“As if I could ever like to teach anybody else as much as I like to
teach you!” he exclaimed. “I’m sorry, Lawrence; I’ll try to keep a
little better grip on myself.”

Sometimes it seemed to Irving odd that Lawrence should be so slow at his
books; Irving did not fail to realize that with the neighbors or with
strangers, in any gathering whatsoever, Lawrence was always quick,
sympathetic, interested; he himself was the one who seemed dull and
immature.

It had been so with him at college; he had been merely the student of
books. Social life he had had none, and only now, with the difference
between his brother and himself enforcing a clearer vision, had he
become aware of some deficiency in his education. In silence he envied
Lawrence and wished that he too possessed such winning and engaging
traits.

He realized the contrast with especial keenness on the afternoon when he
and Lawrence began their eastward journey. There was a party assembled
at the station to see them off,—to see Lawrence off, as Irving
reflected, for never on his own previous departures had he occasioned
any such demonstration.

Lawrence was presented on the platform with various farewell gifts—a
pair of knit slippers from Sally Buxton, who was the prettiest girl in
the valley and who tried to slip them into his hand when no one else was
looking, and blushed when Nora Carson unfeelingly called attention to
her shy attempt; a pair of mittens from old Mrs. Fitch; a pocket comb
and mirror from the Uptons’ hired man; a paper bag of doughnuts from