oh, Jamie, you ought to take course one in astronomy! Mars and the moon are miles and miles apart!

JAMIE. Are they?

HILDA [_tapping his hand_]. Yes, and you ought to know it.

JAMIE. But I don't know as much as you do, dearie.

HILDA. That's a very pretty speech, but you do, all the same. Sometimes I think you know just a little bit more.

JAMIE. Well, I don't; besides, how could I? You're working for Ph. B., and I'll only get a cheap old B. L.

HILDA. That's your own fault. You could have selected Ph. B. Herbert did.

JAMIE. But Herbert knows more than I do, too. [_He grins, away from her._]

HILDA. Why, Jamie, he doesn't either! He doesn't know _anything_ but botany. I'm glad you aren't an old prosy botanist.

JAMIE. Maybe I'm not a very good botanist, but I've prided myself on my taste in flowers----

HILDA. Now what makes you say that? You don't know a cowslip from a hollyhock!

JAMIE. Maybe not, but I fell in love with you, didn't I?

HILDA [_snuggling very close_]. Dearest! [_Again the modest man in the moon hides his face behind a cloud._]

JAMIE [_reminiscently_]. Do you remember what happened a month ago to-night?

HILDA [_softly_]. Of course I do.

JAMIE. What?

HILDA [_more softly_]. You proposed.

JAMIE [_stroking her hair_]. Where?

HILDA. Why, where we were to-day--at Whitmore--in Mr. Stevens' sail-boat.

JAMIE. Yes, that's so. I thought maybe you'd forgotten....

HILDA [_drawing back_]. Jamie! Forget! Never! Why that's the greatest thing that ever comes into a girl's life! Forget it? How could you!

JAMIE. And you're just the same?

HILDA [_her head against his shoulder again_]. Always!

JAMIE. The old lake looked somewhat different to-day, didn't it; so many of the cottages open, and such a crowd around?

HILDA. Yes, but it wasn't so nice as it was that day. I thought there were just a few too many around to-day, didn't you?

JAMIE. Yes--once--or--twice----

HILDA. Why?

JAMIE. Oh, because I wanted to walk on and on alone with you--just you. I wanted to talk to you as we're talking now, but I couldn't with so many folks everywhere. But I had my chance when we started for home. I looked for interference; that's why I suggested separate carriages.

HILDA [_indifferently_]. I knew it.

JAMIE. You did? Now that shows you know more than I do. I didn't think you'd understand.

HILDA. Did you really think me as dense as all that?

JAMIE. I'm afraid I did. But I shan't again. I shall tell you everything, hereafter. I find I might as well.

HILDA [_earnestly_]. Yes, you might, just exactly as well, for I shall know, anyway.

JAMIE. I wonder if they had a good time.

HILDA. Who; Herbert and Minnie? Of course they did.

JAMIE. Do you think they care anything for each other?

HILDA. Do I think so? Why, how should I know?

JAMIE. You're her room-mate, aren't you?

HILDA. Oh, yes, I'm her room-mate; but I might as well not be for all she tells me about herself.

JAMIE. Does she ever say anything about him?

HILDA. Not a word.

JAMIE [_somewhat sarcastically_]. She seemed willing enough to go to the picnic; and I don't remember that she protested very violently when I suggested we go in separate carriages.

HILDA. Of course she wanted to go. Any girl likes a good time now and then on a Saturday, after working hard all the week. And Minnie does work hard. But her wanting to go doesn't prove anything. And as for the separate carriages, no girl likes to be bundled in with a crowd.

JAMIE. Yes, maybe that's so. As far as I'm concerned, I'm glad she didn't protest.

HILDA. So am I. Do you think Herbert cares for her?

JAMIE. Oh, I don't know. I'm not very well acquainted with him. He's always stuck in that musty old laboratory. I don't see him often. I'd never have thought of including him in the picnic, to-day, if you hadn't suggested it.

HILDA. Oh, well, there wasn't any one else; I couldn't go and leave Minnie. He'd called here two or three times, and he took her to the Forty Club once; I thought he'd do.

JAMIE. He did, I guess. They hadn't much to say to each other, but maybe they had a good time all the same.

HILDA. Well, you know, she never has very much to say, nor he either, for that matter.

JAMIE. I know it; all I could think of, seeing them up in front of the boat, was a pair of owls.

HILDA. Don't make fun of them, Jamie. Minnie's _awfully_ bright. Why she's made up her mind to come back next year and take her Master's degree. Think of that!

JAMIE. Is that so? I wonder if Herbert's coming too.

HILDA. I don't know. I've never heard him say. I don't believe Minnie knows either. He's a splendid student, too. [_Anxiously._] I don't see why in the world they don't come. Jamie, maybe they've had an accident!

JAMIE. Oh, no, they haven't. That old giraffe of theirs couldn't run away. They're walking up from the livery now, like as not, just as we did. They'll be here in a minute. Maybe we came in faster than we thought. It's a good ten miles, and with their horse it would take 'em half again as long as it did us.

HILDA. Maybe.

JAMIE [_irrelevantly_]. Jove! What a magnificent night this is!

HILDA. Isn't it? And see how round the moon is--it's perfectly lovely.

JAMIE. Dearest!

HILDA. What?

JAMIE. I love you.

HILDA [_pressing his arm_]. Sweetheart!

JAMIE. I do. [HILDA _murmurs incoherently._]

Tired of scurrying, the silent moon shines down upon these two of all the world, regardless. They lapse into silence--he holding one of her hands--and gaze at the pale orb of night floating up the sky. A couple turn the corner, south of the house. The young man is tall and angular. He wears huge spectacles. His face is thin and wan, very like that of the girl beside him. Indeed, they have many physical characteristics in common. She, too, wears spectacles. Her mouth is straight, her complexion cloudy, but her eyes give evidence of an active brain behind them. He carries a luncheon basket awkwardly. At the corner they stop and he turns away as she lifts her dark cloth overskirt, and searches for her pocket. The quill, riding her curled-brimmed straw-hat at an angle of danger, sways impatiently.

HERBERT [_calmly_]. Something appears to annoy you--have you----

MINNIE [_impetuously_]. I've lost my key! Now isn't that aggravating! To think anything so perfectly absurd should----

HERBERT. The others haven't yet arrived apparently. Possibly we might----

MINNIE [_with surprise_]. Oh, I wouldn't have you wait for the world! It must be one o'clock! [_She glances up at a window of the second floor._] No, evidently, they haven't come. There's no light. Of course Hilda would wait. Well, we'll ring and arouse the landlady; that's all.

HERBERT [_solicitously_]. _Please_ don't think it would annoy me to wait for your room-mate and her friend--here on the porch. It wouldn't in the least, I assure you. Besides, it always puts one out to be awakened late at night, and I dare say your landlady isn't a young person.

MINNIE [_smiling_]. It's _very_ good of you. She _isn't_ young; she's quite old. Quite as old, I think, as my mother. Still I _could_ ring, you know.

HERBERT. Oh, don't, please don't; that is, don't on my account. This isn't late for me. I often study till two. Besides, to-morrow will be Sunday, and one isn't required to be about so early on Sunday.

MINNIE [_still smiling_]. I think it would be a trifle more accurate if you had said, "This is Sunday." I am positive it is after midnight. Have you a watch?

HERBERT. I am exceedingly sorry, but--but I didn't wear my watch to-day; being around the water, I thought--I thought, I might lose----

MINNIE. Yes, one does have to be careful around the water. I've lost my key, I know!

HERBERT. I can't tell you how sorry I am.

MINNIE. And the injustice of it is that you must be the one to suffer--waiting here for Hilda.

HERBERT. I shan't suffer; it will be a pleasure, believe----

MINNIE. It's very good of you, of course; but you are quite sure I hadn't better ring?

HERBERT. Quite. Don't do it, really. It's a lovely night, and----

MINNIE. Well, we'd better sit on the porch, then, it's rather damp here, don't you think? [_She moves toward the south steps._]

HERBERT [_following_]. Yes, I believe it is rather damp. There's been a heavy dew. One can't afford to get one's feet wet with so much bronchitis about.

MINNIE [_sitting on the top step_]. No indeed--I can't imagine where they can be! They were ahead of us all the way in. Why didn't we think to ask at the livery if----

HERBERT. I'm sure it wouldn't have done any good. You see they didn't get their horse where I got ours.

MINNIE. Oh, yes, to be sure. [_Anxiously._] But where in the world can they be?

HERBERT. I recall having read once--in some French book if I remember rightly--that one should never count upon an affianced couple being in a given place at a given time.

MINNIE [_smiling at him_]. I'm not sure that isn't true. Still, Hilda is usually quite discreet, and I can't----

HERBERT. Doubtless they'll be here in a moment; I shouldn't worry.

MINNIE [_suddenly_]. Why, how very impolite of me. To allow you to sit there all this time holding that basket. Won't you set it on the porch? [HERBERT _has held the basket on his knees with his hands spread out over the cover._]

HERBERT. Oh--ah--I wasn't thinking of--there, I guess that will be safe. [_He sets the basket on the porch at his side._]

MINNIE [_leaning forward and gazing past him toward the street_]. I wish they'd come! Wasn't it perfectly absurd of me to lose my key? Keeping you here! Are you quite sure you'd just as lief?

HERBERT. Yes, indeed--really--I like to sit out--really, it doesn't matter, not in the least.

MINNIE. Well while we are waiting we might as well go on where we left off. You were saying, on the way up from the livery---- [_Hardly for a moment has_ HERBERT _taken his eyes off the girl at his side._]

HERBERT [_floundering_]. Oh, yes, as I was saying--the--oh--ah--I was say--what _was_ I saying, Miss----

MINNIE. Have you forgotten so soon? I'm afraid the subject couldn't have held all your thought. You were telling me about the triliums.

HERBERT [_brightly_]. Oh, yes, to be sure; of course--the triliums. I was telling you they were to be found on the plains--of all places in the world--right in the heart of the great American desert--as I'm told.

MINNIE [_earnestly_]. Are they, indeed? Really, I never heard of such a thing. Gray says positively, I am sure, that they are to be found growing only in damp soil; near rivers, for instance, or in marshes. I've never succeeded in finding them around here anywhere except down by the Huron River or out State Street at Tamarack Swamp. And to think of them growing away out there! It is the strangest thing I ever heard of--why, there's no water for miles, is there?

HERBERT. Not a drop. I'm told they've been found in the most barren places; flowering alongside cacti and sage-brush.

MINNIE. You are quite sure they were the trilium, are you? It's possible of course----

HERBERT. That my informant might be mistaken--yes; but I don't think he was. They look precisely the same, and they analyze the same. I've seen his specimens. The leaf is identical in form. It is a trifle larger, that is all. I've never been able to distinguish any other variation, however slight.

MINNIE. Have you ever mentioned it to Professor Yarb? I'm sure----

HERBERT. Yes, I told him about them, and last summer I sent him a box. He analyzed them and is as much mystified as I. He's going to write a paper on the subject for this year's meeting of the American Society.

MINNIE. How I should love to see some! I wonder if it would be too much trouble for you to send me a few; just one or two. You have some pressed, doubtless. I'd like to take a hand in solving the riddle. I intend to keep up with my botany, no matter where or what I teach, finally.

HERBERT [_joyfully_]. Do you? Do you, really?

MINNIE [_earnestly_]. I do indeed.

HERBERT. Of course I'll send you some. I'll mail you a box as soon----

MINNIE [_with a protesting gesture_]. Oh, I wouldn't have you go to that trouble for the world. Just two or three, in an envelope. They will do quite as well. [_She leans forward again and gazes past him down the street. He does not draw back as he did before._] Why in the world don't they come? I shall have to talk to Hilda, severely.

HERBERT. Oh, don't be hard on her. They're in--that is to say, they think a very great deal of each other, and no doubt----

MINNIE. But it is so terribly late!

HERBERT. I know, but it's very pleasant--such a night--much pleasanter than it is inside. And as for sleep, why one can sleep any night, while such a moon as that, up there, one can't see often.

MINNIE [_quickly_]. I do believe you're sentimental. I'm not a bit, so we'll never get on.

HERBERT [_gazing into space_]. I don't think two people ought to be alike---- [_He catches himself, stares at the moon and whistles without whistling. Minnie regards him curiously from the end of her eye._]

MINNIE [_examining the cuff of one sleeve_]. What do you mean by that?

HERBERT [_again floundering_]. I--oh--ah--I was just thinking---- We had a lecture on some such subject in psychology the other day.

MINNIE [_with a little sigh_]. Do you enjoy psychology?

HERBERT. Very much.

MINNIE. Have you ever made any experiments?

HERBERT. Only a few, just the more common ones. I've only had one course in it, you see.

MINNIE [_making a thrilling conversational leap_]. I've no doubt it is all very fascinating, but I don't think I should care to marry a psychologist.

HERBERT [_quickly; edging nearer_]. But I'm not a psychologist! I'm a botanist.

MINNIE [_very softly; looking away_]. What do you mean--I----

HERBERT [_seemingly about to run madly into the face of the storm, but recovering himself_]. I--oh--ah--I was just defending myself, you know. But why wouldn't you care to marry one?

MINNIE [_sighing again_]. Oh, I don't know. I think I should be in mortal terror all the time that he was just analyzing me and every one of my motives.

HERBERT [_dreamily_]. I don't think you would have occasion. If he loved you he couldn't----

MINNIE [_trying to laugh lightly and succeeding in emitting a rather tame cackle_]. Love me! The idea! Who would ever love a spectacled old thing like me?

HERBERT. Oh, you don't know, you know. Besides you shouldn't talk that way about yourself.

MINNIE [_smiling full at him_]. I should tell the truth, shouldn't I?

HERBERT [_locking and unlocking his fingers_]. But it isn't the truth.

MINNIE [_looking down_]. Oh!

HERBERT [_with real courage_]. That's the truth! You see the difference, don't you?

MINNIE. Well, I'd like to know what I am if I'm not that. No one ever intimated before that I am anything else. My little brother has maintained it ever since he learned to talk.

HERBERT. Well, you're not; you're---- [_He hesitates. Thereafter he speaks quite as a locomotive puffs on a steep grade. There are two or three large, lusty puffs followed by a chain of spasmodic little puffs_.]

MINNIE [_encouragingly_]. Yes?

HERBERT. You're not! You're a--oh, don't you understand? I can't keep from telling you any longer, really--I tried to in the carriage, but the road was so bumpy, I---- It seems as though I must make you understand. Please try to--I---- Don't you see! I care for you very, very much and--I wrote my people all about it and--oh, don't you see, Miss---- I mean Minnie---- I want to ask---- Will you----

MINNIE [_they are very close. She looks up at him feelingly_]. Herbert! [_The moon, aghast, dazed, thrown into a veritable spasm of lunar consternation, darts behind a cloud. But these two do not notice. The moon is forgotten--all is forgotten--the stars, the earth, the hour--even botany! Their heads are near together; thus they remain a long time, without speaking. The katydid has ceased again her dismal song, and long since the cat slunk away behind the grape-trellis to seek new fields. The intense stillness of the hour absorbs them and makes them a part of itself. After a myriad æons a bird, somewhere, pipes a warning note, which is taken up by another bird. The couple on the further porch stir. Her head has been resting against his shoulder and for a little time she has slept. In one hand he holds a bit of angel's food, left over from the luncheon, which he from time to time has nibbled indifferently._]

JAMIE [_flinging the cake away and stretching_]. Gee whiz!

HILDA [_starting, sleepily_]. Wha--what is it?

JAMIE [_grumblingly_]. Aw, nothin', I just wish they'd come, that's all.

HILDA [_plaintively_]. Aren't you happy, dear?

JAMIE [_yawning_]. Oh, I'm happy enough, I suppose, but this porch isn't exactly downy; I feel as though I'd been sitting here a month.

HILDA [_sighing_]. Well I can't see where they are, either--for the life of me.

JAMIE [_bitterly_]. The darned fools!

HILDA [_with horror_]. Jamie!

JAMIE. Well, aren't they?

HILDA [_with some show of spirit_]. No, they're not; and if you're so sick of sitting here, why don't you go home; I can wait. I'm not afraid.

JAMIE [_yawning again_]. Don't be silly.

HILDA. It seems to me you're the silly one; just as though you couldn't----

JAMIE [_impatiently_]. Well, if you think it's fun sitting here all night waiting for two soft heads that don't know enough to ache when they're in pain, you're _mistaken_; that's all.

HILDA [_moving away from him_]. I should think you'd be ashamed!

JAMIE [_with rising impatience_]. That's right; now get _mad_!

HILDA. I'm not mad; so there! But--I---- [_She begins to sniffle suspiciously. For some time neither speaks. The moon has waned and a strange, new light, of a sickly cast, is rising in the eastern sky. A restless bird in a tree near by pipes one nervous note; then all is silence again._]

JAMIE [_stretching and again yawning_]. What are you crying about?

HILDA [_swallowing two or three times, chokingly_]. I--I--I'm not crying----

JAMIE [_indifferently and quite as though he felt he must say something_]. You are, too; what about?

HILDA. Nothing.

JAMIE. [_He mutters._]

HILDA. What did you say?

JAMIE [_doggedly_]. I didn't say anything.

HILDA [_coming a little closer_]. You did, too, and I want to know what it was.

JAMIE [_impatiently_]. I didn't say anything, I tell you!

HILDA [_choking up again_]. That's right; now be ugly; just as though it were my fault; when you yourself suggested that we sit here.

JAMIE. I didn't think it would be for all night!

HILDA [_sticking to the point_]. Well you did suggest it, didn't you?

JAMIE [_jerking his head_]. Oh, I suppose so! [_He sits with his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, and gazes at the rising light._]

HILDA. I'm just as tired as you are.

JAMIE [_sneeringly_]. Yes, I've no doubt!

HILDA [_hopelessly_]. Oh, Jamie!

JAMIE [_with a fiendishly sarcastic grin that she doesn't see between her fingers_]. And you're catching cold, too.

HILDA [_recovering_]. Why, I'm not either; what makes you say that?

JAMIE [_with withering sarcasm_]. Oh, aren't you? I thought you were--by the sniffles!

HILDA [_with some return of her former spirit_]. You're a mean, horrid, old thing, just as mean and horrid as you can be; and I'll never speak to you again as long as I live!

JAMIE [_significantly_]. Oh, I guess you will.

HILDA. Well, I won't.

JAMIE [_gleefully_]. There, didn't I tell you you would?

HILDA. Well, I won't again.

JAMIE. Oh, you won't, eh?

HILDA. [_No answer._]

JAMIE. So that's it, is it?

HILDA. [_Still no answer._]

JAMIE [_shrugging his shoulders_]. Oh, very well; just as you like! [_How fortunate for the sympathetic man in the moon that he's not here to see. Now, the eastern sky shows a tinge of pale gray, shading into light violet. Here and there a bird lifts its voice; the notes are taken up and passed along as sentries pass the call for the corporal of the guard. From afar comes the jangle of metal, and the bell of an early milkman clangs. A sleepy girl issues from the back door of the two-story house across the street. A canvas-covered wagon drawn by two horses lumbers past._]

HILDA [_rising and indicating the basket with dignity_]. Hug!

JAMIE [_passing it to her_]. Where you going?

HILDA [_after a moment's hesitation_]. I'm going to wake up the girl.

JAMIE [_attempting to restrain her_]. Oh, don't do that; I'm very sorry----

HILDA [_icily_]. There's no need of your being sorry, at all.

JAMIE. But I----

HILDA [_with arctic frigidity_]. It is quite unnecessary for us to say anything further about it, I think.

JAMIE [_pleading_]. Won't you forgive me?

HILDA. [_For answer she tosses her head._]

JAMIE [_in the same tone as before_]. Won't you--Hilda?

HILDA. [_Still no reply. She stands at his side holding the basket, not deigning even to look down at him._]

JAMIE. What are you thinking, dear? Tell me!

HILDA. Oh, nothing of much consequence; only just how mean you have been and----

JAMIE [_interposing_]. But I've asked you to----

HILDA. If I'm not mistaken I've said there is no use of our talking further about it.

JAMIE [_rising as she turns_]. Then you won't say anything to me?

HILDA. I don't think there is anything to be said.

JAMIE [_with dogged resignation_]. Very well, then--Hush! [_From the other porch comes the sound of light footfalls._]

HILDA [_without attending_]. It is probably the girl. [_She proceeds to the front; he follows. As they turn the corner_, MINNIE _and_ HERBERT _turn the corner, opposite, and the couples confront each other_.]

MINNIE. Hilda!

HILDA. Minnie!

MINNIE. Hilda, where in the world have you been?

HILDA. And I should like to know where in the world you have been?

MINNIE [_severely and indicating the porch behind her_]. We've been sitting on that porch all night, waiting for you.

HILDA [_mocking her severity and indicating the porch behind her_]. And we've been sitting on that porch all night, waiting for you!

JAMIE [_to_ HILDA _coldly_]. Now that you have other company, I'll go. Good-bye! [_He rushes down the steps._]

HILDA [_running to the rail and calling after him softly_]. Jamie! Jamie! Oh, Jamie! [_He apparently does not hear her._ HERBERT _stands by fumbling his hat and looking first at one girl then at the other, wonderingly_. HILDA _turns from the rail and gazes at_ MINNIE _who returns the gaze searchingly_. HILDA _bites her lower lip and looks down_. MINNIE _leans against the casing of the front door, her hand on the knob. She anticipates a scene._]

MINNIE. Good-night--Herbert!

HERBERT. Good-night--Minnie! [_They exchange one loving look and he is off. He proceeds in a direction opposite to that taken by_ JAMIE.]

MINNIE [_regarding_ HILDA _whose eyes are upon her and filled with surprise_]. Hilda--tell me--what----

HILDA [_hiding her face against the shoulder of her room-mate, who strokes her hair caressingly_]. Oh, Minnie--Minnie--he's gone--it's broken----

MINNIE [_convulsively, her grasp upon the doorknob, tightening. The knob turns. The door swings back_]. Oh! See!

HILDA [_lifting her face_]. Oh! [_Her eyes meet_ MINNIE'S. _In the latter there is a smile which she shares weakly_.]

MINNIE. This is too absurd! Open all night!

HILDA [_trying hard not to cry_]. Oh, Minnie! I don't know what----

MINNIE [_her arm around_ HILDA]. There dear. Don't cry. It will come out all right. And to think you should have broken with Jamie while Herbert and I were---- [_They pass into the hallway._ MINNIE, _by closing the door softly behind them, renders the rest unintelligible to any one who might be passing just at this instant_.]

A MODERN MERCURY