community. The darkest tragedies she had known had, indeed, been related
to the life of the college,--the disciplining of the class of '01 for
publishing itself in numerals on the face of the court-house clock; the
recurring conflicts between town and gown that shook the community
every Washington's birthday; the predatory habits of the Greek
professor's cow, that botanized freely in alien gardens and occasionally
immured herself in Professor Kelton's lettuce frames; these and like
heroic matters had marked the high latitudes of Sylvia's life. In the
long vacations, when most of the faculty sought the Northern lakes, the
Keltons remained at home; and Sylvia knew all the trees of the campus,
and could tell you just what books she had read under particular maples
or elms.

Andrew Kelton was a mathematical scholar of high attainments. In the
field of astronomy he had made important discoveries, and he carried on
an extensive correspondence with observers of stellar phenomena in many
far corners of the world. His name in the Madison catalogue was followed
by a bewildering line of cabalistic letters testifying to the honor in
which other institutions of learning held him. Wishing to devise for him
a title that combined due recognition of both his naval exploits and his
fine scholarship, the undergraduates called him "Capordoc"; and it was
part of a freshman's initiation to learn that at all times and in all
places he was to stand and uncover when Professor Kelton passed by.

Professor Kelton's occasional lectures in the college were a feature of
the year, and were given in Mills Hall to accommodate the large audience
of students and town folk that never failed to assemble every winter to
hear him. For into discourses on astronomy he threw an immense amount of
knowledge of all the sciences, and once every year, though no one ever
knew when he would be moved to relate it, he told a thrilling story of