in the little graveyard on the ridge. The gay, larksome light fled
from his eyes, his face grew stern and sometimes forbidding. She
had taken with her the one great thing she had brought into his
life: ineffable buoyancy. He no longer played, for there was no
one with whom he would play; he no longer sang, for the music had
gone out of his soul; he no longer whistled the merry tunes, for
his lips were stiff and unyielding. Only when he looked upon his
little daughter did the soft light of love well up into his eyes
and the rigid mouth grow tender.

She was like her mother. She was joyous, brave and fair to look
upon. She had the same heart of sunshine, the same heart of iron,
and the blue in her eyes was like the blue of the darkening skies.
She adored the grim, silent man who was her father, and she was
the breath of life to him.

And then, when she was nineteen, she broke the heart of David Windom.
For two years she had been a student in the University situated
but half a score of miles from the place where she was born,
a co-educational institution of considerable size and importance.
Windom did not believe in women's colleges. He believed in the
free school with its broadening influence, its commingling of the
sexes in the search for learning, and in the divine right of woman
to develop her mind through the channels that lead ultimately and
inevitably to superiority of man. He believed that the girl trained
and educated in schools devoted exclusively to the finer sex fails
to achieve understanding as well as education. The only way to give
a girl a practical education,--and he believed that every woman
should have one,--was to start her off even with the boy who was
training to become her master in all respects.