it, and for a few hours thoroughly ceased being ascetic. Yet Oscar felt
meritorious when he considered Bertie and Billy; for, like the
socialists, merit with him meant not being able to live as well as your
neighbor. You will think that I have given to Oscar what is familiarly
termed a black eye. But I was once inclined to applaud his struggle for
knowledge, until I studied him close and perceived that his love was not
for the education he was getting. Bertie and Billy loved play for
play's own sake, and in play forgot themselves, like the wholesome young
creatures that they were. Oscar had one love only: through all his days
whatever he might forget, he would remember himself; through all his
days he would make knowledge show that self off. Thank heaven, all the
poor students in Harvard College were not Oscars! I loved some of them
as much as I loved Bertie and Billy. So there is no black eye about it.
Pity Oscar, if you like; but don't be so mushy as to admire him as he
stepped along in the night, holding his notes, full of his knowledge,
thinking of Bertie and Billy, conscious of virtue, and smiling his
smile. They were not conscious of any virtue, were Bertie and Billy,
nor were they smiling. They were solemnly eating up together a box of
handsome strawberries and sucking the juice from their reddened thumbs.

"Rather mean not to make him wait and have some of these after his hard
work on us," said Bertie. "I'd forgotten about them--"

"He ran out before you could remember, anyway," said Billy.

"Wasn't he absurd about his old notes? "Bertie went on, a new
strawberry in his mouth. "We don't need them, though. With to-morrow
we'll get this course down cold."

"Yes, to-morrow," sighed Billy. "It's awful to think of another day of