election, and the young man, making some incoherent excuse, rose to go into the other car. But the other car was crowded, and he had to come back, heavy bags in hand. When Mr. Illington, not in the least offended, asked him whether he was a traveling man, he answered so gruffly that he was left in peace.

In spite of the fact that this was the eve of Commencement and that numerous fathers and mothers were to be its guests, the Waltonville Hotel sent no porters to the station to meet the train. It was taken for granted that those persons who were able to travel were able also to carry their hand luggage. Those who had trunks or sample cases sent Black Jerry down from the hotel after they had registered.

The young man knew nothing of old Jerry, so he carried his many changes of clothing, his silver-mounted toilet articles, and his books in his own hand. He stepped from the train almost before it stopped, anxious to secure for himself as good accommodations as were to be had, and asked of the amused station agent the location of the best hotel. The agent looked after his rapidly disappearing figure and winked at the baggage-man as if to say, "I wonder what he will think of it when he sees it!"

When the young man reached the hotel, having stumbled and almost fallen on protruding bricks in the uneven pavement, the expression of weariness on his face changed to one of disgust. The hotel was small; its furnishings were poor and rickety; it was not clean; and it was saturated throughout with the odors of stale beer and stale cooking. To engage a room one must enter the bar-room and endure the scrutiny of half a dozen pairs of curious eyes peering out of dull, bloated faces. The young man set his bags down heavily and asked for the best room in the house.

The landlord looked at him with a sour smile.

"They're all pretty much alike."

"Any with baths?"

"No, sir."

"Isn't this a college town?"

"I believe they call it that."

"Humph!" said the stranger. Then he wrote his name, "Evan Utterly, New York," in a square hand in the untidy, blotted register and the landlord gave him a key to Number Five.

"First room at the head of the stairs. You can find it. Name's on the door."

"Thank you," said Mr. Utterly. He intended to convey stern reproof by his tone so that the landlord should burn with mortification. But his tone was not reproving, it was exclamatory. His eyes had lifted to a picture hung above the dingy mirror behind the bar. It was a poor old English print, representing the arrival of the stage at an inn door. From the stage window leaned the head of a young girl, who looked with a frightened expression at the coarse face of the landlord, while a little dog barked furiously at the horses. The poor picture seemed to have some powerful fascination for the stranger. His tone became eager.

"Did you ever hear of any one named Basil Everman?" he asked.

"Never."

"How long have you been here?"

"Ten years."

"Did you ever hear of any one by the name of Everman?"

The landlord turned to wait upon the first of the advancing fathers.

"Never," said he.

Into the face of one of the loafers came a startled look. This was the lawyer, Bates, who had dulled a fine mind by dissipation and of whom little Eleanor Bent lived in terror. The mention of Basil Everman seemed to amaze him. His brow was for an instant furrowed as though he tried to concentrate all his powers of mind upon some long-past circumstance, but he was not able, at this hour of the day, to concentrate upon anything, and presently the fumes of liquor and tobacco and the warm summer air sent him back into the state of somnolence from which he had been roused.

Utterly found a hard, uneven bed in an unaired room and spent a wretchedly uncomfortable night filled with foolish dreams of impossible quests. So depressed was he with the last search, which seemed to extend over years and years and lead nowhere, that his first act upon waking was to reach out and take in his hand the thin old magazines which lay in his bag on a chair near by and open to "Bitter Bread."

"It was late afternoon when she reached her destination," he read. "There, instead of the eager face of Arnold, she saw looking from the inn door the cruel face of Corbin; there, instead of Arnold's welcoming voice, she heard the sharp bark of Corbin's unfriendly dog."

Having read the two sentences, which seemed to restore his confidence, Utterly rose, dressed himself in white flannel, and went down to the dining-room.

Breakfast was, as was to be expected, poor. But among the mildly excited persons with whom the room was filled, Utterly was at first the only one who complained. Mothers and fathers were nervous with fear that John and Harry might not do well; sisters watched, bright-eyed, for brothers and the friends of brothers. Mr. Illington stopped at Utterly's end of one of the long, untidy tables to bid him good-morning. He called him now by his name, having consulted the hotel register, and offered in friendly fashion to introduce him to "the girls."

There was, Utterly said to himself, but one person with a mind in the room. The person whom he thus distinguished was Dr. Green, who came late and brought with him the strong odor of drugs which betrayed his profession. He moved his chair as though he would have liked to relieve a black mood by tossing it above his head, and perhaps by slamming it down upon the floor. His quick motions and his bright eyes indicated an abundance of physical and mental energy, neither of which had, perhaps, full exercise. Having waited long for a late-appearing housekeeper, he had at last sped down the street to the hotel. Now he ordered breakfast sharply and impatiently.

Old Jerry, waiter as well as man-of-all-work, obeyed him spryly with many a chuckled "Yes, doctor; yes, mars'r," which indicated that the doctor was a less formidable person than he seemed.

"That good-for-nothin' Jinnie ought to go to Geo'gia trade, mars'r, that's where she ought to be sent a-flyin'. Didn't get you no breakfus! Yes, mars'r, these is meant for cakes." Old Jerry looked toward the kitchen. "That one out there's like Jinnie, mars'r. The wimmen, they is all alike, seems to me."

The doctor looked as though he agreed with Jerry's humorous disgust with the sex. Utterly, watching him, grew more certain that here at last was promise of intelligence. He might have been less sure of the doctor's intelligence could he have seen the complete turn of head and body which followed his own exit.

"These," said Dr. Green, "go clad as the angels."

Jerry bent to pick up the doctor's napkin, and once bent to the floor, found it difficult to rise, so convulsed was he.

"Yes, mars'r, that am so."

Stopping at the bar on his way from the dining-room, Utterly asked the hotel-keeper the name of the teacher of English at the college. The hotel-keeper regarded his white apparel with unconcealed astonishment, and shook his head.

"Can't tell you. Don't believe you can do any business out there this morning. They're having their graduating exercises. Is your line books?"

"Yes," answered Utterly. "That's my line."

His disgust with the ignorance of those whom he had encountered and his recollection of his uncomfortable night faded as he walked, an hour later, out toward the campus. Here was Waltonville, after all, as he imagined it, and in order that such a Waltonville might be preserved, it was endurable that some discomforts should be preserved also.

Here was a broad street, sloping up to the college gates; here were tall trees and broad lawns, and everywhere masses of roses and honeysuckle which one had a right to