the traditions of the university. He remembered the wild progress they
made for him up the slope that morning at Winter Harbor, how the people
baked on, and laughed, and clapped their hands. But at the veranda edge he
had noticed a little form disappearing around a corner of the building; a
young girl running away as fast as she could.

"See there!" he said, as the tribe set him down, "You have frightened the
populace." And Tom Meredith stopped shouting long enough to answer, "It's
my little cousin, overcome with emotion. She's been counting the hours
till you came--been hearing of you from me and others for a good while;
and hasn't been able to talk or think of anything else. She's only
fifteen, and the crucial moment is too much for her--the Great Harkless
has arrived, and she has fled."

He remembered other incidents of his greatness, of the glory that now
struck him as rarely comical; be hoped he hadn't taken it too seriously
then, in the flush of his youth. Maybe, after all, he had been a, big-
headed boy, but he must have bottled up his conceit tightly enough, or the
other boys would have detected it and abhorred him. He was inclined to
believe that he had not been very much set up by the pomp they made for
him. At all events, that day at Winter Harbor had been beautiful, full of
the laughter of friends and music; for there was a musicale at the Casino
in the afternoon.

But the present hour grew on him as he leaned on the pasture bars, and
suddenly his memories sped; and the voice that was singing Schubert's
serenade across the way touched him with the urgent, personal appeal that
a present beauty always had for him. It was a soprano; and without
tremolo, yet came to his ear with a certain tremulous sweetness; it was
soft and slender, but the listener knew it could be lifted with fullness