the new term, a very cold and blustery January afternoon, during much of
which he sat curled tightly into a corner of his seat in the poorly heated
day coach, which was the best the train afforded, and wondered why the
Connecticut Valley was so much colder than Cleveland, Ohio. He had taken an
early train from New York, and all the way to Moritzville had sought with
natural eagerness for sight of his future schoolmates. But he had been
unsuccessful. When Hilltop returns to school it takes the mid-afternoon
express which reaches Moritzville just in time for dinner, whereas Kenneth
reached the school before it was dark, and at a quarter of five was in
undisputed possession, for the time being, of Number 12, Lower House.

"We are putting you," the principal had said, "with Joseph Brewster, a boy
of about your own age and a member of your class. He is one of our nicest
boys, one of whom we are very proud. You will, I am certain, become good
friends. Mr. Whipple here will show you to your room. Supper is at six.
Afterwards, say at eight o'clock, I should like you to see me again here at
the office. If there is anything you want you will find the matron's room
at the end of the lower hall. Er--will you take him in charge, Mr.
Whipple?"

On the way across the campus, between banks of purple-shadowed snow and
under leafless elms which creaked and groaned dismally in the wind, Kenneth
reached the firm conclusion that there were two persons at Hilltop whom he
was going to dislike cordially. One was the model Joseph Brewster, and the
other was Mr. Whipple. The instructor was young, scarcely more than
twenty-three, tall, sallow, near-sighted and taciturn. He wore an
unchanging smile on his thin face and spoke in a soft, silky voice that
made Kenneth want to trip him into one of the snow banks.

Lower House, so called to distinguish it from the other dormitory, Upper