of two young girls and their scornful, frowning father. At that moment
the door of the Strongs' apartment opened, there was a vision of the
elder Mr. Strong's distracted face, the yellow gleam of the last
telegram in his hands, and Rex fled.

* * * * *

Two weeks later, a May breeze rustling through the greenness of the
quadrangle, brushed softly the ivy-clad brick walls, and stole, like a
runaway child to its playmate, through an open window of the Theological
Seminary building at Chelsea Square. Entering so, it flapped suddenly at
the white curtains as if astonished. What was this? Two muscular black
clad arms were stretched across a table, and between them lay a brown
head, inert, hopeless. It seemed strange that on such a May day, with
such a May breeze, life could look dark to anything young, yet Reginald
Fairfax, at the head of the graduating class, easily first in more than
one way--in scholarship, in athletics, in versatility, and, more than
all, like George Washington, "first in the hearts of his countrymen,"
the most popular man of the Seminary--this successful and well beloved
young person sat wretched and restless in his room and let the breeze
blow over his prostrate head and his idle, nerveless hands. Since the
night of the rescue of Billy Strong he had felt himself another and a
worse man. He sent a note to his cousin the next day.

"Dear Carty," it read, "For mercy sake let me alone. I know I've lost my
chance at St. Eric's and I know you'll say it was my own fault. I don't
want to hear either statement, so don't come near me till I hunt you up,
which I will do when I'm fit to talk to a white man. I'm grateful,
though you may not believe it. Yours--Rex."