to talk of a thing like that?

He threw himself into his studies again when he got back to the
university, but in spite of himself his mind kept wandering back to
strange questions. He wished Wittemore would come back and say his
mother was better! It was Wittemore that had started all this queer
side-track of philanthropy; that had sent him off to make toast for old
women and manage funerals for strange young girls. If Wittemore would
get back to his classes and plod off to his slums every day, with his
long horse-like face and his scared little apologetic smile, why,
perhaps his own mind would assume its normal bent and let him get at his
work. And with that he sat down and wrote a letter to Wittemore, brief,
sympathetic, inquiring, offering any help that might be required. When
it was finished he felt better and studied half the night.

He knew the next morning as soon as he woke up that he would have to go
to that funeral. He hated funerals, and this would be a terrible ordeal,
he was sure. Such a pitiful little funeral, and he an utter stranger,
too! But the necessity presented itself like a command from an unseen
force, and he knew that it was required of him--that he would never feel
quite satisfied with himself if he shirked it.

Fortunately his examination began at eight o'clock. If he worked fast he
could get done in plenty of time, for the hour of the funeral had been
set for eleven o'clock.

Tennelly and Pat stood and gazed after him aghast when, on coming out
of the class-room where he had taken his examination, he declined their
suggestion that they all go down to the river skating for an hour and
try to get their blood up after the strain so they could study better