"Oh, hello, Jones. It sure is."

The simple greeting completed his happiness. He felt that he belonged,
that Sanford, the "mother of men," had taken him to her heart. The music
in the chapel swelled, lyric, passionate--up! up! almost a cry. The
moonlight was golden between the heavy shadows of the elms. Tears came
into the boy's eyes; he was melancholy with joy.

He climbed the stairs of Surrey slowly, reluctant to reach his room and
Carl's flippancy. He passed an open door and glanced at the men inside
the room.

"Hi, Hugh. Come in and bull a while."

"Not to-night, thanks." He moved on down the hall, feeling a vague
resentment; his mood had been broken, shattered.

The door opposite his own room was slightly open. A freshman lived
there, Herbert Morse, a queer chap with whom Carl and Hugh had succeeded
in scraping up only the slightest acquaintance. He was a big fellow,
fully six feet, husky and quick. The football coach said that he had the
makings of a great half-back, but he had already been fired off the
squad because of his irregularity in reporting for practice. Except for
what the boys called his stand-offishness--some of them said that he was
too damned high-hat--he was extremely attractive. He had red, almost
copper-colored, hair, and an exquisite skin, as delicate as a child's.
His features were well carved, his nose slightly aquiline--a magnificent
looking fellow, almost imperious; or as Hugh once said to Carl, "Morse
looks kinda noble."