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THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Mrs. Marion L, Burton 
 

 
The New Fraternity 
 
 A Novel of University Life 
 
 By 
 
 George Frederick Gundelfinger, Ph.D. 
 
 UHy 
 
 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 Literature &" Music 
 Sewickley, Pennsylvania 
 
Copyright, ipid. 
 
 By George Frederick Gundelfinger 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 Published November, igi6 
 
 GIFT 
 
7GI 
 
 A Message to the Undergraduates, the 
 Alumni, the Parents, the Teachers, the Pro- 
 fessors and the College Presidents of America. 
 
 292 
 
CONTENTS 
 Chapter Page 
 
 I THE HERO AND THE WHITE PLUME II 
 
 II THE TEAM BREAKS TRAINING l8 
 
 III ALICE AND ALLAINE 29 
 
 IV WHAT THE BIRDS TAUGHT HIM ' 42 
 
 V THE FLEDGELING IS CALLED AWAY FROM THE 
 
 NEST 54 
 
 VI POVERTY AND WEALTH 66 
 
 VII HIGHER EDUCATION WITHOUT A COLLEGE 80 
 
 VIII ANOTHER THING WHICH KUHLER DID FOR HIS 
 
 ALMA MATER 86 
 
 IX THE WATCHDOG 102 
 
 X VARIOUS KINDS OF LOVE II4 
 
 XI THE GRADUATE STUDENT 125 
 
 XII WHEN ONE STUDIES HARD ENOUGH ONE BEGINS 
 
 TO SEE THINGS I36 
 
 XIII HOLLIS AND DE SOTO 145 
 
 XIV THE DANCE AND THE DESK 1 58 
 
 XV RESEARCH AND TEACHING 164 
 
 XVI THE THIRST FOR BROTHERHOOD 180 
 
 XVII WHAT HAPPENED TO JONES ? I94 
 
Chapter Page 
 
 XVIII THE THIRD PROPOSAL 205 
 
 XIX THE FINAL IMPETUS 213 
 
 XX THE MESSAGE FROM "tHE ALUMNI" 227 
 
 XXI WHAT MILTON UNDERLINED IN EMERSON 232 
 
 XXII THE THESIS 264 
 
 XXIII THE FAREWELL 283 
 
 XXIV REUNION 288 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 THE HERO AND THE WHITE PLUME 
 
 A heavy gray fog, so characteristic of November even- 
 ings, had already begun to form and lent that uncertain 
 mystic effect which is often seen in the background of a 
 picture, where only soft outlines suggest rather than repre- 
 sent the view. 
 
 The fog was gathering thickly along the western horizon, 
 and through it the upper zone of the setting sun was still 
 visible, emitting a crimson glow, which, at lengthening inter- 
 vals, seemed to brighten perceptibly, as if fanned by a wan- 
 dering breeze, and then become duller than before. One 
 might almost imagine it to be a human heart, which some 
 warrior, athirst for blood and fame, had torn from the 
 bosom of his victim and tossed into this sluggish, muddy, 
 snake-haunted stream, where its pulsations grew more and 
 more feeble and irregular as it sank lower and lower in the 
 cold, lifeless water. 
 
 The game was over and won. It was the greatest victory 
 in the history of the university, and the credit went to one 
 man — Tom Kuhler. He did all the brilliant playing, made 
 the long runs and the timely tackles. He was the star of the 
 afternoon, the hero, the king, the god. And yet a merciless 
 god — for, although he had sent the opposing team to bitter 
 defeat, he had to twist their ribs and crack their skulls to do 
 so; there was scarcely a man who escaped being injured in 
 some way or other. 
 
 During the first quarter, one player was carried off the 
 field ; his neck had been broken. He was, in fact, the only 
 man considered as Kuhler's equal or superior — the only man 
 who really stood in Kuhler's way ; and Kuhler himself had 
 
12 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 connived in advance with his squad to remove him from the 
 gridiron as soon as possible. 
 
 When the fame of a great university Hes at stake, human 
 suffering and death rtself are disregarded. The main thing 
 is the glory of the Alma Mater. Let us unfurl her flag to 
 the eyes of the populace that she might lure the youth of the 
 nation into her ranks. What difference does it make if we 
 murder a man or two, as long as we win the support of a 
 thousand others by doing so ! 
 
 And while that score was being flashed across the conti- 
 nent, and while the graduates of the future were reading the 
 thrilling accounts of the contest, the dying man was drawing 
 his last breath. 
 
 The removal of the unfortunate victim produced a short 
 silence and delay ; but the game was soon resumed, and the 
 spectators were again on their feet, yelping like hounds of 
 war. When the whistle announced the close of the conflict, 
 it seemed as though the walls of a mighty dam gave way, 
 and the students poured down over the benches — stumbling, 
 falling, rising, hurdling, rushing, dashing forward Hke a 
 human torrent, which leaped over the fences and flooded the 
 field. Kuhler, with outstretched arms and with a torch of 
 blazing red fire in each hand, was hoisted on the shoulders 
 of his fellow-players, who marched across the gridiron 
 before a deafening brass band, followed by all the students, 
 who threw their canes and derbies high in the air and howled 
 and bellowed like a herd of wolves and wildcats. There 
 was one girl among them; she marched along at the very 
 end of the procession, waving her white-plumed hat fran- 
 tically above her head. 
 
 There was perhaps only one student of the university 
 absent from this spectacular pageant. He remained in his 
 seat in the last row at the top of the East Stand. He had 
 lost all interest in the game after the ill-fated victim had 
 been carried off the field. The sight of that man's head, 
 dangling loosely over the edge of a stretcher, had obliter- 
 ated in this observer what little enjoyment the preceding 
 part of the game had afforded him. His thoughts were 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 13 
 
 with the dying student, and it was to this boy alone that the 
 sinking sun became symbolic of the final throbs of a human 
 heart. 
 
 Although he was sad and pensive, no one seemed to 
 observe it. Why should they, when death itself had failed 
 to detract their eager attention ? And was not this boy him- 
 self a part of the vast multitude in which his very thoughts 
 were concealed ? Inwardly he had his own individual reflec- 
 tions, but outwardly he appeared like all the others. 
 
 There is a certain captivation about this intense enthu- 
 siasm which seems to absorb all individuality. The audience 
 does not consist of fifty thousand individuals; it is one 
 gigantic body, shouting from fifty thousand mouths and 
 stamping with a hundred thousand feet upon the trembling 
 framework which supports it. 
 
 Yes; the boy's thoughts were far removed from the 
 thoughts of this fearful ogre, but his body was a part of it. 
 He rose with the crowd, cheered, and waved his hat ; but he 
 did so involuntarily, perhaps unconsciously. It was the 
 persons around him who lifted him up. It was the pressure 
 from all sides which forced the voice out of him. It was 
 instinct, and not intelligence, which made him wave his hat 
 above his head. He was drifting incontrollably on a mighty 
 sea, whose undulations began at one extremity of the grand- 
 stand and rolled along to the other. It was this wave which 
 had taken hold of him ; it was not his own enthusiasm. 
 
 Even those of us who have acquired the majesty of calm- 
 ness are often demented by a football game. The animal 
 spirit is temporarily unleashed. Students stand up and beat 
 one another, exercising the same brutality which is displayed 
 on the field. There is something terrible in this extreme 
 joy ; it differs little from the frenzy of a beast. It is even 
 more pronounced in the older graduate than in the fresh- 
 man. It would seem that the more reasonable we become, 
 the more animalistic we are when the force of resistance is 
 suddenly weakened. Both the youth and his senior seem to 
 lose their heads — they go mad; they become dangerously 
 intoxicated with delight. 
 
14 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 It is not only the men, but also some women, who are 
 thus affected. There was a girl in the East Stand whose 
 madness was easily double that of any student in the section. 
 She reminded one of Kiphng's poem, The Female of the 
 Species. 
 
 Those who were seated in that section had all reason to 
 believe that the pensive lad had escorted this girl to the 
 game. She sat next to him, and the clothes of both of them 
 indicated poverty. The boy's coat was antiquated and 
 shabby; the girl's garments were newer but cheap. She 
 wore a shapeless white felt hat, trimmed with a long white 
 flimsy plume, which hung down her back to her waist. Sur- 
 rounded as she was by the rich shades of velvet and the 
 expensive furs of the more dignified social leaders, she 
 appeared like a common daisy in a bed of cultivated roses. 
 
 No conversation passed between this boy and girl. In- 
 deed, she was interested in the game to the same degree that 
 he was disgusted with it. Her eyes were glued to Tom 
 Kuhler. Not a move of his escaped her, and she applauded 
 furiously after each of his plays. At times she stood up on 
 her seat mimicking the cheer-leader, her entire body sway- 
 ing with the rhythm of the rah rah rah. When Kuhler made 
 his famous run, she lost self-control completely and seized 
 this boy with a frantic embrace, which sent his hat flying 
 from his head. It was the only instant during the whole 
 game when they seemed aware of each other's presence. 
 
 At the close of the game they separated, he remaining 
 in his seat and she joining the torrent of students which was 
 making its way to the field. She hopped and jumped from 
 bench to bench like a mad bird until she reached her position 
 at the rear of the procession, where we see her now, whirl- 
 ing and dancing to the music, singing and cheering with the 
 students, and waving her white plume wildly above her head. 
 
 The boy had watched the white plume floating down 
 over the grandstand and then he gazed thoughtfully and 
 solitarily upon the procession of which it had become a part. 
 The fog stood in long horizontal clouds over the gridiron. 
 This, together with the distance which separated him from 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 15 
 
 the field, rendered the scene rather indistinct, and it was left 
 to his thought, rather than his observation, to decipher what 
 was taking place in the vast arena, which seemed miles and 
 miles below him. 
 
 We know the nature of his thought : The procession, as 
 it zigzagged across the field, was nothing more than a 
 gigantic snake. Kuhler was at the head of it ; this girl was 
 at the end. The derbies, which he saw rising and falling 
 in the air, were like a swarm of mad flies darting from and 
 to the steaming hide of the serpent, which writhed along, 
 dragging its belly through mud and blood — for it had rained 
 that morning, and the field was covered with a slippery mire 
 mixed here and there with the blood which had dripped 
 from the torn cheeks of the contestants. The two torches 
 which Kuhler swung about his head resembled two blood- 
 shot eyes glaring through the fog. The girl's white plume, 
 together with her shrill feminine voice (which could be 
 heard at times above the others), supplied a rattle at the end 
 of the snake's tail. The illusion was complete. 
 
 It was the first real football game the boy had attended. 
 He had never seen such a multitude of people before. He 
 had never heard such a storm of applause and enthusiasm. 
 He had stayed away from earlier games to save enough 
 money for the final contest of the season. He believed it 
 was his duty to see this big event upon which the reputation 
 of the university was in great part founded. 
 
 His idea of a university had been primarily a place fop 
 study — a world of books — a community in which scholar- 
 ship was cherished, rewarded and worshiped. It was this 
 notion he carried there when the alumni of his home town 
 presented him with a free scholarship. He had been selected 
 because they considered him a youth of great promise, sound 
 in mind and body — a youth who would accomplish some- 
 thing of which the Alma Mater might well be proud. These 
 things were stated in the letter which he had received from 
 them. 
 
 Today he had seen the thing of which the Alma Mater 
 seemed most proud. He had seen the alumni applaud and 
 
i6 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 idolize Tom Kuhler for the great victory he had won for 
 his university. It was only natural that the boy's soul 
 revolted when he saw the public worshiping brute strength, 
 when he saw football occupying a more important place 
 than scholarship — the one great activity which should pre- 
 dominate at the institution. 
 
 What little he had earlier seen or read of football led 
 him to believe it was merely a clean, manly, healthful sport, 
 conducive to study and resulting in a symmetrical develop- 
 ment of the student's physique. Today it stood for one 
 thing only: rank competition, which transformed men into 
 beasts and deprived them of their reason by stimulating 
 their animal passions beyond control. He could see Httle 
 that resembled human happiness and success in that shriek- 
 ing monster which groveled in the foggy depths beneath him. 
 And yet it symbolized victory ! Victory over what ? What 
 had been gained? A score. What had been lost? A Hfe. 
 Ah ! more than one life. He saw the blood ooze from the 
 mangled faces of the players as they limped from the field, 
 but there was more that he could not see. There were 
 hidden injuries which would not appear serious until long 
 after the thundering ceased, long after the victory was for- 
 gotten. In that mad fight one man had perhaps burst an 
 artery ; another had strained a muscle ; another had snapped 
 a rib, pierced a lung or torn a heart. "J^st a few scratches," 
 says the victim; but it is not so trivial as that. Years will 
 tell ; poor health, disease and premature death follow in the 
 path of this serpent — this serpent of victory. 
 
 Such were the thoughts which zigzagged back and for- 
 ward in the head of our dreamer, just as the serpent zig- 
 zagged back and forward across the gridiron. But these 
 thoughts were not all dreams. They are officially reported 
 facts which seem to confirm them. It was recently esti- 
 mated that seventy-five percent, of the injuries treated by 
 surgeons in one season at a well-known institution were due 
 to football casualities, and these were all found among the 
 forty or fifty students who had entered the contest. The 
 remaining twenty-five percent, were scattered among over 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 17 
 
 six hundred other students. Eighteen percent, of the 
 seventy-five percent, of the injuries were of a serious nature 
 Hable to cause future trouble. A study of the careers of 
 the graduates of that institution showed that those who were 
 star athletes in their college days had suffered a positive loss 
 in weakened physique at a time in Hfe when the best should 
 be expected in the co-ordination of mind and body. Glori- 
 ous Football! Adorable Million-Dollar Stadium! 
 
 The boy remained in his seat, meditating. 
 
 The serpent was now leaving the field. Its head had 
 found a hole in the fence ; the body followed, and that part 
 which was still visible grew shorter and shorter. Finally 
 the very end of the tail — the white plume — wagged and 
 rattled once again and then disappeared. 
 
 The spectators left the benches. The grandstands grad- 
 ually emptied; they seemed to creak restfully after they 
 were relieved of the great weight which they had supported. 
 A drizzling rain fell quietly over the deserted gridiron. It 
 seemed that God Himself was trying to wash away the 
 blood-stains which had been left upon it. 
 
 The boy left the field in silence — and alone. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 THE TEAM BREAKS TRAINING 
 
 When the boy saw the white plume vanish from the 
 field he believed the serpent of victory had passed out of 
 existence. He saw no more of it that night, for he spent 
 the evening in his little garret chamber, far away from the 
 riot and tumult. But he had seen enough. Had he wit- 
 nessed the events which followed the game, and which will 
 be described in this chapter, he might have revolted then 
 and there against the whole idea of university education, 
 although he had not yet received it. Providence drew the 
 curtain across the scenes which would have excited him 
 prematurely in regard to reform. Providence saw to it that 
 this youth was not called away from his studies to solve 
 those problems with which only an educated man could cope. 
 His preparation for the conflict must precede the conflict 
 itself. The cause for and the need of conflict would not 
 disappear in the meanwhile; that cause and that need are 
 omnipresent. 
 
 The snake dance on the gridiron was merely an intro- 
 duction to the celebrations whicli followed it. The youth 
 must be left in his lonely garret with his thoughts and his 
 reflections, while we follow the path over which the serpent 
 is passing. It creeps along from the field to the town, 
 monopolizing the streets and even derailing the cars. Then 
 it stops before the University Dining Hall and howls for 
 food. We must peep inside this lofty building and see how 
 the animal feeds. 
 
 "Kuhler is a miracle !" 
 
 "Wasn't that the greatest run you ever saw?" 
 
 "What wonderful interference !" 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 19 
 
 "Did you notice that remarkable punting in the third 
 quarter ?" 
 
 "He can put it all over that fullback." 
 
 "He is strong as a bull." 
 
 "The greatest game in the history of the university !" 
 
 "He could smash through anything." 
 
 "Wasn't that a pretty goal ?" 
 
 "He's a wizard." 
 
 "Hell, fellows, we'll have to get soused on the head of 
 this." 
 
 "I expect to be drunk for a whole week." 
 
 Such are the remarks at one table. 
 
 Then the table is transformed into a football field. The 
 five-yard lines are scored upon the linen with the prong of 
 a fork. The salt shakers and the vinegar cruets represent 
 the players. The catsup bottle becomes a goal post. Each 
 student at the table takes a cracker and tries to kick a goal. 
 Bang! Some one at the next table has struck the catsup 
 bottle with a grapefruit. The bombardment between the 
 two tables begins. Others participate in the general war. 
 The whole hall becomes a scene of battle, with food and 
 dishes for ammunition. Chunks of bread rise and fall like 
 projectiles and meteors, whose paths intersect, giving rise 
 to collisions. Napkins, filled with powdered sugar, explode 
 noiselessly in mid-air, forming clouds of white smoke. 
 Stacks of order blanks are sent to the ceiling, where they 
 separate and flutter down from the rafters. Bang! Bang! 
 Bang! The glasses are hurled upon the stone floor, where 
 they fly into a hundred slivers. The knife blades serve as 
 springs, which, when released, shoot pats of butter against 
 the wall. Plates are spun on the floor. Spoons are rattled 
 against the tea cups. The waiters cross the hall, carrying 
 trays of food above their heads. A tray makes a good 
 target. Bang! One down. Roast beef, celery, ice cream 
 and chowder are splattered over the floor and the waiter 
 himself, who runs for refuge with a hot clam nestled in his 
 ear. A shower of baked potatoes and biscuit falls about 
 him. A water pitcher just misses his head. He crawls 
 
20 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 under a table. The table is overturned, and the dishes and 
 food are spread helter-skelter. One good turn deserves 
 another. A second table is upset. Then a third. Ten more 
 trays go down simultaneously. 
 
 Thus it is that the serpent feeds. 
 
 Then, hungrier than ever, it leaves the hall, climbing 
 over ridges of broken china, swimming through puddles of 
 gravy and milk, wading through marshes of custards and 
 mashed potatoes, slipping on vegetables and olives, sliding 
 on salads and bananas, squashing and smashing all under its 
 thousand feet. Onward it creeps, still dissatisfied with the 
 ruin and devastation which it has left behind it. Onward, 
 onward to continue its destruction. 
 
 A snake may be cut into several pieces, and each part 
 seems to retain the life and energy of the complete body. 
 The larger part of the serpent had entered the dining hall. 
 Other smaller parts had squirmed off in other directions. 
 What had become of the head? of the tail? Where were 
 Tom Kuhler and the girl with the white plume ? 
 
 Kuhler was a senior, and this was his last game of foot- 
 ball at the university. It was the great climax of his athletic 
 career, and he was anxiously waiting to celebrate it. The 
 training-table, where the squad had been fed during practice, 
 was in the basement of a certain house which catered mainly 
 to student trade. Several smaller pieces of the serpent had 
 found their way into the smaller dining rooms of this board- 
 ing house, where the same spirit prevailed that we saw at 
 the large dining hall. The head of the serpent — Kuhler and 
 his victorious team — was at its usual trough. The windows 
 of this basement were on a level with the street, so that 
 passers-by could easily see through them without exertion. 
 The curtains were usually not drawn, but for this special 
 occasion all but one of the windows were shaded. The girl 
 with the white plume was standing on the sidewalk, gazing 
 through this window at her hero, who was carousing with 
 his squad; for this was the night that the team broke 
 training. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 21 
 
 We have seen Tom Kuhler at a distance. Let us also 
 peep through the window to get a closer view of this mod- 
 ern Hercules. 
 
 He sat at the head of a table which was groaning under 
 the weight of champagne bottles and heaped-up platters of 
 meat and fruit. He had a head of hair like a mop of hemp. 
 His teeth were prominent and milky white, permanently 
 rooted in a pair of iron jaws. His lips were thick, and wet 
 with wine. His cheeks were Hke two patches of red flannel. 
 He was pug-nosed ; a few hairs extended from his nos- 
 trils. His sensual eyes flashed like the discharge of a 
 cannon. His back was a mountain of muscle, and his 
 limbs were like mighty pillars of marble. His hands were 
 large and plump; his fingers, firm and thick; his nails, well 
 defined. His chest rose and fell like the tide — for it seemed 
 his lungs were large enough to retain sufficient air to sup- 
 ply him for an entire day. Brutal as his actions were 
 on the gridiron, we find him fascinating — this handsome 
 human ox. 
 
 The strength and the appearance of the husky athlete 
 had completely deprived this girl of her reason — this girl 
 who stood on the pavement watching his every move, just as 
 she had done at the field. A girl friend stood beside the 
 white-plumed creature, trying to pull her away from the 
 window, but her efforts were futile; it seemed Kuhler had 
 chained her there. 
 
 "He's goin' to make a speech," rattled the tail of the ser- 
 pent ; and she tried to open the window. 
 
 "Do come away," pleaded her friend. "Your mother 
 doesn't know you are here. She wouldn't want you to be 
 here either." 
 
 "I can't leave him ; I simply can't." 
 
 "Bah ! he doesn't give a rap for you," said her friend, in 
 a discouraging tone. 
 
 "How do you know ? He has never met me." 
 
 "Do you expect to meet him ?" 
 
 "Sure thing!" 
 
 "How?" 
 
22 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 "Just wait and see. Gee! but he is handsome. Just 
 imagine havin' them arms around you !" 
 
 "Do come away," said the friend persuasively. 
 
 "Look at his eyes. Did you ever see such lamps? My 
 God, how they burn me !" panted the unfortunate victim. 
 
 By this time Kuhler had arisen and begun his speech. 
 The girl had succeeded in lifting the window a small dis- 
 tance, but no one had noticed it. She could now hear his 
 voice very distinctly. 
 
 "Well, boys," said Kuhler, "the season's over, an' the 
 vict'ry's ours. We played a great game; we did. That 
 score'U ga down in hist'ry. It'll puff the reputation ove the 
 univers'ty tenfold. We make this univers'ty w'at she is, 
 boys. If football wuz 'bolished, this univers'ty 'ud go ta the 
 dogs. Three cheers fur football !" 
 
 The team cheered, while Kuhler drained another glass 
 of sparkling Burgundy. 
 
 "Next year I won't be here," continued the hero. 
 
 The girl at the window sighed. 
 
 "But," he added, "I want 'a spur ya on — those ove ya 
 who '11 return in the fall — ta do even better work in the 
 future. I don't need ta tell ya not 'a study too damn hard 
 over yer books." 
 
 A smile appeared on all the faces around the table. 
 
 "A football star 'as never yet been known ta flunk out. 
 The univers'ty which 'ud permit such a thing 'ud be com- 
 mittin' suicide. What ya want 'a do is ta give football all 
 yer attention. Concentrate yer efforts on that. Muscle! 
 Mountains ove it ! Gray matter don't matter. Good ani- 
 mals — that's w'at we want — ^that's w'at we need. Football 
 ain't a game fur babies, but that's w'at the're tryin' ta make 
 out ove it. I want ya all ta work hard an' save the game 
 an' restore it. Don't become too inconveniently spir'tu'l. I 
 want ya ta yearn again fur the good old days ove brutal- 
 izin' vict'ries, as our encouragin' Alumani Weekly puts it. 
 
 "And now jist a few words more, boys: We 'ave kept 
 in trainin' fur a long time, an' stored an' saved energy fur 
 the final game ove the year. We 'xpended a great part 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 23 
 
 ove that energy ta-day fur our Alma Mater. It's ta be 
 hoped that we still 'ave some left, fur our own pers'nal 
 enjoyment. A good deed deserves a reward. We 'ave been 
 'good boys' fur a long time, an' 'ave at least tried ta stay 
 away frum the habits which ere believed to harm the 
 athalete. But such things ere no longer denied us — fur a 
 time at least. Our season ove work's over ; our season ove 
 pleasure begins — ta-night." 
 
 "Tonight," shouted the team. 
 
 "Tonight," gasped the tail of the serpent. 
 
 Then the glasses were refilled, and all drank to the 
 health of Tom Kuhler. The banquet ended with a long 
 cheer for the hero, in which the white plume participated. 
 
 A few minutes later, Tom Kuhler was standing before 
 a house on Walnut Street. There was light in the windows 
 on the second floor. The windows on the first floor were 
 dark, but the curtain on one of them was drawn aside a 
 little, and a pair of sharp eyes watched every move of the 
 man who stood on the curbstone with two girls, one of 
 whom wore a long white plume on her hat. The smaller 
 window in the garret was also dark, but the sweet strains 
 of a violin came floating from it. 
 
 "Hello, Arch Coddington," shouted Kuhler. 
 
 "Hello," came the muffled reply. 
 
 "Stick yer head out the window." 
 
 A window on the second floor was thrown open, and a 
 student leaned over the sill. 
 
 "What in the hell are you after?" asked Coddington. 
 
 "I've got somethin' here that's never been touched," 
 answered Kuhler. 
 
 "Hurray — Hurrah '."exclaimed the student at the window. 
 
 "Will I fetch it up?" 
 
 "You could never get past the watchdog," was the reply. 
 "But wait a second." 
 
 The lights went out, and so did Coddington. The cur- 
 tain on the first floor closed again; the vioHn was still 
 playing softly in the garret. 
 
24 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 When the team breaks training at the end of the foot- 
 ball season, the whole student-body seems to follow its 
 example. All sorts of training — manners, laws, respect, 
 courtesy, manliness, everything — are broken. Restraint 
 fades and vanishes. Students who seemed to be the very 
 models for their class lose every trace of refinement and 
 dignity, and join the common rabble. Let us continue to 
 follow the serpent of victory, and see what has become of 
 its dissociated sections. 
 
 There is one piece of it in every down-town saloon. 
 These are crowded to the doors. In them the animal con- 
 tinues to glut, quafif, spit and puke, as columns of smoke 
 arise from its hide. 
 
 That part which has been denied admittance to the 
 saloons creeps and crawls up and down the avenue. There 
 is one unbroken stream of students, graduates, gamins, 
 harlots, ticket-speculators, fakers and venders. Half of 
 them are saturated with drink; the others are joy-mad. 
 The venders blow their horns in the ears of the pedestrians. 
 The gamins snatch off hats and pick pockets. The drunk- 
 ards stagger along, colliding with women. The students 
 fling confetti into the faces of young girls. A sophomore 
 lies rolling in the gutter. An old "grad" is vomiting in the 
 middle of the sidewalk. A peddler's cart is upset, scattering 
 peanuts and caramels over the street. A trolley car is 
 blockaded ; the students climb to the roof of it, and some 
 enter, and insult the passengers. Automobiles, filled with 
 mothers and sisters, glide along with the winning colors 
 streaming behind them. 
 
 Then the doors of the theatre open. Seats have been 
 selling at double and triple their regular prices, but this 
 does not turn the serpent away. It writhes through the 
 lobby into the parquet. Parts of it climb the stairs. It 
 greedily occupies every seat in the house, not only every 
 seat but every square foot of space. 
 
 The curtain rises. The chorus enters. Flowers and 
 loaf sugar are hurled at the soubrettes. Soon they stand 
 knee-deep in an ocean of colored streamers, which have 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 25 
 
 been hurled to the stage from all parts of the house. A 
 shower of confetti falls gracefully from the gallery. Sev- 
 eral pigeons are liberated from coat-pockets; they fly 
 through the air frantically, and then roost on the tops of 
 the boxes. A cackling chicken flies over the footlights and 
 disappears in the wings. A squealing cat lights on milady's 
 coiffure in the orchestra circle. 
 
 "Repeat that song! Repeat that song! Repeat that 
 song !" shouts the serpent. 
 
 The song is repeated, and the ocean of streamers rises 
 higher and higher. 
 
 "Repeat it again! Repeat it again!" 
 
 The chorus repeats it several times and then leaves the 
 stage. 
 
 "We want more song ! We want more song ! We want 
 more song!" 
 
 A comedian appears. 
 
 "Take off that hat ! Take off that hat ! Take off that 
 hat!" 
 
 The comedian refuses to remove his chapeau. Bang! 
 an orange has done it for him. 
 
 "Take off that mustache! Take off that mustache!" 
 
 The comedian, fearing more fruit, obeys. 
 
 "Put it on again! Put it on again! Put it on 
 again !" 
 
 He does so. 
 
 "Take it off! Take it off! Take it off! Take it off !" 
 
 The actor loses his temper, picks up the orange, throws 
 it at a student in the front row. Then he rushes off the 
 stage — a volley of lemons after him. 
 
 "We want that man! We want that man! We want 
 that man !" 
 
 The actor does not reappear. 
 
 "We want that man! We want that man! We want 
 that man !" 
 
 No sign of the comedian. 
 
 "We want that man! We want that man! We want 
 that man !" 
 
26 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 The leading lady steps on the stage in a costume which 
 at any other time would have created a sensation, but her 
 presence is ignored. 
 
 "We want that man! We want that man! We want 
 that man !" 
 
 She begins to sing. At least, her Hps are moving, 
 although the audience hears nothing but its own deafening 
 clamor. 
 
 "We want that man! We want that man! We want 
 that man !" 
 
 The manager sends the chorus on again, hoping to pacify 
 the mob, but in vain. 
 
 "We want that man ! We want that man ! We want 
 that man !" 
 
 The comedian is trembling and cursing behind the scenes. 
 He refuses to appear. 
 
 "We want that man! We want that man! We want 
 that man !" 
 
 More streamers ; more confetti ; more lemons ; more 
 sugar. 
 
 "We want that man ! We want that man ! We want 
 that man !" 
 
 But the comedian has left the theatre in terror, and is 
 on his way to the hotel. 
 
 "We want that man! We want that man! We want 
 that man !" 
 
 The curtain descends slowly; the serpent hisses. 
 
 "We want more show ! We want more show ! We want 
 more show !" 
 
 This cry is kept up for fully twenty minutes. Then the 
 curtain rises. The stage is empty. The scenery has been 
 removed. The actors have withdrawn from their dressing 
 rooms. The manager, fearing a riot, has left the theatre, 
 taking his whole show with him. 
 
 "We want our money back ! We want our money 
 back !" 
 
 "Boycott the theatre ! Boycott the theatre ! Boycott the 
 theatre !" 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 27 
 
 "Riot! Riot! Riot! Riot! Riot!" 
 
 "Tear down the house! Tear down the house! Tear 
 down the house !" 
 
 The serpent is wild, furious, mad — mad because it has 
 been defeated after its glorious victory on the gridiron. It 
 needs but one student to start the work of destruction, and 
 then the whole student-body will join him. The angry 
 animal will chew, crush, mangle, beat, tear, strangle, demol- 
 ish anything and everything which is within its reach. Sev- 
 eral volunteers arise, but they sink back into their seats; 
 their courage fails them. Finally, one student jumps over 
 the railing, and glides across the front of the stage, drag- 
 ging a chair through the trough of footlights. The lamps 
 are shattered, one after the other, giving rise to a series of 
 shots like those from a repeating musket. Powdered glass 
 flies in all directions. Another student seizes the draperies, 
 rips them down and tears them to shreds. The same act is 
 repeated in the boxes on the other side of the theatre, where 
 the banister is also beaten to splinters. Students stand up 
 and kick their feet through the velvet seats of the chairs 
 in the orchestra circle. The danger point has been reached. 
 The women are leaving the house. One man, with brute 
 strength, unrivets the iron legs of a chair from the floor 
 and hurls it across the orchestra pit. Others follow his 
 example. Several rows of seats are ripped up in the 
 balcony and thrown forcefully one by one upon the stage, 
 where they form a pile several feet high. One chair strikes 
 a girl. She is killed instantly, but the chaos is so fearful 
 that no one notices how she is carried from the theatre 
 dead. The house is gradually clearing. A part of the 
 serpent fears that it might destroy itself. As that part leaves 
 the building, it smashes the glass doors in the lobby, and 
 brickbats the electric light sign over the entrance. The part 
 of the animal which remains in the auditorium seems to 
 have an insatiable appetite. It does not cease its pillage 
 until it uproots several more rows of chairs, snatches down 
 the Hfe-sized framed pictures of Mansfield, Irwin, Terry, 
 Marlowe and Jefferson, and throws them, together with 
 
28 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 other miscellaneous contributions, upon the heap of debris, 
 which has already completely covered the stage floor. 
 
 Where were the police? They were in the midst of it 
 all, but what good are police in a riot of this kind ! What 
 cares the infuriated serpent for the gashes it receives from 
 their maces? It laughs, hisses and spits in the very face 
 of a revolver. 
 
 A university ! A place for learning ! A thoroughly 
 civilized community ! This is the type of man you graduate. 
 This is the outcome of the great football contest on which 
 your reputation is founded. It is for the encouragement of 
 this barbaric sport that you erect your million-dollar stad- 
 iums. Wonderful Football! Glorious Football! Noble 
 Football! Onward! Onward, thou frenzied serpent of 
 victory ! Onward, leaving injury, death, crime, murder, 
 and ruin, in thy path ! 
 
 The theatre was a complete wreck. The serpent stood 
 and grinned with satisfaction upon the demolition which 
 it had wrought. 
 
 At the conclusion of the havoc, a drunken "grad" rushed 
 upon the stage, and, standing upon the heap of ruined furni- 
 ture and decorations with outstretched arms, he cried: "A 
 long cheer for Tom Kuhler." The serpent squealed until 
 the walls of the theatre trembled as the name of Kuhler 
 rang nine times across the scene of destruction. 
 
 But where was our illustrious hero ? 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 ALICE AND ALLAINE 
 
 Samuel Milton was a musician, who died in the heyday 
 of his career as an artist. He was survived by his widow, 
 Alice, and his son, Paul. He had provided them with a 
 simple little cottage and a small capital, the income of which 
 was sufficient to furnish clothing and food. 
 
 The widow could not offer her boy the numerous oppor- 
 tunities which are lavished on the sons of well-to-do par- 
 ents, and which these sons seldom appreciate or utiHze. 
 But Paul's heritage from his father was something more 
 precious than the gold which the rich bequeath to their 
 children, and which is often the cause of their unrest and 
 degradation. The life of Samuel Milton was stainless, 
 and Paul came into the world without a blemish. 
 
 Alice Milton was a very beautiful and cultured woman. 
 She had had many ardent admirers but had refused their 
 oft-repeated proposals to await the husband whom destiny 
 was reserving for her. She had learned that wealth was 
 not always happiness, and that the men who possessed it 
 were seldom loyal to their sweethearts or wives. The sim- 
 ple, poetic life of a musician appealed to her; it seemed 
 nearer to nature, nearer to God, more like the life of a 
 bird, in contrast with the mere animal existence common 
 among men who had fallen heirs to vast fortunes. 
 
 She saw and heard Samuel Milton the first time at a 
 private musicale, where she was at once charmed by the 
 moral beauty reflected from his countenance and by the 
 soul and colour which characterized his art. She longed to 
 share the sweet solitude which enveloped this man's life. 
 She longed to make him happier, for it seemed he was 
 
30 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 speaking to his audience through his violin, and his mes- 
 sage — as she interpreted it — was one of sadness and yearn- 
 ing. Strangely enough, during the rendition of one number 
 on his program, the large dark eyes gazed into the still 
 deep blue of her own, and then only did the tone from his 
 beloved instrument seem to indicate that his soul was calm. 
 It had found that perfect contentment — the absence of agita- 
 tion and suffering — which often steals over us when we 
 couch upon the soft, warm sand of some unmolested shore 
 and become charmed by the infinite tranquillity of the sea. 
 
 It was then and there that God wedded their souls, and 
 the object of His union seemed that of bringing Paul into 
 the world ; for it was very shortly after the birth of the son 
 that the musician was called away. God had gifted the 
 father with musical genius to keep him upright and free 
 from vulgar associations, and, after his spotless character 
 was purely transmitted and safely planted in the child, God 
 took the musician under his own wing and relieved the 
 mother of duties to the husband in order that she might 
 give the little son her undivided attention and preserve him 
 for that deed of service for which he had been modeled by 
 the Creator. 
 
 Never was a mother more attached to her babe. She 
 remained constantly at its side. She felt that, were they 
 separated, it would grow cold. She believed it was the 
 flame of maternal love in her own bosom which kept the 
 child alive and that the closer she remained to it the warmer 
 the little heart became. At night she could not sleep unless 
 she felt the warmth of its tiny hand resting upon her own 
 cheek. Her babe was a part of her — an inseparable part. 
 
 As soon as Paul grew older, she began to teach him 
 little by little. The child had few toys for instruction or 
 amusement. The mother could not afford them. But she 
 did take long walks through the public parks and acquaint 
 him with the flowers along the paths and with the real 
 animals in the cages at the zoo. He loved to watch the 
 highly colored birds hopping from perch to perch; in fact 
 he Hked everything that was to be seen there — everything 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 31 
 
 but the serpents, in particular the huge rattlesnake writhing 
 under glass. He loathed that. 
 
 All these natural objects made an impression on his 
 mind. He had observed them very closely. One day the 
 widow found him making a little park on the sand pile in 
 the garden behind the cottage. She stopped her household 
 work to help him. She knelt on the cool grass and traced 
 out a network of paths and driveways, while he gathered 
 flowers from the bushes and the meadow across the road. 
 She bordered the driveways with rows of tiny white buttons, 
 whose shortened stems were pressed firmly into the moist 
 earth. Larger flowers were used to represent flower beds. 
 A pie pan, filled with water and placed in the middle of 
 the plot, served for a lake, in which a white lily, standing 
 upright, sufficed for a marble fountain. 
 
 The boy removed the petals from a daisy and scattered 
 them upon the water. 
 
 "What are those, dear?" asked the mother. 
 
 "Swans," answered Paul. 
 
 Then he likewise strewed some yellow petals from a 
 dandelion. 
 
 "And those?" inquired the widow. 
 
 "Gold fish." 
 
 A bleeding-heart blossom was pulled apart, and the two 
 halves were placed at the edge of the pan. 
 
 "They are rabbits drinking," explained the boy. 
 
 He constructed a small cage by sticking daisy stems into 
 the sand, and in it he placed a black and yellow cater- 
 pillar. 
 
 "That's a tiger," he shouted joyfully. 
 
 The widow was delighted with the fact that his imagi- 
 nation could transform these insignificant things into the 
 animals he had seen at the zoo. The children of the rich 
 had expensive toys — tigers and rabbits with real fur — tigers 
 that actually roared when their tails were twisted. Paul 
 had to imagine all this, and the perfect Httle brain, with 
 which God had blessed him, began to develop firmly as a 
 result of it. To appreciate the toys of other children no 
 
32 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 mental effort was required, and in consequence their minds 
 remained sluggish and inactive. They seemed to have the 
 same wooden and sawdust brains as the animals with which 
 they played. 
 
 Paul was the brightest boy in his class. His mother 
 never had to assist him with his lessons, but she often wept 
 the entire day when he started out at morning with a book 
 under his arm. To her, it was the beginning of his prepara- 
 tion for service to the world — the service for which she 
 must eventually give him up. Until this time she had been 
 his only companion and playmate. Now he would form new 
 acquaintances and make other friends — friends who, per- 
 haps, would weaken his affection for her. It was this 
 thought which caused her to seize him each afternoon when 
 he returned from school and to press him selfishly, almost 
 madly, to her bosom, as if to smother the memory of his 
 schoolmates and reawaken his love for her ; for she believed 
 the love was not so warm as it had been. After all, her 
 boy was all she had in the world : We must try to forgive 
 this selfishness on her part. 
 
 One night as they sat together at the little table with its 
 bright red cloth and its old-fashioned oil-lamp, whose light 
 fell steadily upon his open primer, the widow glanced up 
 from her needlework and said: "Paul, how do you like 
 your new friends ?" 
 
 "What friends ?" asked the boy. 
 
 "Your schoolmates," answered the mother. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know them yet," said Paul, without lifting 
 his eyes from his spelling lesson. 
 
 "Don't you speak to them ?" inquired the mother. 
 
 "No ; I walk home alone." 
 
 "Don't they ever speak to you ?" 
 
 "No, but today the little girl across the aisle from me 
 put this note on my desk." 
 
 He handed his mother an envelope, which he had placed 
 between the leaves of his book. His own name was written 
 upon it with lead pencil in a large childish hand. The 
 mother opened it and found an engraved invitation inside — 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 33 
 
 an invitation to a children's party which Mrs. Wallace 
 Bennett was giving in honor of her little daughter, AUaine. 
 
 "It's an invitation to a party, dear — a party on Thursday 
 night," said the mother. 
 
 "What's a party ?" asked Paul dryly. 
 
 "A gathering of little boys and girls like yourself." 
 
 "And what do they do there?" 
 
 "They play games and have cake and ice cream." 
 
 "Is that all?" 
 
 "Don't you care to go ?" 
 
 "No, Mother; I would rather stay home with you and 
 learn my spelHng lesson for the next morning." 
 
 This answer pleased the widow: From it she learned 
 that it was the boy's interest in his books, and not in his 
 friends, that had detracted his attention from her. And 
 yet she had also discovered, that, although he did not seem 
 to care for his classmates, nevertheless one of his classmates 
 seemed to care considerably for him. That classmate was 
 a Httle girl. 
 
 This discovery threw the widow into a pensive mood. Her 
 thoughts darted into the future : would the time come when 
 some other woman would win her boy's heart? when some 
 other woman would steal him from her, and then treat her 
 with disdain perhaps, and influence her son to do the same? 
 
 The childish love affair between Paul and Mrs. Bennett's 
 daughter did not disturb her, but it did suggest the more 
 mature affections, which might later play an important 
 part in his life. She understood the present situation per- 
 fectly. The engraved invitation and the address written in 
 lead pencil were comically inconsistent. Mrs. Bennett knew 
 nothing of it. The widow decided the child had secured 
 the announcement while the social secretary was addressing 
 them to the children of Mrs. Bennett's friends. The widow 
 had never even seen Mrs. Bennett, and Mrs. Bennett knew 
 nothing of her daughter's attachment to Paul; she would 
 very likely not permit such a thing, because the Bennetts 
 were well-to-do. Furthermore, it was a one-sided love 
 affair : Paul did not seem to manifest the slightest interest 
 
34 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 in the other child. He was too busy with his books. And 
 even if he had wanted to attend the party, she would have 
 been reluctant — in fact she would have refused to grant 
 him permission to go. But how it would have pained the 
 widow to refuse anything to her son! She had always 
 allowed him to have his own way, which, as far as she 
 could see, was always a good and a right way. His attitude 
 in regard to attending this party was an example of it. 
 
 And Alice Milton continued to sew, and Paul continued 
 to study. 
 
 The Bennetts were the most fashionable and most exclu- 
 sive family in the town of Norford. Willow Lodge — for 
 such was the name they had given to their mansion and the 
 grounds which surrounded it — occupied a whole square in 
 the very center of the community. 
 
 Mrs. Wallace Bennett was at the top notch of society. 
 Her mother, Mrs. Q. MacRae Kensington, had held the 
 same position formerly, and it was Mrs. Bennett's ambition 
 to see her own daughter capture it in the future. 
 
 Mrs. Bennett's early education was conducted by a pri- 
 vate governess, who drilled her very thoroughly in French 
 and Art. Afterwards she attended a very fashionable 
 ladies' seminary and took special courses in aesthetic danc- 
 ing, social etiquette and horseback riding. Mrs. Bennett 
 was purely ornamental, as was everything with which she 
 surrounded herself. She was tall, slender, pink and white, 
 graceful, and charming. She could speak French beauti- 
 fully but usually said nothing when she did so. 
 
 She had twenty-four servants, six horses, four terriers, 
 three Packards and a cat. 
 
 She called the cat Richelieu. He received her personal 
 attention ; Allaine had a maid. He was a rather playful cat 
 with long, golden, silky hair like that of his mistress. When 
 the hostess held a reception, Richelieu was trained to sit on 
 one corner of the white marble mantelpiece, with one paw 
 on the stem of a large red rose, which hung gracefully over 
 the edge of the mantelshelf. If the paw grew tired, he 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 35 
 
 would change to the other and sometimes drop the rose 
 while doing so — in which case Mrs. Bennett would scold 
 him very severely (in French) and spank him gently with 
 that pretty red rose before replacing it. The whipping 
 always hurt Mrs. Bennett more than it hurt Richelieu, and 
 after it was over, she would caress him lovingly and allow 
 him to brush her soft velvety cheeks with his pretty, long, 
 white whiskers. Richelieu slept in a silk-lined basket on the 
 foot of Mrs. Bennett's bed ; Allaine had a room at the other 
 end of the hall. 
 
 Mr. Wallace Bennett was an alumnus of the the univer- 
 sity. He had met Mrs. Bennett at the Promenade and mar- 
 ried her the year after graduation. Both were wealthy. 
 Mrs. Bennett lavished her fortune on her house, her clothes 
 and her entertainments. Mr. Bennett had become inter- 
 ested in the education of the poor and was giving large 
 sums for that purpose. He had observed in his under- 
 graduate days that it was the poorer students who took the 
 greatest interest in scholarship; in fact he decided they 
 were the only real scholars in the university. He noticed 
 also that the number of such scholars was small. Educa- 
 tion at the institutes of higher learning was becoming more 
 or less of a farce ; the colleges and schools were mere cen- 
 ters of pleasure and fashion. He wanted to bring them 
 back to their original purpose, which meant that he must 
 seek several promising boys, whose mental qualities had 
 not been stunted by the indolence and indifference which 
 go hand in hand with wealth. He must expect help only 
 from the poorer lads who could and would appreciate the 
 real advantages of learning and whose minds were capable 
 of study and thought. 
 
 Mr. Bennett's own experience at the university always 
 afforded him an excellent example in a waste of time and 
 money. He had made numerous friends, but when he left 
 the campus he had to leave them also, whereas he might 
 have taken his education with him — had he received one. 
 He always regretted the fact that he had not paid more 
 attention to his books. 
 
36 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 There was another product of fashionable and pleasur- 
 able education constantly before him: it was his own wife. 
 To his eyes, as to most youthful eyes, she had appeared 
 wonderful at first, but the poor man had made only a super- 
 ficial study of his bride, and after his marriage soon reahzed 
 that he had wedded nothing more than a beautifully gowned 
 figure with a hollow head. Her conversation, her dinners, 
 her bridge tables, her cotillions, her tallyho rides to the 
 Country Club, her swimming parties, her dawn teas — -all 
 these things amused him at first, but after constant repeti- 
 tion they began to bore him. To his mind Willow Lodge 
 was not a home; it was a public auditorium, restaurant, 
 gymnasium, music hall and hotel, filled from morning till 
 night and from night till morning with a clattering collec- 
 tion of dolls and dandies. 
 
 Mr. Bennett finally refused to participate in his wife's 
 diversions, retreating to his library to sit before the fire in 
 his comfortable arm chair. He was not alone however. 
 Little AUaine always kept him company, and often while 
 the guests were waltzing in the ballroom or being served 
 in the salon, Mr. Bennett was helping his daughter with her 
 school work. Allaine was his only comfort. She seemed 
 a dozen times more sensible than her mother, and her prattle 
 always amused him. 
 
 Allaine was, in fact, a partial cause of the loss of affec- 
 tion between her father and her mother. Mrs. Bennett 
 wanted her daughter under the instruction of a gov- 
 erness, and later she expected to immure her at a private 
 school on the Hudson. In fact she wanted to make another 
 Mrs. Bennett of her. But Mr. Bennett protested. There 
 was one type of woman Allaine must not become, and that 
 was the society-mad type, of which his own wife was per- 
 haps the best and most hopeless example. This type was 
 not a natural one. No girl could even inherit such charac- 
 teristics. The child herself took no interest in her mother's 
 fads, unless they were held in her honor, and in that case 
 it was from the standpoint of duty rather than pleasure that 
 she participated in them. It was only environment — silly, 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 37 
 
 senseless environment which brought girls to this deplorable 
 mania even against their own wills. At least Mr. Bennett 
 thought so. 
 
 The right side won the conflict, as it usually does and 
 always should. Allaine was sent to the public school, where 
 she not only received the necessary common-sense instruc- 
 tion but also met with all sorts of boys and girls who 
 broadened her views of life. Mrs. Bennett wept, but her 
 tears were not those of a mother whose child had been 
 torn from her breast ; they were the tears of a social maniac 
 who had been defeated in an attempt to lure another inno- 
 cent victim into her whirl of fad and fashion. 
 
 But Mrs. Bennett did not give up completely; she con- 
 tinued to arrange parties very frequently, inviting only the 
 most fashionable children of the neighborhood. The twin 
 daughters of Mrs. Samson Pokes always came to these gath- 
 erings in their white limousine, escorted by a French maid ; 
 but they always sat by themselves, off in one corner, and 
 had very little to say to the little hostess. Mrs. Pokes 
 thought it "awful" to send Allaine among the "vulgar little 
 toads" of the public school, and she even feared her own 
 daughters might be "contaminated" indirectly by her com- 
 pany. Indeed were it not that Mrs. Bennett and herself 
 were "the dearest of friends," she would not permit the 
 children to attend the parties at all. As far as Mr. Bennett 
 was concerned, he was a "monster" to expose his own 
 daughter to such a "disgrace". 
 
 t 
 
 It was Thursday night — the night of the party to which 
 Allaine had secretly invited Paul Milton. Willow Lodge 
 was ablaze with light. Allaine was standing in state at one 
 end of the large drawing room waiting to receive her guests. 
 She was not dressed so gorgeously as she had been at her 
 earlier parties, but she looked very sweet and plain ; she 
 knew that Paul was too poor to have a black velvet suit 
 like Peter Harrison, and she wished to be attired accord- 
 ingly. Each time the door bell rang, she expected to see 
 Paul; but Paul never came. 
 
38 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 The evening passed around very slowly for Allaine, but 
 the other children had a glorious time at games and dancing. 
 The Pokes twins sang a few French ditties, that no one 
 understood ; Allaine imagined they were making fun of her, 
 because her little schoolmate had ignored the invitation, 
 although she had no reason to believe they knew anything 
 about him. At table she could eat nothing; she had lost 
 her appetite. She was lovesick. Poor Child ! 
 
 Here she was, surrounded by everything wealth could 
 bring her — everything but Paul Milton. Why didn't he 
 come? She had planned to do so much for him that even- 
 ing. He and she were to have led the cotillion. Peter was 
 by no means a substitute for Paul. How annoying it was 
 when Peter came near her ! Twice he asked to dance ; twice 
 she refused him. The first time she told him her toe was 
 sore. The second time she said her toe was better, but she 
 didn't like the music. Her toe, as a matter of fact, was 
 extremely well, and the music was extremely beautiful. 
 Had it been Paul Milton in his school clothes all covered 
 with chalk-dust, she would have danced with him over and 
 over again even though both the music and her toe had been 
 frightfully painful. 
 
 Paul was to have sat at the opposite end of the table. 
 She was going to inform the butler to give him the best of 
 everything and a second helping of ice cream, if he wished 
 it. What if he didn't have the latest manners! She knew 
 the Pokes twins would snigger if he asked for more, but 
 she had made up her mind to avoid his embarrassment by 
 asking for a second portion also, and she had decided to 
 eat it even though she would burst. 
 
 He was to have been her star guest. He was to have 
 received all her attention. She had planned all these things 
 in advance. She had not told a single soul about it. How 
 badly she felt after the guests departed? She sat alone in 
 the drawing room almost ready to cry. Then she spied 
 the cat on the mantelpiece. He was grinning at her because 
 she had been jilted. This was insult added to injury. She 
 walked to the mantelpiece, snatched the red rose from under 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 39 
 
 his paw, and beat him terribly across the head. The cat 
 jumped off to one side and sent an expensive vase to the 
 hearth in a thousand pieces. The noise attracted Mrs. 
 Bennett. 
 
 "Did Richeheu do that ?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes," said AUaine. 
 
 "Give me the rose ; I shall have to spank him." 
 
 Poor Richelieu ! 
 
 The next morning Allaine went to school with a "ter- 
 rible" headache, for she had cried the whole night long — 
 at least she thought it was the whole night, but she had, as 
 a matter of fact, fallen asleep a few minutes after her 
 head was on the pillow. She expected Paul to tell her why- 
 he had stayed away from her party. But Paul never men- 
 tioned the party; he had forgotten all about it. Nor did 
 Allaine dare to speak first. She preferred to suffer in 
 silence; she preferred to believe Paul had never seen her 
 invitation rather than believe he had refused it. Paul knew 
 his spelling lesson very well that morning, but Allaine failed 
 miserably. 
 
 A short while after school was dismissed that afternoon, 
 Allaine walked down the street with a small box in her 
 hand. She stopped before the widow's cottage and rapped 
 gently on the door. Alice answered it. 
 
 "Good morning — good afternoon," said Allaine, imme- 
 diately correcting herself. 
 
 "Good afternoon," said AHce, smiling at the little visitor. 
 
 "Please give this to Paul," said the child, holding out 
 the package. "I want him to have a taste of my party, even 
 if he didn't come." 
 
 "Shall I call him?" asked the widow. 
 
 "Oh dear no," answered Allaine very quickly. "I am in 
 a dreadful hurry." 
 
 Then she fluttered away like a butterfly, as AHce Milton 
 was calling her son from the garden. 
 
 "A little fairy has been here and left a present for you," 
 she said. 
 
40 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 Paul opened the box and took out a heart-shaped cake 
 covered with pink icing, on which the name Allaine was 
 embossed with white sugar. He took a wee bite himself 
 and then placed it to his mother's lips. 
 
 "Taste how sweet it is," he said. 
 
 The widow pretended to eat a part of the cake. 
 
 "I shall get the rest of it sometime again," added the 
 boy, and he returned to his work in the garden, where he 
 was building a little schoolhouse on the top of a sand pile. 
 
 Those words — *'I shall get the rest of it sometime 
 again" — had a particular significance to the widow. She 
 wrote them upon the lid of the box, placed the cake inside 
 of it, and put the package away very carefully. 
 
 On Monday morning, Paul knew his spelling lesson very 
 well, but he never once noticed Allaine. Indeed he had for- 
 gotten about the cake as quickly as he had forgotten about 
 the invitation. He never even knew it was the same fairy 
 who had delivered both of them. 
 
 It is needless to say that Allaine again failed miserably — 
 in her spelling lesson. 
 
 Nevertheless she continued to love Paul in her simple 
 childish way, although she never sent him a second invita- 
 tion or another cake. Her little heart was heavy because he 
 seemed to ignore her, but she found some comfort in sitting 
 across the aisle from him. How good he looked in com- 
 parison with the other boys ! 
 
 Mrs. Bennett knew nothing of the love affair which was 
 "consuming" her little daughter. Allaine continued to bear 
 all her "suffering" in secrecy. But it soon had an incon- 
 cealable effect. At the end of the year Paul was promoted 
 to the next highest grade ; Allaine remained behind. What 
 a blow it was to her! not the fact that she had failed, but 
 the fact that Paul would no longer sit across the aisle ! 
 
 "There !" said Mrs. Bennett sarcastically to her husband. 
 "That's public school for you. Your daughter has failed 
 and brought disgrace upon her parents. The whole town 
 knows about it; I have already received a note of consola- 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 41 
 
 tion from Mrs. Samson Pokes. Had she been sent to a 
 private school and received individual attention, this v^ould 
 never have happened." 
 
 "You mean we would never have heard about it," added 
 the husband. "But even if she did fail in public school, I 
 am willing to wager she knows more than these fashion 
 plates who graduate with honors and degrees from your 
 highfalutin finishing seminaries. She can beat you all 
 hollow in arithmetic — and me too. It isn't the lack of brains 
 that made her fail." 
 
 "What is it then ? It isn't society ; she detests that." 
 
 "Perhaps she's in love," suggested Mr. Bennett jestingly. 
 
 "Love!" shouted Mrs. Bennett, "Why Mrs. Harrison 
 told me that Peter refuses to attend another party, because 
 Allaine treats him so disdainfully. She's an inhuman little 
 goose with a heart of stone." 
 
 And she walked to the mantelpiece and kissed Richelieu. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 WHAT THE BIRDS TAUGHT HIM 
 
 When Paul passed into the next grade at school, he soon 
 forgot that such a girl as AUaine Bennett existed, for, as 
 the years rolled on, he had found other interests, in addition 
 to his studies, to occupy his time and his thoughts. 
 
 One day an old gypsy stopped before the widow's cot- 
 tage and played several melodies on his fiddle. Paul sat 
 on the doorstep, silent and pensive, for the music charmed 
 him wonderfully. 
 
 "I wish I had one of those," he said to his mother, when 
 the gypsy had departed. 
 
 "Your father used to play the violin," said the widow. 
 
 "Have you still got it?" asked the boy ecstatically. 
 
 "Yes ; it is packed away in the studio, but it is not a toy, 
 Paul, and it is very dear to me." 
 
 "Well, I am a big boy, Mother. I won't harm it or 
 break it. Do let me have my father's violin." 
 
 Those words — "my father's violin" — made the widow 
 feel that the instrument was no longer her own but belonged 
 to the son of the good musician. 
 
 "Come, we shall search for it," she said. 
 
 Both of them ascended the stairs to the little studio 
 under the roof, where they found the vioHn well preserved 
 in its old-fashioned case. To the widow the tone of this 
 violin was the voice of her husband. When she opened the 
 case, she imagined she was opening his casket. All the 
 strings were broken — alas ! that meant his voice would never 
 be heard again. 
 
 "It needs new strings," said the boy, taking hold of the 
 violin as though he had handled it for years. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 43 
 
 "You must run to the drug store and buy a set," sug- 
 gested Alice. 
 
 She gave him money, and he returned with the strings. 
 He examined the manner in which the old ones were 
 attached, then removed them and strung the instrument 
 anew. He drew the bow. The violin was, of course, not 
 properly tuned, but it had retained the same resonance of 
 former years, and the youth brought out of it that won- 
 derful singing tone, the ability to produce which is always 
 God-given and never acquired. The widow concluded at 
 once that the boy had inherited his father's genius. 
 
 *T wish the old gypsy would come back again," said 
 the boy. 
 
 "Why, dear?" 
 
 "He could teach me to play." 
 
 The mother felt a certain anxiety. She wanted the child 
 to have instruction, but she could not afford the lessons. He 
 was receiving some instruction in music at the public school ; 
 he already knew about the staff, the clefs, the values and 
 the names of the notes, the sharps, the flats, the keys and 
 the scales. This knowledge would be a great help to him, 
 but even combined with this and his own intuition — remark- 
 able as the latter seemed — it was not sufficient. The boy 
 needed the fundamental knowledge of the instrument and 
 of the art of playing it. He needed the association with some 
 one who had mastered that art, even though the mastery 
 were more or less mechanical. It was, in fact, this very 
 mechanical basis that the boy lacked; artistically he could 
 take care of himself. 
 
 That evening, just at dusk, he was sitting on the back 
 doorstep, drawing the bow back and forward, when he heard 
 the call of a whip-poor-will from a neighboring tree. The 
 boy listened as the call was repeated several times. Then 
 he tried to imitate it. He moved his finger along one of 
 the strings until he located the three notes which character- 
 ize the cry of that songster. The bird seemed to under- 
 stand he was trying to imitate it, and flew into the garden, 
 perching on a lilac bush, that the boy might hear the call 
 
44 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 more distinctly. After considerable practice, in which both 
 bird and boy displayed great patience, Paul reproduced 
 the call of the whip-poor-will perfectly, and they continued 
 to answer each other until finally the bird, seemingly sat- 
 isfied with the progress of its pupil, flew away and disap- 
 peared among the leaves to await the dawn. 
 
 A few days later the old gypsy passed through the town 
 again, and Paul called him in to show his father's violin. 
 The widow had heard it rumored that gypsies stole things, 
 and she felt rather uneasy seeing the man examine her 
 husband's great treasure. 
 
 'Tt's a very old instrument," remarked the fiddler. 
 
 "How can you tell?" asked the boy, ever eager to learn. 
 
 "You have placed the strings on it in the order AGE D," 
 was the reply. 
 
 The widow and her son both smiled. So did the gypsy, 
 and the mother believed she saw nothing but good in his 
 dear old face. 
 
 "Would you mind stringing it correctly and giving him 
 a lesson or two ?" asked the widow. 
 
 "I will be glad to do that," answered the kind old 
 wanderer. 
 
 He also drew a staff on a sheet of paper and showed 
 Paul the position of the four notes to which the strings 
 responded. Then he tuned them accordingly, and produced 
 that familiar blending of fifths, which Paul always remem- 
 bered. He taught him how to play and finger the scales. 
 Paul practiced them for several hours each day, and, when 
 the old gypsy returned to give a second lesson, the boy 
 could play them remarkably well. 
 
 Yes, the old gypsy returned regularly twice a week, and 
 all he asked in remuneration for his teaching was "a bite 
 to eat". The widow was only too glad to have the old man 
 sit down at table with her and Paul. He entertained them 
 with stories of his travels, telling them how children, 
 charmed by his music, would sometimes march after him 
 through the streets. He was in fact a Pied Fiddler, who 
 loved little ones as much as he loved his fiddle. Alice soon 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 45 
 
 lost the notion that he might be a thief. She discovered that 
 he was a good man, trying to earn an honest Hving by amus- 
 ing the townsfolk with his music. And the old minstrel 
 also learned that AHce was a kind woman, who paid amply 
 for the small service he rendered her son. Had the mayor 
 of Hamelin shown the Pied Piper the same respect with 
 which the widow treated the gypsy, the Piper would not 
 have robbed the town of its children but would have con- 
 tinued happily on his way. Men are not born thieves ; they 
 are made thieves and criminals by the ill treatment and the 
 insult we fling in their faces. 
 
 It was not long until Paul was playing with a marvelous 
 technique. He had discovered a chestful of music in the 
 studio — music which Samuel Milton had used when 
 instructing his pupils. He also found a notebook, showing 
 in what order the various selections should be taken up by 
 the student; and in this notebook were recorded many 
 experiences in teaching, together with numerous sugges- 
 tions for young violinists. Paul studied the book carefully. 
 It seemed the father had prepared it purposely for the son. 
 
 So the father himself really became the boy's teacher, 
 and under his guidance the pupil soon surpassed his old 
 master — the gypsy. The gypsy honestly admitted that it 
 was no longer necessary to call at the cottage. He departed 
 one evening for the last time, and the tears stood in his eyes 
 when he thanked the widow for all the kindness she had 
 shown him. That night she had prepared a basketful of 
 food in addition to his meal, and he disappeared under the 
 shadow of the village trees just as Paul's first teacher, the 
 whip-poor-will, had done, after the boy had mastered what 
 little the bird was able to teach him. 
 
 Later, Paul began to play the less difficult selections his 
 father had played in concert, and one afternoon, while the 
 rain was falling over the little garden, he sat at the studio 
 window, playing that very love song which the father had 
 played to Alice Milton at the musicale where she had first 
 met him — the love song which seemed to join their souls. 
 The widow stopped her work and cried for joy. How good 
 
46 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 God was to send this sweet reminiscence of her husband! 
 She believed the husband himself had returned to his studio 
 under the roof and was again serenading her as he had done 
 of yore. She ascended the steps noiselessly and watched her 
 little genius as he dreamed and mused. Once his eyes 
 turned to the shadowy corner where she stood concealed. 
 Ke seemed to gaze directly into her own deep blue eyes, 
 and yet he was unaware of her presence. His were the 
 same, large, dark eyes of the father, and over them hung 
 that same rich, curly, brown hair. Samuel Milton had 
 indeed come to life again, and his music — his voice — awak- 
 ened in the heart of the widow the old love which had been 
 replaced by the maternal devotion to her offspring. But 
 that love had changed; it had grown purer as it slumbered 
 in her bosom. It was a spiritual love — the love of the soul, 
 which eventually forsakes the love of the body and towers 
 infinitely above it, like the flower which is as yet unfolded 
 in the seed embedded by the warm earth, but which later 
 rises into the pure sunlight and turns its ethereal face to 
 the skies alone. 
 
 The music ceased, and the widow descended the stairs. 
 The stairs creaked, but Paul mistook the noise for the pat- 
 tering of the rain on the roof. He was unaware of the fact 
 that he had had a listener. Ah ! more than one listener ; for 
 a girl, who was passing on the street, had also stopped under 
 the studio window to hear the sweet strains which came 
 floating from it. 
 
 Between his school studies and his music, Paul had little 
 time for anything else. The widow never disturbed him, 
 or in any way detracted him from his work. He had now 
 entered High School and was approaching manhood. He 
 had formed no intimate friends. His mother was the only 
 one in whom he confided. It was before her that he brought 
 all matters, all questions, all inquiries. But such inquiries 
 were few, for Paul seemed to have forgotten the world in 
 which he lived, and he gave all his time to his books and 
 his art. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 47 
 
 Such are the ways of genius, and the more ordinary man 
 does not interfere with them. The man of the world per- 
 mits the man of soHtude to Hve undisturbed in his quiet 
 dreamy fashion. But it is not the will of God that man 
 should live entirely after this manner, and from time to 
 time God speaks to the solitary one through Nature and 
 shows him that love and companionship with his fellow- 
 creatures are needed to make him happier and to reward 
 his work. 
 
 One morning Paul and the widow were in the little gar- 
 den. He was lying on the grass gazing among the branches 
 over his head. The mother sat on a rustic bench, mending 
 stockings. It was early springtime. The leaf-buds were just 
 beginning to open on the fruit trees, and the birds were gath- 
 ering straws and grass for the construction of their nests. 
 
 Paul's eyes were fixed on a pair of birds above him. 
 The birds were mates ; their nest was near by. The mother 
 bird was perched on a swinging bough, her graceful little 
 form quivering happily each time the male brushed by her, 
 as he danced and hopped restlessly from twig to twig or 
 described graceful curves in the air. From time to time 
 he would alight gently on her warm downy back and 
 embrace her tenderly and lovingly with his fluttering wings. 
 Then after darting away — not too far — with peculiar joy, 
 he would run his bill through his ruffled plumage, to appear 
 neat and clean to his little mate, who chirped merrily for 
 his return, and upon whom he always directed one eye in 
 his prettily tilted head that he might follow her in case 
 she took flight. 
 
 "What are those birds doing. Mother?" asked the son. 
 
 "Which birds?" 
 
 "Those up yonder in the tree." 
 
 The widow glanced up and saw the birds when they 
 seemed so happily united. 
 
 "There! see them now," said Paul. "What are they 
 doing?" 
 
 The widow knew that the boy's curiosity had been 
 aroused. He was still innocent ; he had not yet learned the 
 
48 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 secret by which Nature reproduces her kinds. He was now 
 old enough to be informed. His father was not there to 
 enlighten him. It rested with the widow to tell her boy 
 the whole truth, and to tell it plainly. She would neither 
 invent a fairy tale to keep him in ignorance nor would she 
 postpone telling him that truth openly. The time had come 
 when he must know all, for God so willed it by showing 
 him the birds. Were she to refrain from enlightening him, 
 he might learn the secret elsewhere and learn it in a wrong 
 sense, which might mislead him, injure him, and disgrace 
 both of them. 
 
 "What are the birds doing?" he continued to ask. 
 
 "My dear, they are loving each other." 
 
 "They seem so happy," said Paul. 
 
 "They are very happy, dear — just as happy as your 
 father and I were when we loved each other in the 
 same way." 
 
 "Are there father and mother birds ?" 
 
 "Yes, and they will soon be the happy parents of a little 
 baby bird — just as your father and mother were the happy 
 parents of their little Paul." 
 
 "The birds look alike; what is the difference between 
 them?" 
 
 "Just the difference there is between you and me, or 
 between any boy and girl." 
 
 "What is the real difference between boys and girls ?" 
 
 "All things in Nature are reproduced by the union of 
 the male and female elements," began the widow. "Take a 
 flower for example." 
 
 She culled a purple morning-glory from the vine, which 
 was climbing up the strings on the fence. She removed the 
 beautiful purple corolla that he might see the pistil very 
 distinctly. 
 
 "This is the female organ," she said. "Before it is full 
 grown, it represents that of the girl; after it matures, it 
 represents that of the woman." 
 
 Then she removed one of the stamens, which were 
 attached to the inside of the corolla. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 49 
 
 "This is the male organ. Before it matures, it repre- 
 sents that of the boy; after it matures, it represents that 
 of the man." 
 
 The boy Hstened attentively, watched closely, and seemed 
 to understand his mother without asking further questions. 
 She rubbed the head of the stamen between her fingers, and 
 then showed him the pollen which adhered to them. 
 
 "This dust is produced by the mature male organ and 
 is carried, sometimes by the bees and sometimes by the 
 wind, to the female organ, where it descends until it reaches 
 the seeds. Then the seeds are said to be fertilized — ^that is, 
 endowed with life; and, when planted, they give rise to 
 new morning-glory vines. 
 
 "Now let us return to the birds. In the male bird, there 
 is an organ corresponding to this male organ in the flower. 
 In the female bird, — the mother bird, — there is an organ 
 corresponding to this female organ in the flower. The 
 mature male organ is capable of secreting a fluid, which 
 corresponds to this dust in the flower; and the mature 
 female organ produces eggs, which correspond to the seeds 
 of the flower. In the springtime each male bird selects his 
 mate, and when the two birds embrace, as you saw them in 
 the tree, the fluid passes from the male into the female 
 and fertilizes the eggs. Then the baby birds are hatched 
 from the eggs. 
 
 "Man can learn much from the birds. They, of all God's 
 creatures, seem nearest to Him. They soar in the sky, 
 where the air is purest and where the sunshine is brightest. 
 God's message is always truest when received in the cleanest 
 places. While the birds are singing so beautifully among 
 the trees tops, they are promising God they will do what 
 He is asking of them. He is telling each male bird to select 
 a female bird and keep her as his sole companion, love her 
 dearly and tenderly, and by so doing, bring more baby birds 
 into the world. And God is telling man the same thing, 
 although man does not always heed Him as the birds do; 
 man does not seem to hear God's voice so clearly as they 
 do, because man does not always wish to hear it. Man 
 
50 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 sometimes ignores God, although he must always suffer 
 for doing it. But the purer the life of man becomes, the 
 nearer man comes to God, and then he hears the same 
 message which God sends to the birds. Like the bird, he 
 selects a mate, a wife, and although he continues to love 
 all mankind, yet this particular relation, which you saw 
 between the two birds, brings him closer to his wife than 
 to any other woman and confirms their marriage. It is a 
 relation which neither of them should have experienced with 
 other men or women before their marriage, nor which they 
 should experience with other men or women after their 
 marriage. It is this relation which sacredly unites and weds 
 their bodies just as God unites and weds their souls. It 
 is against God's will that unwedded persons should thus 
 unite, for those who so abuse this power of reproduction 
 become wretched and diseased, and their children enter the 
 world unhappy and imperfect." 
 
 "But why should men and women wish to abuse this 
 power?" asked Paul, innocently. 
 
 "You saw how happy the birds were. Man and woman 
 are just as happy when they are so united. The union of 
 the male and the female is accompanied by pleasing sensa- 
 tions — perhaps the greatest joy known to material man; it 
 is for this reason that it so degrades him when he abuses 
 it. Men and women marry for another reason aside from 
 the love of children. In the case of man, the union of the 
 sexes has another purpose, which the birds do not seem 
 to require ; it is that of pleasure and relaxation. The bird's 
 life is restful; the Hfe of man is one of conflict. Man must 
 struggle for his existence; he must work, study, learn and 
 accomplish great things. God has sent man to earth to help 
 Him in His great tasks, for which God offers him this 
 reward. The man who has employed his mental or physical 
 powers to accomplish good work deserves this reward. The 
 reward is not only a wife and a happy family of chil- 
 dren but also the continuation of that pleasure by which 
 the children were created. God has planted the desire 
 for this pleasure in all men. It is an inborn desire; not 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 51 
 
 an acquired one. As long as man remains good and as long 
 as he labors, this desire sleeps; but after the good work is 
 accomplished, the desire awakens and should be purely 
 gratified. 
 
 "Thus it was, Paul, that I could reward your father at 
 the close of those days when he labored so diligently with 
 his pupils and his art. Thus it was that I offered him my 
 body, and we repeated the mutual pleasure which brought 
 you into the world, and the purity of which has blessed you 
 with a clean birth. Your happiness and our happiness 
 proves that God does not deny this pleasure to the good 
 man and his wife. He denies it only to the man who in- 
 dulges before he has earned a true and loving wife — for in 
 that case, the pleasure results in disease. The noblest thing 
 I can tell you about your father is the fact that your mother 
 was the first and only woman with whom he shared the 
 pleasure of sexual love. 
 
 "And now, Paul, I have told you all. Remember that 
 God has this pleasure in store for you also. Do not abuse 
 it, my boy. Think of your mother, your future wife, your 
 dear children and yourself. Do not bring disgrace, suffering 
 and disease into the world. This desire will sooner or later 
 awaken in you, but learn to work hard and master it until 
 you have accomplished some good work. Let it be the 
 spring which presses you onward to some great task, the 
 attainment of which will justify the gratification and entitle 
 you to a loving wife and children and the same joy which 
 was cherished by your own parents." 
 
 The widow had finished her sermon. The son stood 
 before her on his knees. It was a lesson he never forgot. 
 
 "And now since father is dead, you are deprived of that 
 pleasure," said Paul, with a wavering tone of pity in his 
 voice and an expression of deep compassion in his large 
 dark eyes. 
 
 "Yes, dear," responded the sweet widow, "but it has 
 been replaced by a higher pleasure — a truer happiness — a 
 purer and more spiritual love — the love for my boy — my 
 dear darling boy." 
 
52 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 And she took his clean, upright face between her soft, 
 white hands, and kissed his spotless forehead. 
 
 The widow had not overlooked the one great duty in 
 the education of her son — an open discussion of sexual 
 intercourse and its proper uses. It is that part of education 
 which neither school nor college can teach aright — the knowl- 
 edge which only a father or a mother can successfully impart 
 — the knowledge which should and must be transmitted to us 
 through the parents from whom we have sprung. 
 
 If the mothers and fathers of the past had known and 
 imparted this to their children in the same way, the world 
 would be much better and purer today. Most fathers and 
 mothers do not merit the name of parents, because they dare 
 not breathe such matters before their children. They prefer 
 to let their children discover these things for themselves, 
 with the result that they learn of them from and practice 
 them with persons who abuse the legitimate pleasures of 
 wedlock, consequently exposing their sons to temptation 
 and ruin. 
 
 There should be no shame connected with the pleasure 
 in which man and wife indulge behind the closed door of 
 the nuptial chamber. There is no reason why this moral 
 conduct of the parents should be kept a secret to their 
 grown-up children. The world must awaken; the world 
 is topsy-turvy. We refuse to mention sexual intercourse 
 in its purified and legitimate form, but the intercourse which 
 is illicit and commerciaHzed we advertise with red ink in 
 our newspapers and drag out on the boards of our theatres. 
 It is with intercourse in its depraved form that we prefer 
 first to acquaint our children. It is of the intercourse which 
 is a deadly vice, and not of the intercourse which approaches 
 a virtue, that the world speaks unblushingly before the 
 children of the next generation — before the children who 
 become the unfortunate and debased men and women of 
 the future. 
 
 As long as you are going to keep your own moral con- 
 duct a secret to your son, he will most assuredly keep his 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 53 
 
 immoral conduct a secret to you. As long as you fail in 
 your courage to talk before him about the decent, helpful 
 and necessary pleasures which you share with your loyal 
 wife and his sweet mother, how can you expect him to 
 mention before you his indecent, unhealthful and unessential 
 relations with the women of the street ! How many boys, 
 who are slowly being poisoned by harlots, remain mute in 
 the presence of their parents, because their parents have 
 never approached the subject of sexual intercourse before 
 them! And think how many a boy might have been saved 
 had he received a word of warning from his father or 
 mother before he received the initiation from his first 
 temptress ! 
 
 As soon as a boy reaches the age when he becomes 
 curious, these things should be the foremost topic of con- 
 versation between him and his father, and it is the father 
 and not the son who should encourage this conversation. 
 I believe immoral fathers are far more willing to start 
 their sons on crooked paths than moral fathers are willing 
 to start their sons on straight ones. How timid we are about 
 mentioning our rectitude! Is rectitude a thing to be 
 ashamed of? Take hold of your son, bashful father and 
 mother, and explain to him the act which brought him into 
 the world. Begin if you wish — as did Alice Milton — by 
 speaking of the flowers and the birds, but conclude your 
 discussion by referring to your own personal relation with 
 the good woman whom God gave you as wife and him as 
 mother. It is nothing but secrecy which makes this rela- 
 tion seem shameful to you and to him. Tell him all openly, 
 and he will respect and love you ; and that respect and love 
 will do much to guard him from the illegitimate and immoral 
 conduct which may lead to the disrespect for his own wife, 
 the imperfection of his children, and the ruination of the 
 peace and of the happiness of his home. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 THE FLEDGELING IS CALLED AWAY FROM THE NEST 
 
 Paul Milton completed his course at High School with 
 honors and was presented with a free scholarship for the 
 continuation of his studies at the university. The scholar- 
 ship was said to have come from the alumni who resided 
 in Nor ford, but, as a matter of fact, it was a personal gift 
 from Mr. Bennett, although few persons knew it. 
 
 AUaine by this time had grown to be a beautiful young 
 woman. She was slender, graceful and sensible. She had 
 inherited all the beauty of form and color which had at- 
 tracted Mr. Bennett to her mother, but, in addition to these, 
 she had acquired mental qualities which were far in advance 
 of those of his wife, and which revealed personality and 
 character, giving strength and permanence to the opales- 
 cent and seemingly fragile shell which encased them. 
 
 Her observations on persons and things were not super- 
 ficial. She studied them thoroughly trying to discover their 
 true nature and purpose. Her mother's social interests 
 had never appealed to her very strongly, and now they 
 seemed more shallow, more ostentatious and sillier than 
 ever. It was toward her father that she had a natural 
 inclination, because he had rescued Allaine from the freaks 
 and frivolities in which the mother had planned to feature 
 her. Mr. Bennett adored and worshiped her. Each day 
 seemed to bring them closer. She became a true helpmate, 
 and shared his interest in the enlightenment of the poverty- 
 stricken inhabitants of Norford. 
 
 It was not the distribution of wealth that occupied Mr. 
 Wallace Bennett's time and mind; it was the distribution 
 of knowledge. In fact he had come to the conclusion that 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 55 
 
 knowledge was the only true wealth, and that those who 
 had acquired it were far richer than those whose first and 
 only treasure was gold. Money, to his mind, became val- 
 uable only when used for intellectual and common-sense 
 purposes. Material possessions, beyond those essential for 
 comfortable existence, were mere luxuries which dwarfed 
 the development of the mind — the opportunity which God 
 gave man in order that he might be superior to the beast. 
 The flabby-minded well-to-do, who decorated their fifty- 
 chambered mansions with imported bric-a-brac and tapes- 
 tries, who decorated their bodies with gaudy satins and 
 expensive laces, and who ate a ten-course meal three or four 
 times a day, were, to him, objects of pity. What good was 
 all their wealth if they hadn't enough brains to know how 
 to spend it! He considered them just as unfortunate as 
 those who had no money whatever. Since money alone had 
 made the rich neither wiser nor better, it would likewise 
 fail to improve the poor. Both classes were hungry and 
 miserable, because they knew nothing ; the poor were hungry 
 for food ; the rich were hungry for contentment. Money 
 and food might bring temporary relief to the poor just as 
 it had to the rich, but education was needed to do permanent 
 good for both classes. 
 
 Allaine was not so brilliant as Paul Milton, but had it 
 not been for the influence which his presence exerted over 
 her childish emotions (for children have emotions) when 
 he sat opposite her in the classroom — had it not been for 
 this, she might have graduated with his class, although per- 
 haps not with honors. 
 
 She had indeed lost a whole year of school on that 
 account, but she decided it was better so; for although she 
 still loved Paul secretly, nevertheless the love had grown 
 more noble and womanly. It was not the giddy affection 
 of a silly school girl ; it was a love to help him along with 
 his life's work, not a love to hinder him by selfishly attract- 
 ing his attention with invitations to parties and with heart- 
 shaped cakes bearing her own name. She was very glad 
 they were no longer in the same class and room at school, 
 
56 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 lest her constant presence reveal the mature sentiment. 
 True, he had ignored her when he was still a child ; but he 
 was now approaching manhood, and it was not improbable 
 that, were he to discover the deep interest and yearning hid- 
 den in the heart of this beautiful and sensible girl, it might 
 awaken a passion which would stand in the way of his 
 ambition and check the career which God had offered him. 
 This would have broken the girl's heart completely. She 
 was willing to suffer being separated from him, but she 
 refused to perish simultaneously with his career. She 
 longed to see him big and great. She wanted to help him 
 accomplish something worth while — perhaps a great reform. 
 Toward that end she would also devote her life assisting 
 him in every way she could. But her assistance, like her 
 love, must be a secret to him. It must be impersonal. He 
 must not know how she was using her influence to place 
 opportunities in his path and to spur him on to great deeds. 
 
 It was indeed through Allaine that Mr. Wallace Bennett, 
 representing "The Alumni," had presented Paul Milton 
 with the free scholarship. 
 
 "You are interested in the education of the poor, aren't 
 you ?" asked Allaine Bennett of her father one day, as the) 
 sat in the library while Mrs. Bennett was out calling on 
 Mrs. Samson Pokes. 
 
 "Yes;" answered the father, that afternoon, "I am 
 deeply interested in the education of the poor — far more 
 than in the education of the rich. The rich do not wish to 
 be educated. They like to display their ignorance and lack 
 of judgment. The rich need reform, and it is only through 
 the poor that the reform will come about, providing we give 
 the poor the opportunity. When I attended the university, 
 Allaine, I considered it a waste of time to be interested in 
 books. I could see no object in solving problems, perform- 
 ing experiments, writing themes, translating foreign litera- 
 ture and reading Shakespeare and Tennyson. What good 
 were such things to me when I was receiving my monthly 
 allowance from home, which enabled me to entertain my 
 friends royally at the theatres and the taverns? I knew 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 57 
 
 my parents were wealthy, I knew they had far more than 
 they needed for themselves. I saw that my future was 
 provided for, so why should I work over books when I 
 was offered a life of everlasting pleasure? Furthermore, 
 my father himself told me to enjoy life while it lasted — ^to 
 take things easy ; and, thrown, as I was, among epicureans, 
 it was only natural that I should join them in their frolics 
 and deride learning and intellect. 
 
 "I shudder now when I recall some of the things we did. 
 Were I to tell you, Allaine, I fear you would not care to 
 call me your father. I often look at you and wonder why 
 God blessed me with so sweet a daughter instead of pun- 
 ishing me for the lawless manner in which I abused His 
 sacred power. I marvel that His verdict has not been 
 scrawled across your fair forehead to remind me constantly 
 of the sins of my youth. A child of one of my classmates 
 was born blind and covered with festering sores. Great 
 God, Allaine! think if this suffering had been inflicted 
 upon you." 
 
 Mr. Bennett fell back in his chair, covering his eyes 
 as though horror-stricken. It seemed he could not bear 
 to gaze upon and feared to touch, at that moment, the clear 
 face, of his daughter, which was crowned with a halo of 
 bright golden hair. But Allaine drew his hands away and 
 looked with pity and forgiveness into the eyes which they 
 had hidden from her. 
 
 "God is good," she said softly. "God forgives. Per- 
 haps it was He who sent you among these men that you 
 might learn their need of reform. Perhaps He protected 
 your body and mind that you might live to inspire other men 
 to reform their unfortunate brothers." 
 
 "But why did he allow me to be dragged through the 
 mire?" repHed the father. "I could have known without 
 practicing it. Had I been strong, I would have tried to 
 save the boys who were tempting me, instead of allowing 
 them to draw me under. Oh, I was weak. And why was 
 I weak? Because I was ignorant. I refused to learn; I 
 refused to use my brain and my reason. I tossed my books 
 
58 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 to the wind, and with them all my golden opportunities. 
 The real purpose of education had escaped me. These prob- 
 lems, these experiments, these themes, these books — per- 
 haps they do not offer direct benefits, but youth does not see 
 far enough. He does not perceive how they all benefit him 
 indirectly. He does not realize that these things keep his 
 mind occupied and cleared of depraved thoughts, which re- 
 sult in ruinous action. Nor does he realize that they sharpen 
 his mind as a tool, enabling it to probe more deeply into 
 other matters and to solve other problems in later Hfe, 
 which have no apparent relation to the problems of his 
 school days. The grindstone sharpens the scythe, but it is 
 not the grindstone that destroys the weed and exterminates 
 the poison ; it is the keenness of the scythe." 
 
 Allaine was much pleased with the metaphor, for she 
 had often heard her schoolmates mockingly refer to Paul 
 Milton as a grind. 
 
 "The scholar is the only real product — the only useful 
 product of a university," continued Mr. Bennett. "Pleas- 
 ure and friends are necessary perhaps if they are clean, but 
 they should always be secondary — very much secondary. 
 If scholarship is not the first — decidedly the first interest of 
 a college man, he will be of little real use to the world ; per- 
 haps he will bring only disgrace. 
 
 "We often hear of degenerates who have reformed or 
 think they have reformed, and who tour the country to 
 bellow in public places, where they create sensational but 
 momentary commotions with their vivid and vulgar elo- 
 quence — if we may call it that. But in their discourses, 
 there is much to repel us. They do of course amuse the 
 vulgar masses but seldom inspire them. In these reform- 
 ers, there is nothing of the true scholar, whose eloquence is 
 not the delirious after-effects of the debauchery which has 
 swamped his mind and body, but the God-given reward for 
 his studious and abstemious life. 
 
 'T have tried hard to forget the wild pleasures of my 
 youth. I have again returned to my books, but alas! I 
 am no longer surrounded by the men whom I long to re- 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 59 
 
 form, and I have lost the youth which alone can inspire 
 youth to clean living. But I trust I can find some lad as 
 yet untainted, whom I might send, as I would a son of my 
 own, to reform my university — a boy who feels that he 
 must work for his own future and for the future of others — 
 not a mere cipher who squanders his own time and his par- 
 ent's wealth on pleasures which result in ruin and misery 
 for himself and others. I must find such a boy, AUaine. I 
 owe this favor to God, because God has sent you, pure and 
 clean, to comfort me after all I have done against His will. 
 Perhaps He has sent you — you who still love your father 
 in spite of all I have told you — perhaps He has sent you 
 to help me find such a boy." 
 
 "Father! Father!" cried the girl, "you have made me 
 so happy." She threw her arms around his neck. "I am 
 so glad you sent me to the public school. Had I been clos- 
 eted with a governess, I would have seen nothing. But now 
 I know what life really means, and I have also found a 
 promising boy for the tasR you wish him to perform. He 
 is a poor boy, who has ignored pleasure for work — a boy 
 whose only pleasure is in his books — a boy whom I know 
 must be good — a boy whom I know is good." 
 
 "Who?" asked the father. 
 
 Allaine blushed, but Mr .Bennett did not notice it. 
 
 "Paul Milton," she responded. "He is graduating with 
 honors from High School this spring and will be prepared 
 to attend the university in the fall." 
 
 It was the first time Allaine had mentioned a boy's name 
 in the presence of her father. The father concluded that 
 the youth must be as extraordinary among boys as his own 
 daughter was among girls. 
 
 "I have great confidence in your selection," said Mr. 
 Bennett. "We shall send him to the university on a free 
 scholarship." 
 
 Allaine suddenly reflected; if Paul knew the scholarship 
 was coming from her father, he might surmise that she 
 had had something to do with it, and that, above all things, 
 he must not know. Furthermore, if she explained this to 
 
6o THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 her father, then he too might suspect that she loved Paul 
 Milton. But her father's next remark saved all. 
 
 "Of course, Allaine," said he, "it shall not be made 
 pubhc that I am presenting this scholarship. It will come 
 from 'The Alumni.' It isn't necessary that the name of 
 Bennett be tacked to it. We are not seeking publicity; we 
 are trying to do good, aren't we ?" 
 
 Allaine was too happy to speak. Her affirmation came 
 in the form of an embrace. 
 
 "We are going to clean the university," he said happily, 
 "and we need not tell Paul Milton what to do. I shall take 
 your word that he is an upright boy, and he will see the 
 need of reform with his own eyes." 
 
 Allaine's love for her father became greater from that 
 day on, and she decided to please him no matter what he 
 should ask of her, because he had done so much for Paul 
 Milton. 
 
 "The Alumni" notified Paul Milton of the free scholar- 
 ship. Paul was extremely happy, and yet the thought of 
 attending the university and leaving his mother filled him 
 with hesitancy. 
 
 "Shall I accept it?" asked the boy. 
 
 "Of course you shall," answered the mother, who ap- 
 peared very happy and enthusiastic outwardly, although a 
 great sorrow had begun to surge about her heart. "It is 
 the opportunity of a lifetime. It has been sent to you from 
 God. Your father wanted you to have a good education, 
 but I doubt if he ever dreamed of your going to a big uni- 
 versity. He must have spoken to God about it when he 
 went to heaven, and God has sent you the scholarship as a 
 consequence of the interview. If He does this much for 
 you. He will do more; but He will do more only if you 
 make use of that which He now offers you." 
 
 "But you will be all alone. Mother !" said the son. 
 
 "Don't worry about that," said AHce, with a forced 
 smile. "The very thought of your future will keep me com- 
 pany, and then, too, you will be with me each summer and 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 6i 
 
 each Christmas. It is not death that is separating us, my 
 boy. It is for a good and great purpose that you are leaving 
 me, and your absence and your attainments will only make 
 me the happier when you return." 
 
 "For a good and great purpose!" repeated Paul enthu- 
 siastically. 
 
 "Yes, my son, and I know you shall succeed." 
 
 How noble the widow was to surrender her son so un- 
 selfishly for service to the world ! How brave she was to 
 conceal the deep sorrow which would follow their separa- 
 tion ! How considerate she was not to reveal it, lest it 
 should trouble him and interfere with his progress ! Had 
 she not, after all, by means of this sacrifice, repaid God for 
 all the happiness with which He had blessed her by sending 
 this son, whom she had kept so pure and clean that he might 
 accomplish the task destiny was reserving for him. 
 
 She managed to appear happy, to keep up her spirits 
 until the last day — the last hour — the last minute. 
 
 She embraced Paul on the doorstep of the little cottage, 
 and told him to remember the things the birds had taught. 
 Then he kissed her good-bye and walked off to the depot 
 with a traveling-bag in one hand and the violin case in 
 the other. There was no fashion about his clothes and gen- 
 eral appearance, but his face was clean and ruddy, without 
 a trace of the dissipation or the parental sin which stamp 
 the pale faces of many well-dressed boys with ugly lines and 
 blemishes. There were no fumes of a poisonous cigarette 
 curling about his lips ; there was only the purity and the 
 sweet memory of a mother's kiss. 
 
 The heart of the widow, which had been gradually filling 
 with sorrow during the summer, could hold no more, and, 
 under the weight of it, she sank to the floor and remained 
 there sobbing and alone in her little cottage. 
 
 It was late September. The sky was red and gold with 
 one of those magnificent autumnal sunsets. The colors, at 
 first warm and brilliant, were now gradually losing their 
 splendor and seemed to melt one into the other to form a 
 dull cold gray, which was finally effaced by the blackness of 
 
62 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 night. The leaves, which seemed to retain the warm shades 
 with which the sun had painted the heavens, were falling 
 one by one from the lonely trees, although no one noticed 
 them ; for the earth was enveloped in darkness. 
 
 Yes, the sun, although it was rising at that instant upon 
 some other part of the planet, had removed its warm bright 
 rays from the little cottage which sheltered Paul Milton's 
 mother, and she believed her own son had embraced her 
 in his arms as he would never embrace her again. She be- 
 Heved he had left her to serve mankind, and when he would 
 return permanently after he had completed his work, he 
 would probably have the reward which he deserved — the 
 reward she herself wanted him to have and for which she 
 prayed to God — the reward which would leave her lonely, 
 however kindly he might be and however happy his success 
 would make her. Her sky would no longer be bright with 
 red and gold, but cold and gray, and finally dark, and her 
 warm tears would also fall unnoticed like the leaves in the 
 night. 
 
 Such were the sad thoughts of the widow as she sat on 
 the carpet with the night falling around her. All was silent. 
 She heard each tear as it dropped to the floor. The almost 
 inaudible thud against the carpet sounded like the clang 
 of a hammer, striking and hurting her heart, which was 
 already sore with grief. Once in the stillness she thought 
 she heard the strains of a violin from the little studio under 
 the roof, and she believed her husband had returned to con- 
 sole her. But it was only her imagination. Not only her 
 husband but her own little musician had departed, taking 
 the violin with him. How long before she would hear it 
 again ! How it would scatter the gloom if she could only 
 hear it now! 
 
 She arose and made a light. But it did not brighten her 
 sadness ; it revealed more cruelly the absence of her boy. 
 There was the plate and the cup from which he had had 
 his last meal but a short time before. His chair would now 
 be vacant, and she must sit there alone. Nor would she 
 again feel the secret happiness of his silent company on 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 63 
 
 those long winter evenings when he prepared his lessons in 
 the glow of the old lamp. The happiest moments of her 
 life were now nothing more than memories. She must 
 sit at the table alone until she grew sleepy from lonesome- 
 ness, and then she herself must carry the lamp upstairs — 
 the lamp which he had always carried for her to Hght the 
 way. There would be no little watchman to bolt the door, 
 no little protector to tiptoe into her chamber to press her to 
 his manly bosom and print his sweet good-night upon her 
 lips. These thoughts overwhelmed her, and she buried her 
 face in her arms and wept more bitterly. 
 
 When such a cloud of sorrow overshadows the soul, we 
 are often made happier by the presence of another heavy 
 heart than by one which is light and unsympathetic with 
 gayety. 
 
 There was a tap on the widow's door. She did not hear 
 it until it was repeated a second time. Even then she 
 doubted it, and she lifted her head to listen and wait. It 
 came again. 
 
 "Come in," she said, between sobs. 
 
 The door opened, and Allaine Bennett stood on the 
 threshold, a little satchel in her hand. 
 
 *T know how sad and lonely you must be," said Allaine 
 sweetly, "and I have come to console you, because I am 
 much to blame for your sorrow." 
 
 The widow was more baffled by this remark than by the 
 strange girl's appearance. 
 
 "You do not know me," continued Allaine, placing her 
 arm about the widow's neck, "but we often have friends 
 whom we do not know, and yet these are sometimes our 
 closest and dearest friends." 
 
 "Who are you?" asked Alice gently. 
 
 "Allaine — Allaine Bennett. I came to your cottage a 
 long time ago, bringing a candy heart for your son. To- 
 night I am bringing my own heart for you." 
 
 The widow smiled with joy. 
 
 "But how could you have caused my sorrow?" 
 
64 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 ^'Promise me you will tell no one; promise me, in par- 
 ticular, that you will never tell your son," said Allaine. 
 
 "I promise," said Alice. 
 
 "It was I who suggested that he be presented with a 
 free scholarship for the university," said Allaine very softly. 
 
 "You darling!" exclaimed Alice, rising and taking 
 Allaine in her arms. 
 
 "I told my father about Paul's good work at school, 
 and it was through father that the alumni sent him away." 
 
 "Ah ! how you have helped him !" 
 
 "I love him," admitted Allaine, blushing. 
 
 "My Paul!" said the widow, with just a touch of alarm. 
 
 "Yes, but I love you as well, and I love him as much as 
 you do, and both of us can do more for him than either one 
 of us alone. I shall continue to help him, and by helping 
 him I shall help you ; shall I not ?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, my dear girl," said Alice more contentedly. 
 
 "But promise me again you will not tell. Never breathe 
 my name ; he must not know that I am going to help him." 
 
 "I promise," repeated the widow ; and Allaine kissed her. 
 
 "Now let me help you with the dishes," suggested the 
 visitor. 
 
 In an instant she had removed her hat and coat, and was 
 clearing the table. 
 
 "Oh," remarked Alice, "I thought this was a visit." 
 
 "Yes, a friendly visit — not a fashionable one. May I 
 have an apron?" 
 
 The widow understood at once that the girl would insist 
 on helping, and she nonreluctantly handed her a neatly 
 folded apron from the cupboard. The dishes were soon 
 washed and dried and placed on the shelves, and then Alice 
 and Allaine sat down and talked to each other across the 
 little red tablecloth; they chatted until bedtime. 
 
 "It is late," said Alice. "I shall have to walk part way 
 home with you." 
 
 "Oh, I do not intend to leave you alone this evening," 
 said Allaine. "I told father I was going to stay with you 
 the first night after your son's departure. He knows about 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 65 
 
 it. I doubt if my mother will miss me, and if she does, 
 Father can tell her where I am." 
 
 "You are a kind sweet girl," said Alice, and the tears 
 of happiness rolled down her cheeks. 
 
 "You are sleepy. You wish to retire." 
 
 "Yes," admitted Alice. 
 
 And Allaine bolted the door and took the lamp. 
 
 "You lead the way." 
 
 The widow ascended the stairs, and the girl followed her 
 holding the lamp high in one hand and her satchel in the 
 other. There was a cot, dressed with fresh linens, just out- 
 side the door on the first landing. The widow rolled it into 
 her bedroom. 
 
 "Paul always slept on this," said Alice. "I hope you 
 find it comfortable." 
 
 "I know I shall," said Allaine, placing the lamp on an 
 antiquated but beautiful bureau. 
 
 Then she sat on the edge of the cot, removed her shoes, 
 undressed, and stood before the widow in a simple white 
 gown with delicate blue ribbons strung through the inser- 
 tion about the neck and sleeves ; Alice imagined it was an 
 angel whom God had sent to comfort and guard her. After 
 the girl knelt beside Paul's cot and prayed for him, she 
 walked to the widow's bed, pressed her to her soft white 
 bosom, and printed a good-night kiss upon her lips. Then 
 she extinguished the lamp, and they were soon lost in sweet 
 and peaceful slumber. 
 
 The express which was taking Paul Milton to the uni- 
 versity was dashing along like a mad steed through the 
 night. The youth tossed about restlessly on his pillow, 
 which was moist with the tears shed for his mother, whom 
 he had left alone in the little cottage at Norford. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 POVERTY AND WEALTH 
 
 The house on Walnut Street, in front of which Tom 
 Kuhler with his two "lady friends" stood calling to Arch 
 Coddington on the night of the big victory, was the house 
 in which Paul Milton, the freshman, settled, when he ar- 
 rived at the university. "The Alumni" had recommended 
 the location ; in fact Mr. Wallace Bennett had roomed there 
 himself some twenty years before, when he was also a 
 freshman. The strains of music from the attic window 
 came from Samuel Milton's violin. It was only after he 
 had finished serving the student-boarders, whose everlast- 
 ing conversation on football kept the serpent green in his 
 memory, that Paul retired to his room, where his tempest- 
 tossed body and mind finally became calm under the influ- 
 ence of melody. 
 
 This little retreat under the roof was very dififerent from 
 the little studio which was similarly located in the Milton 
 cottage at Norford. The sloping roof made it impossible 
 to stand upright in the room, except at the very center. The 
 walls and ceiling were not papered. The plaster was soiled, 
 and in certain places, where the rain had leaked through, it 
 had fallen away and exposed the laths. A few pieces of 
 raveled rag carpet covered the worst spots on the floor, 
 which was almost equally rough and knotty throughout. 
 There was one small window, offering a view of the street. 
 
 The furniture consisted of a bed, a table, a chair and a 
 student's lamp ; nothing more. 
 
 The iron bed was now a total wreck ; former students 
 had played havoc with it. The white enamel had fallen off 
 in flakes, and the black iron showed through. The vertical 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 67 
 
 rods at the head and at the foot were hopelessly twisted as 
 though some wild animal, imagining itself encaged, had 
 forced them apart to make its escape. The springs sagged 
 like a hammock ; it is probable that a former drunken fresh- 
 man (perhaps Mr. Bennett himself) had danced upon them 
 oftener than he had slept there. Only one of the four posts 
 remained crowned with a brass knob; it is very likely that 
 the other three knobs had been fired at some wandering cat, 
 whose nocturnal serenades had interrupted what little nat- 
 ural slumber the reveler had tried to find while sober. It 
 little resembled the neat and firm cot with its sweet linens 
 on which Allaine Bennett slept the first night after Paul had 
 deserted it. 
 
 The table, chair and lamp were all more or less defective 
 and broken, but Milton soon became accustomed to them, 
 and it was not long before he was able to work very well 
 at his table and sleep quite soundly on his bed. Such trivial 
 matters never disturb a genius; the boy never mentioned 
 them in letters to his mother, because he soon forgot about 
 them himself. 
 
 The free scholarship included little more than tuition 
 and laboratory expenses. He bought his own textbooks 
 with what little money he had taken with him; he could 
 not spend it for better furniture. His mother had offered 
 him more, but he had refused to take it from her. In no 
 way did he wish to make her less comfortable for the sake 
 of his own conveniences. He even contemplated sending 
 her some of the money he hoped to earn through the bureau 
 of self-help. He earned his food by waiting on a table in 
 the landlord's dining room. The rent of his room would 
 not have amounted to much, but he paid for it by firing the 
 furnace or shoveling snow in winter and by mowing the 
 lawn in spring. Mr. Bennett could have made and, in fact, 
 wanted to make life easier for Paul Milton by sending him 
 a small allowance also from "The Alumni," but when he 
 recalled his own experiences at the university, the word 
 allowance became synonymous with indolence and failure, 
 whereas the absence of it meant application and success. 
 
68 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 Milton met few students outside of the classroom except 
 those whom he served at table. These boys would speak 
 to him occasionally, but the relation between them and him 
 was not the same as that among themselves. The boy in 
 fact had neither the time nor the desire for friends. He 
 was generally at his study table. The furnace, the snow 
 and the lawn offered him sufficient physical exercise; there 
 was no need of his taking part in athletics. His music 
 afforded him all the recreation he cared for. It was his 
 only diversion from books, and after completing his work 
 for the landlord and preparing his lessons, he would sit 
 for hours playing his beloved instrument. 
 
 His art was maturing day by day. His violin had be- 
 come a loving and beloved servant, which obeyed and re- 
 flected every mood of its master. It always responded 
 sympathetically and perfectly to the tone and tempo of his 
 soul — now agitato, animato, affretando, grandioso; then dol- 
 orosa, tarando, morendo. His beautiful flowing legato was 
 like a clear brook, meandering smoothly and gracefully 
 through peaceful meadows. His brilliant but restless staccato 
 was like a joyous bird, flitting nervously from branch to 
 branch in a wind-tossed tree-top. There were times when the 
 violin rumbled like distant thunder, and there were times 
 when it pattered like rain upon the silent grass. It usually 
 sang simply and sweetly like an innocent child unknowingly 
 lost in a sun-kissed paradise of smiling blossoms, but there 
 were occasional instances when it cried out momentarily 
 with an incontrollable passion, as though some inner dor- 
 mant longing had suddenly awakened, only to return again 
 to its unmolested slumber — just as children often wake 
 with a start, utter a strange peculiar cry, and then continue 
 to enjoy the calmer dreams which float, like fairy clouds, 
 across their pillows. 
 
 There was a square opening in the wall in Milton's room, 
 covered by a black iron grating. It was intended to serve 
 as an inlet for heat, but it conducted more fumes than 
 warmth. The garret was not included in the furnace-circuit 
 which heated the house, and rather than stand the extra 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 69 
 
 expense of a gas-stove, the landlord had constructed this 
 device, which connected the garret with the kitchen stove 
 by means of a long tin chute, through which his wife might 
 also shout and wake the "waiter" in case he overslept. Mil- 
 ton kept the opening closed most of the time, for he pre- 
 ferred the cold to the constant odor of the cooking. 
 
 It was through this tin chute that the landlady some- 
 times heard Milton's violin. She was rather deaf, and when 
 the music did reach her ears after traveling through this 
 metallic conductor, she mistook it for the noise made by 
 the cats of the neighborhood, who seemed to agree unani- 
 mously that her back yard was an ideal spot both for court- 
 ing and for combat. 
 
 The landlady never appeared in any other part of the 
 house: the kitchen in the basement was her world. She 
 prepared the meals, ironed the linen and washed the dishes. 
 Her table and the food served at it were the .very best. 
 Style, cleanliness, and the quality of the meats and pastries 
 made her board the most popular among the students and 
 enabled her husband to collect ten dollars a week for it. 
 
 It is, however, often best that we do not see where and 
 by whom our tempting food is prepared. The kitchen was 
 disorderly, and the landlady was never presentable. Milton 
 was the only student who saw her, and then he seldom saw 
 more than her fat steaming hand as it placed the various 
 dishes on the "dummy." But now and then he had occa- 
 sion to descend into the kitchen. 
 
 She was round as a sphere. Her face was scarlet from 
 the heat ; in outline it was almost a perfect circle, her eyes, 
 nose and mouth all curiously bunched at the center. Her 
 hair was jet black, and never combed. She was always but- 
 toned up in a tight, blue, moth-eaten sweater decorated with 
 class numerals and grease spots. She moved about heavily 
 in a pair of thick woolen slippers. She had no assistant, 
 but seemed chained to her drudgery like a slave in the gal- 
 leys. She never complained. She had learned that it was 
 of no avail to do so; her husband was stingy and inconsid- 
 erate. 
 
70 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 Mr. Sweeny — for such was the landlord's name — did 
 the rest of the housework. A chambermaid was an unnec- 
 essary expense, and it was unwise to place such an article 
 in a student's dormitory, however ugly she might be ; he 
 had learned so by experience. Consequently Mr. Sweeny 
 himself made the beds every morning and swept the rooms* 
 once a month. 
 
 Sweeny was a very small man in more ways than one, 
 but he alone was not entirely to blame for his opinions and 
 his schemes ; students are not the most pleasant and most 
 considerate persons to deal with. After demolishing much 
 of his furniture, they often skipped the town without pay- 
 ing as much as their room rent. To even matters up and 
 to effect a partial payment, he used to hold their trunks and 
 in this way obtain much clothing. The clothes which fitted 
 him (or his wife), he would keep; the others were sold 
 to the Jew peddler on the street corner. Thus it was that 
 Mr. Sweeny always dressed fashionably though rather ex- 
 tremely. 
 
 Once, however, a student got the better of him. The 
 student was ready to leave town. Two trunks were stand- 
 ing in his room. When the expressman called, Mr. Sweeny 
 sneaked up the stairs behind him. 
 
 '*You have no right to hold both my trunks," claimed 
 the student. "My bill is not so large as that." 
 
 "Very well," added Sweeny. "I'll let the expressman take 
 the lighter one," and he satisfied himself as to which one 
 that was. 
 
 After the expressman had departed with the trunk on 
 his back and after the student had left town, Sweeny dis- 
 covered that the other trunk was empty ; it had been nailed 
 to the floor. He turned white with anger; his little glassy 
 eyes popped half way out of their sockets, and he snarled 
 and showed his teeth. His thirst for revenge on students in 
 general has never yet been quenched. 
 
 Such were the landlord and landlady in the house on 
 Walnut Street in which Milton had settled. Such were the 
 characters with whom he came in contact. Such was the 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 71 
 
 audience to whom he played on his vioHn. To Mrs. Sweeny, 
 as we have previously been told, his music sounded like cat- 
 squawking. To Mr. Sweeny it had much the same effect 
 that soulful music has on certain dogs, who whine in agony 
 when they hear it, as if they had been summoned before a 
 higher human conscience to atone for having stolen bones 
 from the plates of their fellow-creatures. 
 
 Mr. Sweeny took a far greater Hking to the "noises" 
 which were produced by the mechanical instruments in Cod- 
 dington's apartment, and he would often go there when that 
 student was out, put a band record on his graphophone and 
 recline lazily in the elephant-hide armchair to enjoy one 
 of Coddington's imported cigarettes, tapping time on the 
 floor with the dancing-pumps he had inherited in lieu of 
 room rent from some prodigal son. 
 
 Archibald Gregory Coddington came from a well-to-do 
 Southern family. He had taken every possible means to 
 utilize and display his wealth, having rented practically the 
 whole second floor of Mr. Sweeny's private dormitory. 
 
 Every article in his study reflected wealth. All of Mr. 
 Sweeny's furniture had been removed — even the carpet. 
 The whole suite was repapered to the taste of the inmate. 
 The walls were covered with a dark, rich green and con- 
 ventional rosebushes embossed in gold. The paper was 
 hung by an exclusive New York decorator. Mrs. Codding- 
 ton had insisted that "Archie" should have all his work 
 (tutoring included) done by experts, and that his apart- 
 ment at college should in every way be equal in elegance 
 and refinement to his surroundings at home. Her boy's 
 character must not be ruined by a mediocre environment. 
 The floors were covered with Baluchistan rugs, and the 
 windows were hung with old embroidered silks from Tokio. 
 
 His desk was a massive mahogany table with handsomely 
 carved legs. At least six stirling-silver picture frames stood 
 on the top of it, each enclosing a different pose of his 
 fiancee — Miss Ruby Pink, of Nashville, Tennessee, who had 
 given him a solid-gold pen with a platinum point to be used 
 
72 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 only when writing to her. She had also sent him seventeen 
 gorgeous pillows, which were exhibited on a blue velvet 
 window-seat, arranged so that most of them were visible 
 from the street. 
 
 Arch's gift from his father was a copy of Cabanel's La 
 Naissance de Venus, done by an American artist, whom the 
 senior Coddington had especially stationed at the Luxem- 
 bourg, paying all his expenses including a first-class passage 
 on the Lusitania. 
 
 Coddington had both a pianola and a victrola in his 
 study. The rolls on the top of the former were piled up 
 almost to the ceiling. He had stacks of records and sheet 
 music which were just as high. Each month when the new 
 list of selections was published, he had most of them sent 
 to his room on approval and kept them so long that he finally 
 preferred to pay for all rather than be annoyed by the agent, 
 who called repeatedly for those he did not care to retain. 
 Coddington always wanted to be "up" musically. When a 
 new comic opera was put on the boards, he grew very im- 
 patient because the various firms were so slow to reproduce 
 the songs on rolls and records, and, rather than be behind, 
 he would purchase all the sheet music for the entire show, 
 trying to play it with one finger on his piano ; and there he 
 would sit, not knowing one note from the other and accom- 
 panying his own singing, although that which he played, 
 that which he sang, and that which was written before him 
 were three entirely different compositions. 
 
 Modern invention is doing much to preserve imperfectly 
 the art of the past and the present, and to ruin that of the 
 future — and yet we say we are progressing. In many ways 
 we are declining : as a race, we are certainly becoming more 
 and more satisfied with imitation and reproduction, thus 
 losing our appreciation and respect for genuineness and 
 originality. We are deserting the stage to injure our sense 
 of sight by gazing, like bewildered animals, upon the pain- 
 ful jerky illusions of the cinematograph, and we are aband- 
 oning our opera and music halls to destroy the delicacy of 
 our auditory nerves by listening for hours to the scratch 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 73 
 
 scratch scratch of the graphophone. It cannot be denied 
 that art is gradually being replaced by mere mechanism. 
 Mechanism will never inspire or develop the dormant, ar- 
 tistic genius in man. It is only when the eye and the ear 
 are acted upon by the light and sound waves produced di- 
 rectly by original sources that true art can mature. We are 
 rapidly becoming a machine-mad nation. 
 
 I am not assuming that Archibald Coddington was an 
 embryonic genius, but he is an exquisite example of the 
 degeneration of human energy. His money had smothered 
 in him every flicker of both mental and physical effort. All 
 his needs and wants were supplied by machines. His vic- 
 trola sang for him; his pianola played for him; his auto- 
 mobile walked for him; his tutor thought for him. (Yes; 
 a tutor is also a machine.) Coddington's whole existence 
 lay not in himself but in the servants — human, mechanical 
 or both — who or which surrounded him. 
 
 His appearance was always becoming. His tailor and 
 his haberdasher kept him dressed to the height of fashion. 
 When he arrived at the university, he signed a contract with 
 a suit-presser before he had found a room. 
 
 Recent advances in tonsorial art kept him looking hand- 
 some. Arch never condescended to sit in a public shop; 
 his private barber called at the room two or three times a 
 week to shampoo and to trim his straw-colored hair to just 
 the proper length and style, to shave his silvery beard, to 
 massage his forehead, to pinch his cheeks, to squeeze his 
 pimples, to bleach his nose, to powder his neck, to polish 
 his nails, and to anoint him with the sweet-scented creams 
 and waters of Ed. Pinaud. One glance at Coddington was 
 enough to make many a girl leave home. 
 
 An ancient proverb tells us that we can't make a silk 
 purse out of a sow's ear, but the modern clothier and barber 
 can accomplish the transformation externally at least. They 
 can lift a sot out of the gutter and have him looking like a 
 prince within an hour. 
 
 The main reason why Coddington roomed at Mr. 
 Sweeny's house instead of an official dormitory of the uni- 
 
74 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 versity was the fact that Mr. Sweeny served meals — for 
 Coddington was always accustomed to taking his breakfast 
 in bed. 
 
 Although Milton had waited on Coddington at table and 
 had often recited in the same class with him, nevertheless 
 it was a long time before they met formally. One night 
 after Paul had finished serving the last student in the din- 
 ing room, he went to the garret and began to play his violin 
 before preparing his lessons for the next morning. It was 
 early in the evening. Some one knocked on his door; he 
 answered it, and Coddington entered with some sheet music 
 under his arm. 
 
 "We have often seen each other, but we have never 
 really met," said the student. "My name is Coddington. I 
 have the room just below you. Heard you fiddling, and 
 thought I'd come up." 
 
 "I am glad to have you," said Milton, as he took the 
 boy's extended hand rather timidly. 
 
 "Do you play any ragtime? I've got a bunch of new 
 stuff from a show that's going to have its first night here 
 in town. Most of the New York productions have an open- 
 ing performance in this burg, where they try them on the 
 dog. If a musical comedy meets with the approval of the 
 students, it's sure to make a smashing hit." 
 
 Coddington dropped the music on the floor, pulled up 
 his trousers to prevent bagging, sat on the edge of the bed, 
 and lighted a cigarette. 
 
 "Have a smoke?" He held out his silver case. 
 
 "Thanks, I don't use them," replied Milton. 
 
 "You're the first musician I've ever known who doesn't 
 dope. To hear you play, one might think you were lost in 
 a cloud of smoke. Most musicians get their inspiration, or 
 whatever you call it, from cigars and pipes ; don't they ?" 
 
 "I don't know, but I think not." 
 
 "You bet they do — and from booze too. I've heard that 
 our best American composers, who write these wonderful 
 and successful comic operas, sit at their desks with a bucket 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 75 
 
 of beer beside them. They couldn't write a note without it ; 
 they use it for ink. Didn't the old guy who taught you 
 ever get tight?" 
 
 '1 received my first lesson from the birds, who are the 
 most natural and truest of all musicians. They inhale only 
 the pure air, and they drink nothing but clear water. 1 
 think the quality of the music is always highest when it 
 comes from natural inspiration. Most of this stuff — as you 
 call it — which is produced nowadays comes from brains that 
 are artificially excited by tobacco and wine. It scarcely de- 
 serves the name of music." 
 
 "Does ragtime bore you ?" asked Arch quickly. 
 
 "I prefer music every time," answered Milton. 
 
 "But you wouldn't mind playing over one or two of 
 these ; would you ?" inquired Coddington, as he opened some 
 music and placed it under the light on the table. "I'm going 
 down to the theatre tonight, and I'd like to have an idea of 
 what the songs are going to be Hke." 
 
 Milton placed the violin under his chin and played 
 through one of the songs. It is almost comical to hear a 
 genuine musician attempt to play ragtime. 
 
 "It doesn't seem raggy enough," declared the critic. 
 "You don't altogether get the swing of it. If you heard the 
 chorus girls sing it once or twice, you'd do much better. 
 Have you ever seen a musical comedy?" 
 
 "No, I haven't," answered Milton. 
 
 ''Come along with us tonight." 
 
 "I can't afford it ; I need all my money for books." 
 
 "It's on me — free lesson — no charge. These girls will 
 put you next to the tempo ; they have the rag movement not 
 only in their voices but in their heads, arms, legs, every- 
 thing." 
 
 "I haven't time; I must prepare my lessons for to- 
 morrow." 
 
 "Bosh! you'll soon get over that; I'm over it already. 
 In fact I never came to this place with the idea of studying. 
 I have a private tutor to do all that for me. I was told 
 before I came here that a fellow could practically buy a di- 
 
yd THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 ploma. I came to see the football games, meet the boys, and 
 have a general good time. By the way, what course are you 
 going to take next year ?" 
 
 "I am going to specialize in mathematics," said Milton. 
 
 "Rot ! that's too much work. I elected the Select Course 
 — the gentleman's course. That's the one that's been made 
 purely cultural; they scarcely ever open a textbook. We 
 will devote most of our time to art, literature and language. 
 We get a taste of mathematics. We can usually compute 
 the area of a square, but a circle stumps us. The fellows do 
 all they can to keep the grinds out of this course. Yester- 
 day, some poor fool told the teacher that the assignment 
 was too easy, and the fellows all footed a petition to send 
 him back to Engineering. We've got an awful drag with 
 the faculty. We represent the wealth of the school; most 
 all of the frat men are chosen from our ranks. It's the frat 
 men who give the school its reputation. That's why we 
 get everything we want. One of our profs cut his class 
 thirty-three times last year ; God bless him. They were all 
 eight o'clock recitations too. The course is a regular gut; 
 that's what makes it a drawing card. It's larger than all 
 the other courses put together. If they ever abolish it, they 
 might as well abolish the school; but the university knows 
 its business." 
 
 Coddington took out his watch and looked at the time. 
 
 "Sorry you won't go with me," he added. "It's going 
 to be a corkin' good show — the best looking and shapeliest 
 chorus that ever left New York City. Perhaps we'll go out 
 together some time later on." 
 
 Milton said nothing, but this postponement of the stu- 
 dent's invitation remained strangely in his mind. Codding- 
 ton picked up the sheet music, glanced curiously about the 
 room, and then left, closing the door. 
 
 He had sized up the fellow in the garret. When he re- 
 turned to his own room, he lighted another cigarette and 
 buried himself among Ruby's pillows, where he laughed 
 heartily over the idea of the birds who "inhaled only pure 
 air and drank nothing but clear water." What a sad bird 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 77 
 
 this was which had built its nest in the rafters over his head 
 and which chirped and squawked Hke a common, ordinary, 
 vulgar sparrow — the kind he used to shoot by the dozens 
 with his nickel-plated rifle at home ! What an insignificant 
 grind he had discovered! What a disgrace to the univer- 
 sity ! How fortunate that he was concealed up there in that 
 God-forsaken hole! "Pooh! Pooh!" thought the gayer 
 bird, as he swallowed a glass of whiskey and soda and then 
 flew away to the theatre to joint the other feathers of his 
 flock. 
 
 Coddington's visit had also given Milton food for 
 thought. He was indeed the first caller Milton had had. 
 Why this man, above all others, should see fit to ascend the 
 stairs to his garret was something which Milton could not 
 decipher. He had often glanced into Coddington's apart- 
 ments as he passed the door, and he had noticed the lux- 
 urious furniture and the decorations. He wondered how 
 a man surrounded by such things could concentrate his 
 mind on his books. Comparing this environment with his 
 own, he realized how different from himself must be the boy 
 who lived in it. It was likely that they would never meet 
 as friends. Milton had no desire for friends, and surely 
 Coddington would not care to associate with the "waiter." 
 Neither was it the violin which had attracted Coddington 
 to the garret; that was merely an excuse. Milton had 
 learned, from the pounding on the pianola and from the 
 scratch of the victrola, the kind of music that appealed to 
 the student who roomed below him. It was very probable 
 that they were mutually bored by each other's tastes. They 
 had nothing in common. 
 
 What was it then that brought the two boys together? 
 It was the force of destiny — a far stronger and stranger 
 force than magnetism, which also attracts unlike charges. 
 At heart, Coddington was trying to avoid Milton. He really 
 did not care to be seen in his company at the theatre; he 
 was glad his invitation had been refused, and yet he had 
 suggested to Milton that they go out together sometime 
 again later on. Coddington hated Milton ; he even hesitated 
 
78 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 before leaving his graphophone that night to creep half re- 
 luctantly on his hands and knees up the dark stairs to the 
 garret. Nor had Milton felt or expressed a desire for this 
 visit. There was some mysterious power which had taken 
 the wealthier boy to the poorer one. That power was send- 
 ing him as a messenger to communicate with the solitary 
 student, who, though he was considered inferior, neverthe- 
 less lived above him. But the student was not prepared to 
 receive that communication in full. There were other pow- 
 ers also exerting influence over Paul Milton. He was una- 
 ware of some ; aware of others. There was Alice, and there 
 was Allaine, and we shall later meet with several more who 
 will serve as channels to conduct the various forces whose 
 united influences fashion the destiny of the individual. 
 These forces will each act in their turn, drawing him first 
 this way, then that, confronting him with doubt, but event- 
 ually carrying him off in the direction of that path which 
 he alone must travel. These are curious forces. Their 
 action and their resultant can never be predicted; they dis- 
 obey all physical laws. 
 
 It was not that Milton disliked either Coddington or the 
 theatre. It was not that he feared their influence. Cod- 
 dington's continual reference to chorus girls did not seem 
 to phase him. It was the boy's love for books and study 
 that made him decline Coddington's invitation, and had it 
 not been that Coddington, in his conversation, had derided 
 scholarship and corroborated the opinions which Milton 
 himself had formed after the football victory — had it not 
 been for this, it is likely that Milton would have given the 
 interview no further thought. But now there seemed to 
 stand before him two men — Kuhler and Coddington. The 
 one represented football and brute strength; the other 
 wealth and mental weakness. Both of them were enemies 
 to scholarship, and yet they seemed to be the foundation on 
 which the university flourished and on which its popularity 
 depended. To his mind, they were joined together, and in 
 their union he saw a means which was tending to defeat 
 the real purpose of the institution. This inspired him to 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 79 
 
 work all the harder over his books, and it is in this mood 
 that we shall leave him in Mr. Sweeny's garret for his re- 
 maining undergraduate days. 
 
 During his later freshman days, Coddington frequently 
 brought Tom Kuhler to dinner, and Milton served both of 
 them. At the end of the year these two enemies of schol- 
 arship were fortunately removed from Milton's presence. 
 Kuhler left the university after graduation. Coddington 
 left Mr. Sweeny's house, because he had been elected to a 
 fraternity. He took all his furniture and decorations with 
 him — all but the wall paper, and he threw several bottles of 
 ink at that; Coddington and Sweeny had not been the best 
 of friends. 
 
 The fraternity to which Coddington had been elected 
 was the same fraternity which Tom Kuhler had made. It 
 was through Kuhler that Coddington got in. All the most 
 prominent athletes and all the wealthier undergraduates 
 were included in its membership. Full backs and green- 
 backs were, in fact, the two standards to which it almost 
 exclusively adhered. It was perhaps the oldest fraternity 
 of the university. Mr. Bennett had also worn its Greek let- 
 ters but had now, for some reason or other, discarded them. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 HIGHER EDUCATION WITHOUT A COLLEGE 
 
 Alice Milton's life without her son was not so lonely 
 as she had anticipated. Allaine's over-night visit the first 
 evening after Paul's departure for the university had dis- 
 pelled the gloom, and although the girl slept at home there- 
 after, she had introduced a permanent atmosphere of calm 
 and contentment in the widow's cottage. Alice now felt 
 that some one else, aside from Paul, was near and dear to 
 her, that some one had replaced him, or had at least replaced 
 his loving and lovable personality, for Allaine indeed called 
 regularly every afternoon before returning home from 
 school. Neither her father nor her mother were aware of 
 this. Mr. Bennett knew of course that Allaine had stayed 
 with AHce that first night ; but he decided it was the widow's 
 loneliness, rather than his daughter's interest in her son, 
 that prompted Allaine to act as she had. 
 
 The following year, after completing her course of study 
 at the High School, she continued to call at the cottage, 
 always bringing some dainty morsel of food from home. 
 Her father and mother still knew nothing of these little 
 journeys, for Allaine had quite incidentally found a subter- 
 fuge : she had enlisted in the army of charity workers, much 
 to her father's delight and much to her mother's- disgust. 
 She made daily visits to the poor of the town with her little 
 basket on her arm. But this basket contained more than 
 the food she carried to the widow ; it contained mental food 
 for the little ones and grown-ups, whom she was trying to 
 improve. In it were a number of books — some for children, 
 some for adults, some for amusement, some for instruction. 
 So the widow's cottage was not the only cottage which 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 8i 
 
 Allaine brightened with her presence, although it was dis- 
 tinctly different from the others, and her mission there was 
 not entirely altruistic. The woman in this cottage was per- 
 haps her intellectual superior, but the persons in the hovels 
 along her daily line of march, which terminated at this lit- 
 tle paradise of cleanliness and cheer, had not yet seen the 
 light. Their souls were enveloped in darkness and ignor- 
 ance; their faces and bodies were sometimes marred by 
 filth and immorality. 
 
 The gentleness of Allaine's manner and the purity of 
 her face brought happiness to many a home which had 
 previously known only indolence and misery. Her pic- 
 ture books kept the children off the streets, where they 
 usually met with temptation and vice. The older ones she 
 sent to school ; the younger ones were under her own in- 
 struction. She first taught them to keep themselves clean ; 
 she would not permit them to fondle the fascinating pages 
 before they had washed their hands. The colored pic- 
 tures were irresistible, and therefore the hands were always 
 clean. 
 
 "Miss Bennett's comin' this mornin'; we'd better git 
 washed up." 
 
 She taught them the names of animals, flowers and 
 birds, and she had them commit little verses which were 
 instructive and not mere childish jingles. They learned to 
 love her. They would cling to her skirt and climb to her 
 knee to listen to her stories. One little fellow always 
 reached up to pat her pretty pink cheek and to stroke her 
 soft golden hair. Children naturally admire and love beauty 
 and cleanliness. It is mostly because they are surrounded 
 by untidy parents that the children in the tenements are 
 themselves always covered with grime and soot. Some of 
 the mothers noticed the affection which their little ones re- 
 vealed for Allaine, and these mothers, as well as their chil- 
 dren, took to cleaner ways. 
 
 Many of the mothers could neither read nor write. Each 
 morning she recited little paragraphs which seemed to up- 
 lift them, and she always left a bouquet of bright flowers 
 
82 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 on the kitchen table as gentle reminders for the message 
 which the verse or prose contained. 
 
 With those who could read, she left books and clippings 
 from magazines and newspapers, which she afterwards 
 called for and circulated among others. She insisted that 
 these be kept unsoiled and untorn. The idea of cleanliness 
 was always foremost in her teaching, and although she 
 rarely attacked the mothers directly for their sloven con- 
 dition, she gradually effected a change in their personal 
 appearance by insisting that they handle her own books with 
 care and respect. 
 
 The men were usually at work when she made her 
 rounds, but some of them who were without jobs on account 
 of their indolence and intemperance seemed to experience a 
 sense of dishonor when she appeared. 
 
 "Me ole man hain't turned a hand for three months," 
 complained Mrs. Maloney. "He's always drunk and gin- 
 erally courtin' the hussy next door, he is. But the other 
 day when he saw you a lookin' so pritty and rosy and clean, 
 he told me you made him 'shamed of hisself." 
 
 "A clean woman can do much to keep a man straight," 
 suggested Allaine. 
 
 The next morning Mrs. Maloney had washed her face 
 thoroughly, combed her hair, and was wearing a clean white 
 apron. Allaine tapped on the door; Mrs. Maloney an- 
 swered. 
 
 "Is Mrs. Maloney in?" asked Allaine. 
 
 "Sure and oi'm her," said the transformation. 
 
 And a week later Pat had a job. 
 
 Thus Allaine was learning more and more of life each 
 day and was doing far more than she realized to better the 
 condition of the poorer people. Her methods were gener- 
 ally kind and gentle: they seemed to work wonders upon 
 the persons with whom she dealt. 
 
 But Allaine's higher education was not confined to con- 
 tact with every-day life only ; she also had access to books. 
 The fact that her father had resumed the study, which he 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 83 
 
 had earlier neglected at the university, was of great benefit 
 to her, and she spent her evenings in his library perusing 
 and reading the volumes which were rapidly accumulating 
 there. It seemed Mr. Bennett and Allaine had founded a 
 college in their own home, in which they alternately became 
 teacher and pupil to each other; for the father saw much 
 that escaped the daughter, and she called his attention to 
 many things which at first reading had not appealed to him. 
 
 Mr. Bennett's library was growing, and the very latest 
 editions of works by famous writers were soon placed on 
 the shelves. A new set of Emerson had simultaneously at- 
 tracted the attention of both father and daughter. It 
 included, in addition to the essays already known, the jour- 
 nals of this New England poet and philosopher, which were 
 now published for the first time. 
 
 At the time he was attending the university, if any one 
 had suggested to Mr. Bennett that he read Emerson, he 
 would have laughed and condemned the books as dry and 
 unpenetrative. And yet, had he made but one earnest effort 
 to understand the great thoughts recorded there, he would 
 soon have developed a deep satisfaction from the big truths, 
 which at that time would have helped keep him on the path 
 he had now resolved to follow. 
 
 The pictures of Emerson, which appeared as frontis- 
 pieces to certain volumes and which showed the good man 
 at various periods of his life, awakened in Mr. Bennett a 
 supreme reverence for the great author. He gazed at them 
 often and studied the development of the man's character 
 as revealed in his countenance. There was a moral beauty 
 in that face, which seemed to strengthen and yet grow more 
 mellow as the years advanced. 
 
 In the Journals for 1 838-1 841, there was an engraving 
 of the author at the age of forty. It was this period of 
 manhood which Mr. Bennett himself was now experiencing. 
 How he wished that his own face could reflect the rectitude 
 of youth which was still beaming in those large, dark, clear, 
 expressive and far-seeing eyes, softened under the shadow 
 of the heavy mobile brows ! 
 
84 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 He often turned to the picture in Lectures and Biograph- 
 ical Sketches, showing the moraHst at the age of seventy. 
 Would that he, Mr. Bennett, could reach that age and ac- 
 complish, in the life that was yet before him, half the good 
 which this man had done for humanity through the noble 
 example set by his upright life and through the writings 
 he had left to perpetuate the memory of it. The eyebrows, 
 like the hair which covered and crowned his beautifully 
 shaped head and brain, were slowly becoming white with 
 purity and age, accentuating the spiritual significance of 
 the light which enveloped and bathed the tired eyes — eyes 
 which seemed to have observed and recorded perhaps more 
 than God Himself had expected of them. His all-reaching 
 service to man was also indicated by the folds and lines in 
 his soft brown cheeks — Hke furrows in fertile fields which 
 had yielded a golden and inexhaustible harvest to feed the 
 minds of future scholars and to awaken and develop their 
 moral sentiment. 
 
 Mr. Bennett spoke of all these things to Allaine, who 
 soon acquired an insatiable thirst for the thoughts of the 
 revered philosopher, and she read and reread the soft, neatly 
 printed pages, underlining and double-underlining many 
 wonderful sentences and beautiful paragraphs, which helped 
 her in her work and which she hoped might some day help 
 Paul Milton in his ; for they were surely words from God — 
 words which God had heralded to mankind through this 
 particular man. 
 
 The widow Milton kept her promise: she never men- 
 tioned Allaine's name before her son or in any way hinted 
 that Allaine was helping him. Paul never once thought of 
 her; and when he returned at Christmas and at Easter to 
 spend a week or two with his mother at Norford, Allaine 
 discontinued visiting the cottage, although she often walked 
 by to get a glimpse of the boy whom she was striving to 
 elevate by her very absence. Sometimes she would pass him 
 on the street ; how it would please her to be near him ! He 
 of course never recognized her. After he returned to the 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 85 
 
 university she resumed her visits and brought little tokens 
 to show that her love for Alice and her son had in no way- 
 diminished. 
 
 During the long summer vacations Paul helped his 
 mother in the house and in the garden, and played to her 
 from the little studio under the roof. He had made no 
 friends at the university and consequently did not miss them. 
 He was glad to get away from Mr. Sweeny's garret in 
 spring and equally glad to return to it and his books in 
 September. 
 
 The Bennetts would motor to the shore or the mountains, 
 where Mrs. Bennett spent the whole day displaying her 
 wardrobe while Mr. Bennett and Allaine explored the coast 
 or the cool forests seeking quiet secluded retreats, where 
 they might continue to, study and read the books which they 
 had brought with them. Among these were always a few 
 volumes of Emerson, to which they frequently referred to 
 enjoy again the passages they had marked and which had 
 stimulated their mutual desire to reform existing conditions. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 ANOTHER THING KUHLER DID FOR HIS ALMA MATER 
 
 Good scholars are seldom praised by the undergraduates 
 of a large university. The average student prefers to ig- 
 nore or ridicule them. An active interest in scholarship 
 generally leads to obscurity. But good scholars do attract 
 the attention of the faculty, who, unfortunately, at once 
 undertake to overdevelop their genius and isolate them from 
 the student-body, which stands in great need of their 
 example. It is extreme folly to continue sharpening that 
 tool which is already sharp enough, by grinding it down to 
 nothing. When the mind is keen enough, let it operate on 
 the ways of mankind ; let it cut deep and bring to the sur- 
 face and remove the corruption which is retarding and 
 dwarfing the real progress of the world. 
 
 While Paul Milton was working away in Mr. Sweeny's 
 garret, he was far removed from his classmates and con- 
 temporaries, who scarcely knew of his existence. Even 
 Archibald Coddington had forgotten about him. But his 
 name was frequently brought up at faculty meetings, where 
 a great future was predicted for him. He had indeed 
 proved himself a rare genius in mathematics. His instruc- 
 tors claimed that they had found in him a real prodigy, who 
 would shed luster upon the university through the big the- 
 orems he would eventually unearth. The institution must 
 by all means retain him and do everything possible to 
 nourish and develop the astonishing power of investigation 
 revealed in his original methods and solutions. 
 
 The month of June had arrived — the last month of 
 Paul's last year at the university. He was about to grad- 
 uate with many honors, although the public announcement 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 87 
 
 had not yet been made. Just before the close of recita- 
 tions, his professor summoned him for an interview and 
 was far from modest in praising the boy's work, offering 
 him a free graduate scholarship to continue the pursuit of 
 knowledge. 
 
 "I shall have to think it over," said Milton. "I've been 
 away from my mother for four years. I feel that I should 
 return to her and begin to earn money ; but I shall con- 
 sider it." 
 
 Nevertheless, the boy was extremely happy. That even- 
 ing after he had brushed the crumbs from the table and 
 arranged it for breakfast, he thought the matter over. 
 Should he seize this opportunity or let it go by. Would it 
 be right to leave his mother for two or three more years ? It 
 would be very selfish to do so. And yet she had never once 
 complained of his absence. Surely if she had missed him 
 so much during these four years, one word would have 
 escaped to communicate her loneliness. Perhaps she had 
 formed friendships with other women in the neighborhood. 
 He had not, however, seen these friends at the cottage dur- 
 ing vacations. Yet something seemed to tell him she was 
 not entirely alone, and, rather than confute this comforting 
 thought, he decided not to question her. After all, was not 
 he also alone, and was he sad for that reason? Then he 
 recalled the noble words with which she had encouraged 
 him when led to hesitate before accepting the first free 
 scholarship from "The Alumni." 
 
 "It is for a good and great purpose that you are leaving 
 me, and your absence and your attainments will only make 
 me the happier when you return." 
 
 Did that word absence cover more than four years ? Ah, 
 it must have, for as yet he could not see very clearly "the 
 good and great purpose" for leaving her. Aside from the 
 honors, which are conferred every year, what had he ac- 
 complished? He had completed a four-year course. He 
 would receive a diploma. Of what good was a diploma? 
 Arch Coddington told him he could buy one. Arch Cod- 
 dington, who had never looked inside of a book, was going 
 
88 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 to take the same degree that would be conferred upon him- 
 self for all his earnest and consistent study! Coddington 
 hated learning, while he — Milton — loved it. Was there no 
 reward to distinguish love from hatred ? Yes ; the graduate 
 scholarship. The "good and great purpose," to which his 
 mother referred, would not become apparent until he had 
 captured a higher degree — a degree which could not be 
 bought — a. degree which proved that he had the ability to 
 do something bigger — something out of the ordinary. He 
 must please his mother by all means and therefore prepare 
 himself for that "good and great purpose ;" he must accept 
 the graduate scholarship. 
 
 He had just reached this conclusion when he heard a 
 sharp rap on his door. 
 
 "Come in." 
 
 It was Arch Coddington — Arch Coddington who had 
 never returned since that first visit in the freshman year — 
 Arch Coddington who despised him and his studiousness 
 and his goodness. 
 
 "Hello there, Paul," said the student, as he took Mil- 
 ton's hand and pressed it as though it were the hand of his 
 best friend. "I've come around to get some help from you, 
 I've got a condition in math hanging over from last year, 
 and if I don't pass it off I can't graduate. I've tried to 
 reserve hours with every tutor, but they're all filled up. 
 They're pretty busy now you know — right before the finals. 
 I don't know a damn about the subject. I could no more 
 work it up by myself than I could kiss my own forehead. 
 What's more the exam comes tomorrow morning at eight 
 o'clock — it's a crime the inconsideration the faculty have 
 for repeaters. I must get some one to help me tonight, or 
 I won't get my dip. You'll do it; won't you? I know 
 you're a good fellow." 
 
 And Coddington clapped him on the back, as if trying 
 to force him to consent. 
 
 Just a few minutes before, Milton was asking himself 
 if there was no reward to distinguish application from neg- 
 ligence. Were Coddington and he to receive the same 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 89 
 
 degree? Ah, it now rested with Milton himself to decide 
 that question. Coddiiigton was now at Milton's mercy: 
 Should Milton prevent him from getting the diploma ? But, 
 what was Milton's answer? 
 
 "Yes ; I will help you." 
 
 And why had he consented ? Was it because he pitied a 
 fellow-student? Perhaps. But was there not some other 
 power at work — some power which said to him inaudibly: 
 "Go ! you have much to learn from this man." 
 
 "Good," said Coddington. 
 
 "Shall we work here?" suggested Milton. 
 
 "No; come down to my room at the frat house: I've 
 got every examination paper in this subject for the last ten 
 years. That's one of the big advantages of belonging to a 
 college fraternity. Those who have gone before have 
 hoarded exams and notebooks to make life easier for us 
 who follow. We've got the solutions of all the problems 
 in the text — but then they are apt to spring a new one on 
 us now and then." 
 
 The two boys walked down Walnut Street to Codding- 
 ton's chapter house, where they were soon seated before his 
 table and the six poses of Miss Ruby Pink. The examina- 
 tion papers were also on the desk ; for Coddington had been 
 looking them over, only to discover that he could not answer 
 a single question. 
 
 "We will not need these," said Milton, as he pushed the 
 papers aside. "That is no way to prepare for a test. Learn 
 the fundamental principles, and then you can solve any 
 problem if you will only stick to it." 
 
 "All right," said Arch, lighting a cigarette. "Let's have 
 the fundamental principles." 
 
 Milton began to explain and then applied his method to 
 a problem. Coddington seemed to understand perfectly, 
 for the exposition was very clear. 
 
 "What a snap! Why any fool can work that problem 
 when he knows the principle," said Arch, as he sent a ring 
 of smoke whirling across the desk. 
 
 "Yes ; let me see you try one similar to it." 
 
90 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 Milton invented one, and Coddington solved it with ease. 
 
 "Is that right ?" asked Arch. 
 
 "Yes/* answered the tutor. 
 
 "That's a cinch." 
 
 "Then let us pass on to something else," said Milton. 
 
 The two boys worked together for an hour and a half. 
 Once during that time they were interrupted by two stu- 
 dents who entered Coddington's room wearing their caps. 
 It seemed they had come from a room across the hall. 
 
 "Are you going with us. Arch ?" asked one of them. 
 
 "Not just now. I'm boning for my condition exam. 
 Come and meet my old freshman friend — Paul Milton: 
 "Red" Dillinger and "Fat" McCloskey." 
 
 Milton arose and shook hands with them. 
 
 "Well, we won't disturb you," said McCloskey. 
 
 "See you later, boys," said Coddington, as they walked 
 out. 
 
 It seemed Coddington could no longer concentrate his 
 mind on the problems, for he began squirming about rest- 
 lessly in his chair. 
 
 "I think I know enough to pull a ^ on that. Let's shut 
 down. How much do I owe you?" he asked, taking a 
 check book from his pocket. 
 
 "Nothing at all," said Milton. 
 
 "Oh surely, surely," said Coddington. 
 
 There is nothing more insulting to a well-to-do snob 
 than the refusal to take money for service rendered him. 
 
 "No," said Milton, "this wasn't a business deal." 
 
 "Well, then you'll let me pay you in some other way. 
 I once promised to take you out again after you declined 
 my invitation to the theatre. By the way, have you mixed 
 any with the fellows ?" 
 
 "No, I have been working over my books ever since," 
 answered Milton. 
 
 "In that same God-forsaken garret?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "All alone — no roommate?" 
 
 Milton nodded. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 91 
 
 "I should think you'd get damn tired of it. Do you 
 know, young man, that you've made a botch of your whole 
 undergraduate life?" 
 
 Milton looked up quickly. 
 
 "Oh, I know you will probably take every honor and 
 prize in sight — I know all that, but what good has it done 
 you? What will you have gained over me? Now that 
 you've helped me, I'll pass this exam tomorrow, and get a 
 sheepskin just like yours, and what's more I'm leaving this 
 place knowing a whole lot of friends. You don't know a 
 damn soul in your class. You sit up there in that con- 
 founded loft of yours day and night, buried between the 
 pages of your book like a worm. There's a heap more to 
 get out of college life aside from what you get out of books." 
 
 "I've found great pleasure in them," said Milton. 
 
 "Pleasure! you don't know what pleasure is. It's be- 
 cause you never had a taste of real pleasure that you stick 
 to this dry sort of time-killer. Here's your senior year 
 almost over, and you don't know what college life means. 
 To tell the truth, I had forgotten all about you. Why 
 didn't you take to tutoring earlier? You would have met 
 lots of fellows that way — lazy cusses perhaps, but good 
 sports and good pay. It's a damn sight easier way to make 
 money than by shoveling coal into a furnace or shoveling 
 grub on to a table. Great God! think of it: all alone in 
 that pigeon hole of yours for four years — dead to the world. 
 It's a wonder you're not rotten. But there's hope for you 
 yet. It's not too late ; put on your hat." 
 
 Coddington's words had a strange influence over the boy. 
 There seemed to be much truth in what he had said. The 
 words charmed him, drew him irresistibly, involuntarily, 
 unconsciously toward the person who had spoken them, and 
 he followed down the stairs and into the street. 
 
 "Is it going to be a comic opera?" asked Milton rather 
 timidly. 
 
 "No; the theatrical season is over," answered Codding- 
 ton, "but I've got something better in store for you." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
92 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 "Fm going to take you out and introduce you to some 
 girls." 
 
 "Girls !" exclaimed Milton, who had never as much as 
 looked at one. 
 
 "Yes ; you need them." 
 
 "My clothes aren't good enough; I'm afraid they won't 
 care to know me," said Paul. 
 
 He had noticed the pictures of Ruby Pink displaying her 
 gorgeous gowns. 
 
 "Let me go to my room first and put on another suit. 
 I am not dressed well enough to be received in the society 
 of your friends," added Milton excitedly. 
 
 "They're not going to look at your clothes," laughed 
 Arch. 
 
 The two boys walked on in silence for some time. 
 
 "I shall feel embarrassed," murmured Milton, "I won't 
 know what to say. Let me go back and get my violin ; then 
 I can play to them instead of talking." 
 
 "You won't need your violin. There's a piano at the 
 house, and one of the girls can tear off rags by the yard. 
 I'm afraid they wouldn't care to listen to your classical stuff. 
 It's beyond most of us," added Arch, by way of apology. 
 
 They had entered a rather dark and forlorn alley, and 
 continued to walk in a direction from which there came the 
 rattling and metallic twang of a seemingly ancient piano, 
 badly in need of tuning and repair. 
 
 "They've begun to dance," said Coddington. "We are 
 just in time." 
 
 "I don't know how to dance," faltered Milton. "I had 
 better not go in with you." 
 
 "Never mind; the girls will not only teach you how to 
 dance, but they'll teach you how to do everything." 
 
 Coddington's last remark opened Milton's eyes ; he real- 
 ized for the first time that Coddington was planning a trick 
 and a trap. He was about to turn and leave him, but before 
 he knew it, the tempter -had opened a door without ringing 
 or knocking and had pushed Milton through the opening 
 and closed it again. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 93 
 
 "Hang your hat here on the rack," said Arch impera- 
 tively. 
 
 Milton saw no rack. All he could see were several 
 couples whirling about in a dimly lighted room filled with 
 tobacco smoke and the deafening noise from a discarded 
 and neglected, but upright Chickering. He imagined he 
 recognized some faces he had seen very recently — the faces 
 of ''Red" Dillinger and "Fat" McCloskey. He was bewild- 
 ered. Coddington had removed his hat for him and was 
 pushing him as far away from the door as possible. A pair 
 of dancers brushed by them; Coddington seized the .man 
 by the shoulder. 
 
 "You were looking for a tutor to help you out on that 
 Calculus exam next week," said Arch to the student whose 
 dance he had interrupted. It was Dillinger. "Well, here's 
 a fellow can put you through like a shot." 
 
 And Coddington walked off with the girl leaving Milton 
 in the company of ''Red" Dillinger. Now that Coddington 
 had left him, Milton wanted to dash to the door, seize his 
 hat and rush out; but Dillinger had hold of his hand and 
 was speaking to him although Milton had no idea what he 
 was saying. 
 
 "I met you up at Coddington's room this evening," said 
 Dillinger. "I suppose you don't remember me. Yes ; I 
 need some help in Calculus. I've been loafing all year. I've 
 been down here with the girls several nights each week. 
 I've got to get busy or flunk out — one or the other. Til 
 need about six hours with you; that will mean one each 
 evening from now on until the exam. You might call at the 
 house just as you did with Coddington tonight. I room 
 across the hall from Coddington up at the frat house. Make 
 it early in the evening — about seven thirty. I don't want 
 it to interfere with this fun." 
 
 Dillinger kept on talking about various things, but Mil- 
 ton was not listening. He was silent, and Dillinger's words 
 were going in one ear and out the other. Nevertheless, Dil- 
 linger continued to talk, because he thought the new tutor 
 was too embarrassed to say anything himself. 
 
94 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 Coddington and the girl whom he had taken from Dil- 
 linger in the dance were sitting on a sofa at the opposite side 
 of the room. 
 
 "Will you smoke?" asked Coddington, opening his cig- 
 arette case. 
 
 "I'd better not," said the girl, as she placed her hand 
 on her throat and coughed dryly. 
 
 Arch lighted one for himself. 
 
 "I'll just take one puff of yours," she added, changing 
 her mind. 
 
 "I've brought you a new customer," said Coddington. 
 "He's never been through the mill." 
 
 "I could tell he was a freshman by the way he come in," 
 said the girl. 
 
 "You get another guess — he's a senior like myself." 
 
 "A senior ! he must be as slow as a snail," remarked the 
 girl. 
 
 "He's a shark. He will probably pull all the honors, 
 but he ought not to leave the university without knowing 
 something about other things too. He's an innocent virgin 
 — poor chap ! I want you to break him in. He refused to 
 take money for tutoring me tonight, and I thought this 
 would be a good way to square up with him. Don't take 
 any pay from him; I'll foot the bill," 
 
 "Just leave it to me," said the girl, with a smile. "It 
 don't take me long to make a profesh out of a amateur, 
 and he will soon find a way of earnin' money to pay for 
 the second lesson himself. Introduce me so I can get busy." 
 
 Coddington and the girl crossed the floor, elbowing their 
 way through the dancers until they stood beside Milton 
 and Dillinger. 
 
 "Mr. Milton, allow me to present Miss Stanley." 
 
 The girl unhesitatingly thrust out her warm, moist hand, 
 the very touch of which was repulsive to Paul Milton. 
 
 "I am happy to see you here," she said, as the shadow 
 of a smile passed over her pale, thin face. 
 
 "Miss Stanley will be only too glad to teach you some 
 of the new dances, Paul," said Coddington famiharly. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 95 
 
 "Yes," added the girl," the steps are rather tricky at 
 first, but it don't take long to get next to them. Turkey 
 trot, tango, hesitation — we do them all. Which one would 
 you like to start with ?" 
 
 Milton was not listening to the girl. Coddington and 
 Dillinger had both deserted him; they had found partners 
 and had disappeared in the whirling nebula. 
 
 "It won't be long until you can dance as well as them," 
 continued the girl. 
 
 "I don't care to dance," he faltered. "I would rather 
 not." 
 
 "Oh, don't be a fogy. Get the habit. Come along." 
 
 In an instant she seized him in her arms, and he soon 
 found himself in the middle of the floor — a part of that 
 dizzy revolving mass. Eyes flashed past him. Once he 
 caught a glimpse of Coddington and noticed that he was 
 grinning diabolically. But soon the faces were no longer 
 distinguishable. His head was spinning, and he could not 
 see. Miss Stanley was drawing him closer and closer to 
 her twisting and squirming body. She seemed to be wrap- 
 ping herself about him, thrusting her knee between his legs. 
 At times she threw him to the right, to the left, pulled him 
 forward, then pushed him backward, with unnatural 
 strength until she finally became exhausted, and he felt her 
 hot breath beat upon his cheek in short, quick puflfs. 
 
 "Shall we go upstairs now?" she panted. 
 
 "Yes, yes; for God's sake yes," he gasped, "any place 
 but here." 
 
 She dashed wildly up the steps, he pursuing her. There 
 was a pair of invisible hands shoving him along ; there was 
 that same inaudible voice crying in his ear: "Follow her; 
 follow her." 
 
 Coddington saw them vanish on the landing. Just then 
 DiUinger danced past him. 
 
 "She knows her game all right," said Coddington; and 
 Dillinger winked and smiled. 
 
 The girl had rushed into a room on the second floor and 
 thrown herself upon the bed, her strange hollow eyes star- 
 
96 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 ing at Milton, who had followed her there and closed the 
 door, standing with his back against it. 
 
 "I'm too tired to undress," she panted. 
 
 "To undress !" he exclaimed. "What do you mean ?" 
 
 She sat up on the bed, eyeing him wildly. 
 
 "That's what we're here for; ain't it?" 
 
 ''Not I," he answered with firmness. 
 
 "All that exertion for nothin' !" 
 
 "Yes; all for nothing," he repeated. 
 
 "Good God! ain't you discovered yet that you're a man? 
 Do you expect to be a baby all your life?" she inquired 
 mockingly. "If so, then get the hell out of here, and I'll 
 go downstairs and get a grown-up. When I'm worked up 
 to this point, I've got to go further." 
 
 She staggered to the door, but he would not let her pass. 
 
 "Don't leave me," he pleaded. "Please don't." 
 
 She smiled and returned to the bed. 
 
 "Oh ! you've changed your mind. You was only bluffin' 
 — only teasin' me. Come on ; don't waste so much time." 
 
 She seized his arm and pulled him to the pillow. 
 
 "My God!" he stammered, "don't say that. I couldn't 
 do such a thing ; I couldn't." 
 
 He recalled what his mother had told him; that the 
 desire would sooner or later awaken — that he should learn 
 to work hard and master it. But it required no effort to 
 master it here. This girl had even failed to awaken it. She 
 stifled it — smothered it the moment she had touched him 
 with her warm, moist hand earher in the evening. To him 
 she was an object of pity ; it was not passion but compassion 
 which she had aroused in Paul Milton. 
 
 "Ain't it in you?" she asked. 
 
 "It should be in all men, but I have not yet earned the 
 gratification — and furthermore, you are not mine," said Paul. 
 
 "I am yours as much as I am theirs — them fellows 
 downstairs." 
 
 "No," he said, "if you were mine you wouldn't be theirs, 
 because I would guard you — I believe I — I'd kill them," he 
 affirmed, with a tremor. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 97 
 
 She looked at him in admiration. 
 
 "If only he had felt as you do," she whispered sadly. 
 
 "Who?" asked Milton. 
 
 "Tom Kuhler," responded the girl, her voice quivering 
 when she mentioned the name — a name which startled Paul 
 Milton. 
 
 "Tom Kuhler !" he exclaimed. 
 
 "Yes ; he started me on this path — this road to ruin, as 
 they call it. You must have heard of him — the whole world 
 knows of him. You ain't that slow." 
 
 "I know of him," said Paul. "You mean the big foot- 
 ball hero?" 
 
 "Yes, that's the one. He founded this here establish- 
 ment the same day he won that big game for the university. 
 Did you see that game?" 
 
 Milton nodded reluctantly. 
 
 "So did I, but sometimes I wish I hadn't. I went wild 
 over Kuhler that day. He won my heart, soul, body, every- 
 thing — all at once — ^that quick." She snapped her fingers. 
 "Some girls can hold back ; I can't. I would have throwed 
 myself at his feet, then and there, and allowed him to walk 
 over me. But he was wonderful, wasn't he? It was a 
 great game, and he played it all. I don't see how any one 
 could keep from goin' crazy when that man was on the 
 field. There was a gloomy guy sittin' next to me that after- 
 noon who seemed bored to death, and when Kuhler made 
 that long run, smashin' through the line, I took that gloomy 
 guy in my arms and tried to wake him up. I hugged him 
 just Hke I wanted to hug Tom Kuhler." 
 
 Milton was silent, but he realized at once that the 
 strange pale creature who was sitting beside him on the bed 
 was no other than the white plume — the tail of the serpent 
 of victory. But the plume was no longer white ; it had been 
 dragged through mud and muck and had been torn and 
 pounded by a score of beastly men — trampled under the feet 
 of that gigantic centipede of which it had also been a part. 
 
 "After the game," continued the girl, "I danced down 
 the field like mad. I just couldn't help it: Kuhler was so 
 
98 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 grand. And then I rubbered through the window at the 
 place where the team had a banquet that night. Kuhler sat 
 at the head of the table. Gee, but he did look great. Hand- 
 some's no word for it. I made up my mind to meet him 
 or die. I waited almost two hours on the sidewalk. Millie 
 Gray was there with me tryin' to pull me away, but she 
 couldn't budge me. 
 
 "Well, Kuhler finally come out. He was pretty well 
 soaked, but that didn't cut any ice with me. I loved him 
 more than ever, and I whistled at him when he went by. 
 He come over to the curb, chucked me under the chin, and 
 took me 'round the waist — it was great I tell you. We 
 walked down the street together — Millie on his left arm, me 
 on his right. Millie was afraid we might do something ter- 
 rible, and we did too. At least we thought it was terrible 
 then ; we don't now. But I'm gettin' ahead of my story. 
 
 "We picked up another sport along the way — Arch Cod- 
 dington — the fellow that fetched you here tonight." 
 
 The girl stopped for an instant in her narrative, think- 
 ing that Milton might make a remark or two. He said 
 nothing. Her throat was drying up, but she went on. 
 
 "Kuhler got Arch for Millie. The four of us started 
 home. My mother and me lived all alone in that little shanty 
 over there across the street." 
 
 She glanced out the window ; there was a small light 
 burning in the dilapidated house she had referred to. 
 
 "I was a cash girl in the department store. I supported 
 the whole family — mother and myself. Mother was away 
 that night. She had went up to the country on a visit, and 
 had told Millie to stay with me so I wouldn't be alone. 1 
 got out our best china, and I sent Millie to the baker shop 
 to buy some cream puffs while I made the lemonade; I 
 was goin' to have a little spread for the four of us. But 
 Kuhler didn't even look at the cream puffs and the lemon- 
 ade — he was sweatin' wine. He said he wanted something 
 else. Millie got frightened and run home. Arch said thai 
 two was company and three a crowd, so he left also and 
 followed Millie. But he didn't get her 'round to it until a 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 99 
 
 week later, but he did get her all right all right. She didn't 
 escape; her initiation was only postponed, don't you know. 
 But she was lucky enough not to get into any trouble over 
 it Hke I did. Millie had deserted me, but I had found an- 
 other protector — Kuhler stayed with me till morning. You 
 remember it was reported that he killed the boy who was 
 carried off the field that afternoon — well, he filled up the 
 vacancy by makin' another one that night. 
 
 "So our family of two was increased by one. Mother 
 and Tom Kuhler Junior still live over there in the shanty, 
 and I support them — ^but I ain't no cash girl no more. When 
 the department store got next to it that I was goin' to 
 have a kid, they throwed me out, and no other firm would 
 take me in. So I decided to start up a firm of my own. 
 This is it. Millie helped me to get some other girls — we 
 found lots of them in the street who were only too glad 
 to find a home and a bed of their own, but to work on 
 commission. Millie ain't in tonight ; she's out on an errand 
 — out at some student's room. He's a sly stude, I tell you. 
 His father and mother got next to his comin' here, and 
 they've hired a private detective to keep an eye on this joint 
 in case their little boy went at it again, but the joke's on 
 the detective — Millie goes 'round to call on their son instead 
 of the bube comin' to her, and she gets double price for 
 doin' it. 
 
 "But we do most of our work right here. This is our 
 third year at the business. I bet there ain't another joint 
 in the neighborhood takes in as much money as we do. Our 
 customers are all students. Students are good pay. They'd 
 rather give us their room rent than pay it to their landlords. 
 When the boys bring in a new one who hasn't the coin, one 
 of the old customers foots the bill for the initiation. Arch 
 Coddington told me in advance that he was goin' to square 
 up with me for yours, to pay you back for the tutorin' you 
 done tonight. But it looks as though there'll be nothin' 
 doin', so I won't take the money from him when he offers 
 it to me. I'm honest in a sort of a way — I ain't goin' to 
 take money to raise Tom Kuhler's boy without givin' or 
 
100 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 doin' something in return for it. I still have a warm spot 
 for Tom, but I guess he's forgot all about me. He had a 
 swell girl up here for the prom that year. She came all 
 the way from Cincinnati, and wore a dark blue satin — I 
 read about it in the newspaper. I've heard since that Tom's 
 got married to her and has a boy of his own; Arch Cod- 
 dington told me. Tom and Arch belong to the same frat. 
 I know all the boys that live up there this year. They're 
 the fastest gang in the university. They seem to inherit 
 that rep from year to year. When a fellow gets in with 
 that bunch it's good-bye to his virginity. It's too bad they 
 didn't get hold of you a little earlier; I might have been 
 more successful with you. A girl needs lots of money when 
 she's got to support her mother and her son." 
 
 Milton had listened to every word of the girl's story, 
 which now seemed indelibly recorded on his mind. When 
 she had finished relating it, he took a purse from his pocket, 
 opened it, and pressed a two-dollar bill into her palm. She 
 looked at him strangely and incredulously. 
 
 "That's for Tom Kuhler Junior," he said, as he held 
 her hand with a manly grasp. "Good night." 
 
 Then he left the room, closed the door softly, and de- 
 scended the stairs. There was a large lump in his throat 
 that he could not swallow, and big tears were standing in 
 his eyes. Coddington saw him and noticed that he was 
 weeping. 
 
 *Tt does hurt our conscience a little, after we go through 
 it the first time ; but you'll soon get over that." 
 
 Coddington patted Milton on the back. Milton did not 
 think it necessary to correct the false impression made by 
 his absence; he knew May Stanley would refuse to take 
 Coddington's money, and that would explain all. So he 
 walked to the rack in silence for his hat and stepped into 
 the street. 
 
 The little light was still burning in the shanty on the 
 other side. As he walked away, he heard the music cease 
 abruptly, but the silence which had ensued was soon broken 
 by a tempest of laughter, as though some one had related 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY loi 
 
 a very, very, funny story. Then the twangy old piano was 
 started again, and the dancing resumed. 
 
 Who was it that related the funny story? It was not 
 May Stanley ; she was still lying on her bed — sobbing. She 
 had never even dreamed of meeting another man; she had 
 long ago concluded they were all beasts. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE WATCHDOG 
 
 Shortly after Milton left the house, it began to rain — 
 a light, drizzling rain similar to that which had fallen over 
 the silent gridiron after the serpent of victory had deserted 
 it. On that memorable evening, Milton had walked home 
 through the rain, lost in meditation ; he was walking through 
 the rain now — lost again. He was glad he had not noticed 
 by what route Coddington had reached the house of com- 
 mercialized vice. He closed his eyes as he wandered and 
 wandered, so that he might never know how to return. 
 There was one thing May Stanley had said, which was ring- 
 ing clamorously in his ears : 
 
 "Tom Kuhler founded this establishment the same day 
 he won that big football victory for the university." 
 
 The picture of the serpent came back to his mind even 
 more vividly than it had appeared originally. He imagined 
 he saw it creeping at his side through the mud in the gutter. 
 He saw Kuhler at the head of it ; he heard the mad cheers 
 and the brass band. He saw the white plume at the end of it ; 
 she appeared more prominent now. At times the band would 
 cease playing, but he could still hear a twangy piano, to the 
 music of which the girl continued to dance sensually and 
 breathlessly, alternately waving the plume above her head 
 and then dragging it through the mud and slime. He under- 
 stood now why she belonged there, strange as her actions ap- 
 peared that afternoon. It was this girl who had clasped him 
 in her arms to awaken his spirit to the glories of football. 
 It was this same girl who pressed him toward her emaciated 
 body to excite him for another diversion of the flesh. She 
 had utterly failed to arouse him either time. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 103 
 
 She had failed to arouse his enthusiasm in the two pleas- 
 ures Kuhler had established. One of these was recognized 
 officially by the faculty; the other was ignored by them. 
 Nevertheless, did not May Stanley say her trade was re- 
 stricted to students only? Was not this also a department 
 of the university? Unadvertised, unofficial, secret perhaps, 
 but nevertheless a department, and Tom Kuhler was at the 
 source of it. Wonderful Tom Kuhler whose name had 
 been flashed across the country from one end to the other! 
 Tom Kuhler, who had won such fame for his Alma Mater ! 
 Fame? And this was the god and hero whom the alumni 
 had worshiped — this was the type of man they wanted! A 
 Butcher and Profligate ! 
 
 Ah yes ; there were other things left in the path of vic- 
 tory, things not only Paul Milton but also the populace never 
 saw. There were the well-known wrecks of the Dining 
 Hall and of the theatre, but both of these could be restored. 
 There was a death, and there were several injuries at the 
 field ; these injuries might ruin the health of those who had 
 received them, but their effects would go no farther. Here, 
 however, a blacker and more lasting ignominy was left in the 
 trail of the serpent. Here was a house which bred and spread 
 disease — disease which would be passed on, transmitted to 
 each incoming class at the university — disease which would 
 mar the faces, deform the bodies and derange the minds of 
 the students — disease which they would pass on to their inno- 
 cent children. Onward, onward thou victorious serpent! 
 Onward, leaving not only crippled athletes but also crippled 
 babes creeping helplessly and perhaps blindly in thy path ! 
 
 Paul Milton, consumed by such thoughts, found himself 
 standing before Mr. Sweeny's house. He walked up the 
 steps and rang the bell. 
 
 Mr. Sweeny himself answered it. 
 
 "What's the matter? It's something new for you not 
 to be able to find the keyhole." 
 
 "I forgot my key," explained Milton. 
 
 The landlord snickered, and took a bite from the greasy 
 chop in his hairy, paw-like hand. 
 
104 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 "You're just the man Fm lookin' for," said Sweeny. "I 
 want you for a witness. Step right in here." 
 
 The front room was open. It was dark within ; we had 
 observed that it was always so. Milton entered; the land- 
 lord followed, closing the door. 
 
 "Set down," said Sweeny. 
 
 Milton managed to find a chair in the darkness. The 
 landlord sat in a rocker at his side. 
 
 "Do you see that there hght ?" he began, pointing across 
 the street with the bone of his chop. 
 
 "Yes," answered Paul, as he drew aside the lace curtain 
 to get a better view. 
 
 "Don't do that," said Sweeny, quickly, rearranging the 
 window. "We don't want them to see us." 
 
 "Who?" asked Milton. 
 
 "The students," answered the landlord. "They're in 
 the room on the first floor. The light on the second floor is 
 in the landlady's room. Miss Clarabelle Jones. You must 
 have heard the fellows talk about her. She claims her 
 roomers are the most upright students in the university. 
 She won't rent rooms to bad boys." 
 
 The landlord's snicker sounded like the chuckle of a 
 fiend hidden somewhere in the darkness. 
 
 "They buy her all sorts of presents; her students do. 
 They've give her so much candy it's a wonder her teeth 
 ain't rotten — but I reckon they're false teeth. She's old 
 enough to be their mother. She loves them students as if 
 they was her own children, so she says, and she won't let 
 nobody say a word against them." 
 
 "Well," continued the landlord, "all the people who rent 
 rooms to students here in the neighborhood have agreed 
 to keep an eye on one another's houses and to report any 
 tricks which the students are up to. Miss Jones, however, 
 wouldn't join the pack of spies — as she calls us. She says 
 students don't have to be watched ; they are perfect angels." 
 
 Sweeny laughed so boisterously that he woke his \vife, 
 who was sleeping in the rear of the room; but she soon 
 turned over again and began to snore. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 105 
 
 "Is there some one else in the room with us?" asked 
 Milton, uneasily. 
 
 "Only the cook," said Sweeny. "Her bed's back there 
 in the corner." 
 
 Milton felt strangely out of place. 
 
 "You probably know that the buildin' to the right is 
 an old folks' home. Perhaps you seen the old women settin' 
 at their windows in the mornin' — the windows with potted 
 plants on the sills. Old women like potted plants ; they set 
 behind them like cats watchin' for mice. When a student 
 breaks one of my windows with a snowball or baseball, 
 the old women always report the right man to me; they 
 remember him by his hat or the color of his tie. But there 
 is more doin' at night than at day, so the old hens are not 
 much account after all for they go to roost as soon as the 
 sun sets." 
 
 The landlord's language was painful to Milton. He 
 hated such discourtesy. However, he kept silent. He de- 
 cided it was his duty to listen. The inaudible voice was 
 telling him to remain. His ears in fact were becoming ac- 
 customed to slang and slander. He was wondering if he 
 must listen to vulgar and disagreeable reports the whole 
 night long. 
 
 "After sundown," continued the landlord, "we have to 
 get busy ourselves. This is my watchtower. I ain't had a 
 light in this room for the last five years, and I didn't rent 
 it out either, even though I could have got a big price for 
 it. I see somethin' from this window almost every night — 
 students drunk on the curb, or walkin' by with hussies. 
 They call me the watchdog. You know young Coddington 
 who used to room upstairs when you was a freshman? He 
 give me that name one night when Tom Kuhler, that big 
 football player, was standin' out here on the side walk with 
 two girls, tryin' to sneak them up to Coddington's room. 
 There'd have been a gay time in that room that night if I 
 hadn't been on duty. I wouldn't put anything past that 
 man Coddington; he's the wildest and the sleekest stude in 
 the whole university." 
 
io6 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 Milton realized immediately that the two girls referred 
 to were May Stanley and Millie Gray. 
 
 "Tonight," said the watchdog, "I saw Clarabelle's 'per- 
 fect angels' take a girl in through the window." 
 
 Milton's head began to ache. He wanted to hear no 
 more ; he had already heard and seen too much. He wanted 
 rest and sleep, but alas! rest and sleep were not for him. 
 "Look and listen," the inaudible voice kept saying. It was 
 the same voice which had been guiding him and ringing in 
 his ears all evening. 
 
 "I called Clarabelle up on the telephone," continued 
 Sweeny. "She said it was impossible that her boys should 
 do such a thing but that she would go downstairs and make 
 sure. She had already went to bed. She got up and dressed ; 
 that's why there's a light in her room. Notice that patch of 
 light which her lamp throws on the wall of the old folks' 
 home. As soon as the students saw that, they got wise and 
 hid the girl behind their piano. There's Clarabelle in her 
 kimono ; she's back in her room again. Ain't she a bird ?" 
 
 A bell sounded sharply in the darkness. 
 
 "Is that the alarm clock for to get up and cook break- 
 fast?" asked Mrs. Sweeny. 
 
 "No, darling ; it's only the telephone," said the landlord. 
 
 "Thank Heavens," groaned the cook, and she fell asleep 
 again. 
 
 Sweeny, whose eyes seemed more useful in darkness 
 than in light, walked directly to the telephone on the man- 
 telpiece, and answered the call. 
 
 "Hello ! Yes, this is Sweeny All right, 
 
 Fm sorry I disturbed you." 
 
 He hung up the receiver, and returned to his post. 
 
 "She said she went downstairs and couldn't find a trace 
 of a girl. All the students were studyin' their lessons. She 
 asked me to please not disturb her sleep no more by false 
 reports." 
 
 The watchdog then rocked back and forward, restlessly 
 awaiting the move which would prove that Miss Jones was 
 wrong. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 107 
 
 "There!" uttered Sweeny explosively. ''She's turned 
 out her lamp, and she's goin' back to bed. The patch of 
 light on the wall has gone too — that means to the students 
 that the way is clear. Now watch close." 
 
 Sweeny was silent and motionless like a hound, which 
 has scented a bird in a bush. A student appeared at one 
 of the windows. He opened it, and looked up and down 
 the street. Then the light in that room was also extin- 
 guished, and a dark mass was lowered from the sill. It 
 rested a moment on the iron fence, which was very close 
 to the wall, and then hopped to the ground and took flight 
 like a bat. That dark mass was none other than Millie 
 Gray on the "errand" which May Stanley had described 
 to Paul Milton. 
 
 Hardly had the girl disappeared round the corner when 
 the student's room was again lighted, and some one began 
 playing the piano as though nothing had happened. The 
 music was just as twangy as that Milton had heard at May 
 Stanley's establishment, and it recalled all he had heard 
 from the white plume, earlier in the evening. 
 
 "Now you see what kind of angels Miss Jones keeps in 
 her house," said the watchdog, "and that's the way with all 
 students whether they stay with Miss Jones ,or with me. 
 I wouldn't trust one of them. They're a rotten bunch. 
 They try to skip the town without payin' me rent, and they 
 would turn every dormitory on the street into a whore 
 house if they got a ghost of a chance. This town is flooded 
 every year by a swarm of chips, who float around the sea- 
 shore resorts in the summer time, and drift back to the 
 college in the fall. They are a part of the university just 
 as much as the faculty are, and they give the most popular 
 courses too. Universities are hell — that's wTiat they are. 
 Some one ought to sweep them out with a broom ; they need 
 it. All the students come here for is to wear out their 
 lungs at the football games and wear out something else 
 on these street rats. You have no idea what's goin' on 
 about you, Milton. You squat up there in that garret of 
 yours rubbin' a horse's tail over a cat's gut, and the noise 
 
io8 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 you get out of it puts you to sleep. You're always dreamin' ; 
 you don't hear or see nothing but that blamed old fiddle. 
 Here you are graduatin' with honors, I suppose, and you 
 don't know a damn." 
 
 Paul could listen to no more; he arose and staggered 
 from the room. 
 
 "Happy dreams," said the watchdog, sucking the bone 
 from which he had gnawed the last shred of meat. 
 
 When Milton reached his room, he threw himself upon 
 the bed and remained there for some time silent and mo- 
 tionless. It was dark. Had he fallen asleep? No; his 
 head was hot with thought, and his brain seemed to be 
 melting within it. 
 
 The things which he had seen and heard kept parading 
 through his mind. Was it so that the men among whom he 
 lived were so putrid? Was it true that the students of 
 the university, his classmates, were so low? Were they 
 as rank as this dog had described them? He could not be- 
 lieve it, although he had seen it with his own eyes and 
 heard it with his own ears, though involuntarily. The 
 inaudible voice had forced him to act against his will. Why 
 had all this come to him without his wanting to know it? 
 Was it Providence pointing the way and showing him his 
 duty ? Then he seemed to hear again the remark of the land- 
 lord : "Here you are graduating with honors, and you don't 
 know a damn." Was there truth in that statement ? Was it 
 so that what he had learned from his books was all worth- 
 less ? What good was all this stuff ? Perhaps Coddington was 
 right. Geometry, French, German, Chemistry, Physics, 
 everything, all put together — what did they amount to com- 
 pared with what he had learned this evening? Here was a 
 community of several thousand students going straight to 
 perdition. They needed some one to come to their rescue, to 
 drag them out of the quagmire into which they were help- 
 lessly sinking. "The university should be swept out with a 
 broom." Should he — Paul Milton — lay aside his books and 
 take up that broom ? Was not this "the good and great pur- 
 pose" to which his mother had referred — the purpose for 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 109 
 
 which he had left her. But was it Providence, or was it 
 merely the landlord? He began to toss about restlessly. 
 Perhaps after all, it was only the false and blatant alarm 
 of the watchdog which had awakened him in his harmonious 
 heaven. Coddington had named Sweeny rightly, for he 
 did nothing but snarl, snarl, snarl. Just because a student 
 or two had cheated him of his rent, he formed the opinion 
 that they were all sneaks and robbers. He was merely 
 seeking revenge, not justice. He exaggerated and magni- 
 fied everything. He was disgracing the institution by his 
 groundless reports and his incessant barking. The univer- 
 sity was a clean community. There were in it, as there are 
 in all communities, a few sneaks, a few gamblers, a few 
 profligates, but only a few; for the majority — and a great 
 majority too — of the students were honest, upright and 
 studious. He felt a certain hatred growing within him — 
 a hatred for this dog who was scheming to give him such 
 vile impressions — this dog who wanted him to believe that 
 all the other landlords and ladies in the neighborhood were 
 also spies as corrupt as himself. It was basely false; it 
 was rank from beginning to end. It was nothing but gossip 
 and slander. It was disgracing his Alma Mater — his Alma 
 Mater for whom he had studied so loyally. He could not 
 live in such an atmosphere. He began to despise his own 
 room, for he imagined it to be contaminated by the stench 
 from the watchdog's kennel. How he wished that he had 
 been fortunate enough to have found a room across the 
 street when he first came to the university — a room in Miss 
 Jones' house! Then this foul report would never have 
 reached his ears — this report which came at the very end 
 of his senior year to mar the memory of the four happy 
 years he had spent among his books. What a mean hound 
 this Sweeny was to spoil everything! Just because he had 
 seen a girl taken in through a window and lowered to the 
 street from that same window, he concluded that the whole 
 community was invaded by prostitutes. What rank false- 
 hood! There wasn't even a grain of truth in it. Then he 
 suddenly imagined that some one lay beside him on the 
 
no THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 bed — a pair of strange hollow eyes glaring from his pillow 
 — eyes that contradicted his thoughts. He closed his own 
 to avoid their stare, but by so doing he could not avoid 
 the hot breath, which was beating against his cheek. May 
 Stanley was whirling him round and round again trying 
 to excite his passion, trying to drag him to ruin. A cold 
 sweat stood on his forehead. He thanked God that he had 
 been able to resist her. The fact that he had escaped made 
 him happy, because it led him to believe that other students 
 had also escaped from a similar struggle. Yes; it was 
 true that Tom Kuhler had founded this establishment; it 
 was true that the community was invaded by prostitute 
 women. The landlord was right to a certain degree — for 
 May Stanley herself had found many of them on the 
 street ; she also had said there were several other houses in 
 the neighborhood. Yes; this was all true enough. And 
 that these girls were trying to ensnare the students was 
 also true. Ah! but they did not always succeed. The 
 students went there to dance, just as he had done and to 
 enjoy themselves in a decent manner, and that was all. 
 He was not the only man in the university strong enough 
 to resist temptation; he was not so conceited as to believe 
 that. Of course he had seen other students whirling about 
 indecently in the dance, but had they also not seen him? 
 He even saw them ascend to the bedrooms above ; but what 
 of that? Had he not done the same thing? He had frus- 
 trated the designs of this pale creature; so had the others. 
 Yes; it all looked very wicked on the surface — but that 
 was all. The majority of students were straight and hon- 
 orable, however wicked they appeared and however black 
 the watchdog had painted them. Of that he was confident. 
 This Stanley girl — she tried hard to get their trade, to win 
 them over ; she was a frightful hussy. A new hatred began 
 to develop — a hatred for May Stanley. It was she who 
 was disgracing the university. But suppose he, Paul Mil- 
 ton, had a sister — a sister whom he loved as dearly as his 
 mother at Nor ford. What if she had been ruined by some 
 beast — a man like Tom Kuhler? Would he hate her also? 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY in 
 
 Whom would he blame — the girl or the man? He would 
 blame Kuhler of course. Why ? Because the girl was weak. 
 Because she could not hold back — as May Stanley put it. 
 And how about the man ? He was drunk ; he was "sweat- 
 ing wine." He too could have resisted had he been sober. 
 Why was he not sober? Because he had celebrated the 
 football victory. Football again! Football overdevelops 
 the body; it transforms men into husky beasts. It leaves 
 the mind inactive, inert. It makes animals — human animals 
 without power of reason to restrain the appetite which it 
 stimulates and vulgarizes by suppressing the spirit and ex- 
 tolling the flesh. That night Kuhler was a drunken brute — 
 nothing more. The girl, after all, was not to blame; she 
 was helpless. Had it been his own sister, he would have 
 killed Kuhler. But what chance had Milton against the 
 brute strength of this giant? None. Then beast was su- 
 perior to man ? No ; the beast could not even think. Phys- 
 ical strength without thought, without mental power — it is 
 only weakness. Man can think; he can proclaim; he can 
 expose ; he can condemn, destroy and annihilate with words 
 alone. What are blows compared to words ? What is mere 
 savage strength in the presence of civilization, rectitude and 
 pure thought? Nothing. Very well, Milton would under- 
 take to expose and condemn all. He would bark at the 
 evil. Bark ! Bark ? Ah, that is just what the watchdog had 
 done. After all, he would be lowering himself to the level of 
 one whose kennel he had just left — another brute like 
 Kuhler himself. 
 
 These thoughts kept pacing through Paul Milton's mind. 
 He tried to rearrange them, to alter them in order to arrive 
 at a new conclusion, but in vain. They would give him 
 no peace. The invisible hands alternately pushed him back- 
 ward and forward; the inaudible voice alternately said 
 "Act" and "Wait." Doubt — nothing but doubt — confronted 
 him. The tempest of thought was tossing his mind just as 
 May Stanley had tossed his body at the dance, and now, 
 more heartlessly than ever, some greater power was dashing 
 that body from one side of his bed to the other, for he 
 
112 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 seemed to have no more self-control than a fisherman's 
 smack on a raging sea. 
 
 Thus he suffered the whole night. The clock in the Chapel 
 tower struck twelve; then one — two — three — four. Why 
 had he not heard it strike five ? Had he fallen asleep ? No ; 
 but he was dreaming nevertheless. He had unconsciously 
 arisen from the bed and taken up his violin. And there he 
 sat in utter darkness, listening to those old melodies which 
 had so often calmed his soul : Schumann's Traumerei and 
 Schubert's Ave Maria. Barcarolles and cradle songs floated 
 out the window like pearls dropping one by one from a 
 silken cord, touching the silent earth, and then rebounding, 
 rising and wandering off through the darkness to meet 
 the dawn. 
 
 Agitation had vanished; repose had replaced it. The 
 darkness was gradually dispersed as the sky took on the 
 delicate glow of the June roses, which were blooming in 
 the garden of the Home for the Aged. Milton was still 
 playing his violin. The birds one after another had joined 
 him with their songs, twittering and frolicking among the 
 leafy branches which shaded his window. He ceased play- 
 ing to throw a few crumbs on the roof, and some of them 
 ate from his hand. Across the street, four of the dear old 
 ladies had already arisen and were sitting at their windows 
 breathing the fresh cool air mingled with the perfume from 
 the flowers on the sills. Their knitting needles reflected 
 the morning sunlight, and their faces beamed with joy. 
 After all, there is no great sorrow in being alone, as long 
 as the lonely one is good, as long as he is alone with God. 
 How happy these dear old women seemed as they smiled 
 out occasionally between the stems of the flowers at the 
 birds, which flew by their windows, or at the busy milk 
 wagons, which clicked against the white cobblestones ! Poor 
 sweet souls ! How they made him think of his mother at 
 home, and how he wished that he might borrow the wings 
 of the birds and fly to her window also ! 
 
 Miss Jones was out sweeping her pavement. She was 
 neatly dressed in a gray-and-white-striped gingham, drawn 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 113 
 
 in snugly at the waist with an immaculately clean apron. A 
 few ringlets of her bright golden hair showed here and 
 there under a lace boudoir cap with a bow of turquoise blue. 
 How it brightens our own existence, thought Paul, when 
 we entertain only good and clean thoughts about the per- 
 sons of the community in which we live! It makes us 
 young and happy no matter how far we have advanced in 
 years. Such was the impression Miss Jones made upon him 
 as she hummed the simple ditty, which was borne to his 
 ears on the wind. How pleasant it would be to live in her 
 house and be greeted by her smiling face every morning ! 
 
 Arch Coddington, up bright and early to take the exam- 
 ination for which Milton had prepared him, walked by on 
 his way to breakfast. He was whistling and twittering as 
 happily as the birds. He stopped for a moment at Miss 
 Jones' gate to have a friendly chat ; she plucked a rosebud 
 from her flower bed and placed it in his buttonhole. How 
 happy they seemed ! 
 
 Commencement was but a few days off, and he was 
 thinking of the honors and the prizes which would soon be' 
 his, of the bright blue sky and the glorious sun, which was 
 bathing the earth, the birds, the flowers, the whole univer- 
 sity and all its students in rich golden light; and he too 
 was just as happy as Miss Jones, who, after Coddington 
 left her, began to sweep more energetically and sing more 
 merrily than before. 
 
 "God's in his heaven ; all's right with the world !" 
 
 Milton was startled from his reverie; for he imagined 
 he had heard a dog bark behind him. It was Sweeny call- 
 ing to him through the tin chute and telling him to hurry 
 down to the dining room; the students were waiting for 
 breakfast. It was the first morning in four years that 
 Milton had overslept. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 VARIOUS KINDS OF LOVE 
 
 Commencement came. Paul Milton had earned enough, 
 through the bureau of self-help, to bring his mother from 
 Norford to the university. How happy she was to hear 
 from the lips of the president that her son had been the 
 recipient of honors, prizes, and a graduate scholarship ! And 
 as to his accepting it — she was even more encouraging in 
 regard to that than she had been when he was offered the 
 first free scholarship from "The Alumni." The "good and 
 great purpose" was gradually unfolding to her. She was 
 deeply impressed by the conferring of the higher degrees 
 and honoraries. The ceremony of the briUiantly colored 
 velvet hoods awakened in her a certain awe and reverence 
 for the great men over whose heads they were placed and 
 for the great accomplishments which had justified their 
 presentation. And she dared wonder if her own son might 
 some day be similarly decorated for a deed which he was 
 yet to perform. 
 
 Arch Coddington sat very near to Milton in the Chapel. 
 He had passed his condition examination successfully, as 
 he had all others by spending a little fortune on tutoring. 
 He too wore a similar cap and gown and had won the same 
 degree that was conferred upon Milton. Aside from Mil- 
 ton's prizes, there was no reward to differentiate between 
 his love and Coddington's hatred for scholarship. And in- 
 deed there were many other students there who had also 
 loved their books, but who had not even received prizes to 
 distinguish them from those who detested all kinds of 
 study. But the future, not the present, would decide the 
 real difference. Scholarship was, after all, the great thing. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 115 
 
 He would prove it so by his graduate work. As for the 
 pleasures and friends which Coddington had enjoyed, he 
 must now separate from them. But the books can be taken 
 with us, and the pleasures which they have afforded can 
 always be renewed. Milton therefore felt triumphant. 
 
 There was only one thing with which the widow had 
 been dissatisfied, and that was the miserable garret her son 
 had occupied; but he assured her he would stay there no 
 longer, for he intended to room across the street when he 
 returned in the fall — in the house of Miss Jones. 
 
 It was a happy mother and son who journeyed back to 
 the little cottage at Norford. The report of Paul Milton's 
 high standing had reached the town before him. His big 
 success in scholarship and his love for the Alma Mater 
 seemed to have obliterated all his unpleasant experience, for 
 the article which he contributed for publication in the Nor- 
 ford Post was gushing with praise and optimism. It spoke 
 very highly of both the scholastic and the moral standards, 
 stating that he had found university life clean and inspir- 
 ing — as clean and inspiring a life as a student could possibly 
 live after leaving it. The letter also announced his inten- 
 tion to return and continue his studies along mathematical 
 lines at the Graduate School. 
 
 Mr. Wallace Bennett read Milton's article in the daily 
 paper. It did not please him; it disgusted him. Such 
 optimism about the morals of the university always had dis- 
 gusted him. He knew only too well the general tendency 
 of all our universities to conceal the immorality they shelter. 
 He decided that one of two things must be: either condi- 
 tions had improved, or Paul Milton was blind to them. He 
 came to the conclusion that the boy, whom Allaine had 
 selected as a candidate for the free scholarship, was a total 
 failure in spite of the fact that he had captured all the 
 prizes in sight. He hadn't sent Paul Milton to the uni- 
 versity to win prizes; he had sent him there to save the 
 souls of the students, to make the university a cleaner 
 place, to make the lives of the students more upright. It 
 
ii6 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 would require more than saying they were upright to make 
 them so. 
 
 "Oh! hasn't Paul Milton done splendidly," said Allaine, 
 rushing into her father's library that morning and clapping 
 her hands. "We must reward him." 
 
 "Hasn't he been rewarded with his prizes from the 
 university ?" said the father. 
 
 "Yes, but the alumni — 'the Alumni' who sent him there 
 — they, too, should reward him," suggested Allaine. 
 
 "Ah, but he has not accomplished that for which we 
 have sent him, Allaine. He has either ignored it, or it has 
 escaped him. I am not claiming that the boy has lied, but 
 he certainly has been deceived. I refer to the matter of 
 morals, Allaine; he speaks too favorably of them. He has 
 evidently been shut up with his books most of the time and 
 has not been aware of the depravity which surrounded him. 
 By overlooking it, he has made it worse, not better; it will 
 continue to thrive undetected. I know that it exists; I 
 know it only too well, Allaine. I have my own experiences 
 and those of a hundred others for example and proof." 
 
 "But you yourself said it would require a true scholar 
 to undertake a reform," said Allaine. "Surely Paul Milton 
 has proved himself a true scholar." 
 
 "Yes — too much of a true scholar — a scholar and noth- 
 ing else." 
 
 "But he intends to return to the university. Perhaps he 
 knows more about the wrongs than you or I imagine he does. 
 After all, how could he have the courage to condemn the 
 very institution which has showered so many honors upon 
 him?" 
 
 "He deserved them, Allaine, and the very fact that he 
 earned them honestly would give weight to his opinions. A 
 true reformer never lies ! He speaks the truth and only the 
 truth, no matter what the cost." 
 
 "Well, perhaps he has not yet seen enough ; — he will see 
 more when he returns." 
 
 "He is returning to continue his studies in mathematics. 
 That is a very inhuman subject. With it he is more likely 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 117 
 
 to see less than he saw before ; it will hardly inspire him in 
 the matter of reform." 
 
 "Perhaps mathematics is only an excuse for his going 
 back, his real purpose being to agitate a reform," said 
 Allaine. 
 
 "How you do insist ! Then you think we should give 
 him another chance ? 
 
 "Yes, father, do not give up so soon. As long as he is 
 returning to the university, there is still hope. I may be 
 wrong, but I feel certain that Paul Milton has seen the con- 
 ditions you have mentioned to me. Something tells me he 
 knows there is need of reform, but that he is not ready to 
 undertake it — but he will undertake it eventually. After 
 all. Father, we mentioned nothing of this to him when he 
 first left ; we never as much as whispered the word reform 
 in his ear." 
 
 "No ; it is God, not man, who whispers that word in the 
 ear of the reformer. It is nonsense to try to make a re- 
 former ; reformers are born, Allaine. The desire to reform 
 their fellow-men is innate; it needs but some event, some 
 vision to awaken it — something to set the strings vibrating 
 — the strings in the heart which is ready to bleed for 
 humanity." 
 
 "Perhaps what he has seen has not come close enough 
 to his own heart; perhaps he is waiting for something to 
 strike it and wound it ; perhaps he is still in doubt, awaiting 
 the final impetus." 
 
 "You are not going to give up, are you, Allaine?" 
 
 "No; I think we should help him more than we have. 
 It may be that he lacks courage, that he has no fellow-re- 
 former to spur him on." 
 
 "Who spured Emerson on to say the things which have 
 been handed down to us?" 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed Allaine suddenly. "Why not present 
 him with a set of Emerson just Hke ours? Think how they 
 have helped us and how they will help him!" 
 
 "Great, Allaine!" 
 
 "And let them come from The Alumni' again, in recog- 
 
ii8 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 nition of the good work which he has done with the schol- 
 arship," said she. 
 
 "A capital idea !" 
 
 "He loves books; and in these he will find the strength 
 and the encouragement he needs. You have grown impa- 
 tient, Father; learn to wait. It will come; it must come. 
 God is preparing him, slowly but victoriously." 
 
 AUaine's words indeed awakened a new hope in Wal- 
 lace Bennett. She had again helped Paul Milton, although 
 he never knew it, for the set of Emerson was expressed to 
 him a few days later "from The Alumni." 
 
 That summer the Bennetts remained in Norford, and 
 an old college chum of Mr. Bennett's spent several weeks 
 at Willow Lodge. He was Richard Hollis, and he was ac- 
 companied by his boy, Harold. They had just returned 
 from a two-years sojourn in France and Italy. Mr. Hollis 
 had resorted to European travel as a means for alleviating 
 the grief which his wife's death had occasioned both him 
 and his son. 
 
 Harold HolHs was a very brilliant young man. He had 
 graduated from preparatory school and had passed all his 
 entrance requirements for college. He had taken a few 
 textbooks with him in his journey abroad that he might 
 refresh his memory now and then, for it was decided that 
 he enter the university in the fall. 
 
 The boy had taken only a general interest in "prep" 
 school athletics and was not a highly specialized punting- 
 machine ; his physique had been symmetrically and normally 
 developed. There was something incomparably clean about 
 his general appearance, and his manner was upright and 
 manly. His eyes were clear, and his teeth were not stained 
 by tobacco. His complexion was ruddy. He was naturally 
 handsome; his handsomeness was not the work of a ton- 
 sorial artist. Mr. Bennett had not failed to notice this, and 
 he took a great liking to the boy almost immediately. 
 
 The face of Richard Hollis was not characterized by 
 that clearness and openness which at once attracted our 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 119 
 
 attention to the face of his son. There were in it some lines 
 — inconspicuous perhaps — which were indicative of a looser 
 and less abstemious youth. It was probably the deceased 
 mother who had started Harold on a straighter path. The 
 father's views on morals were expounded one afternoon on 
 the veranda in a conversation between him and his class- 
 mate. 
 
 "Well, Dick, what do you think about existing conditions 
 at the university today ?" asked Mr. Bennett, whose interest 
 in Paul Milton's reform had been rekindled by Allaine's 
 suggestions. "I mean morally — student life in general." 
 
 "The conditions are just the same as they were when we 
 were undergraduates," said Mollis, shaking the ashes from 
 his cigar. "They will always be such." 
 'Why always?" 
 
 "Because they will grow neither better nor worse; all 
 attempts to reform them are futile." 
 
 "What makes you think so?" inquired Wallace Bennett. 
 "Well, we can do a heap of talking and writing trying 
 to ameliorate them, but after all, boys will be boys. It 
 doesn't improve them to be everlastingly harping on what 
 they should be and on what they shouldn't do. You will 
 find in the end they are just where they were in the begin- 
 ning. I firmly believe in letting each boy take care of him- 
 self. If he wants to smoke, let him smoke; if he wants 
 to drink, let him drink; if, when he grows old enough, he 
 wants a mistress, I wouldn't offer any serious objections 
 to that, although I would tell him to be careful. In fact I 
 have said these things to Harold since his mother's death. 
 She had always preached to him against intemperance and 
 immorality. He is a fine upright boy, but I believe he would 
 have turned out to be that without his mother's sermons. 
 It is a mother's right, of course, to rear her children as she 
 wills, but I myself would certainly allow a boy to do pretty 
 much as he pleased. I believe Harold denies himself those 
 pleasures in which all his friends indulge." 
 
 "You are wrong, Dick, in trying to weaken his mother's 
 influence. I think you should persuade the boy to keep 
 
120 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 away from all habits which will eventually cheapen his char- 
 acter," said Mr. Bennett. 
 
 "Well, see here, Wallace," continued HoUis, "what if 
 I should refuse him such pleasures? He would probably 
 indulge in them secretly if he so wished, and there would 
 be nothing honorable in that. But let your son know that 
 you feel indifferent toward his conduct, and he acts on his 
 own responsibility which means far more to him than acting 
 on the combined responsibilities of both his parents. The 
 boy who has gone through these things and learned his les- 
 son is, I believe, a whole lot better off than a milksop. Ex- 
 perience is the best teacher. These things are a part of 
 life, and while they seem to degrade us temporarily, yet, 
 in the end we are stronger for having undergone them. 
 There is seldom any serious damage done. The modern 
 play which transforms our theatre into a medical laboratory 
 seems to me pretty much of a farce. It's a new idea — that's 
 all. The object is simply a commercial one, although it is 
 described as sociological." 
 
 "I believe they are doing much good," argued Bennett. 
 
 "There's not much good to be done. The reports on suf- 
 fering from venereal diseases are frightfully exaggerated 
 nowadays. If a man is at all careful, he avoids all contami- 
 nation, and even if he does get caught up, he can be cured, 
 and the chances are it will never affect his children. Now to 
 come down to the fine point, Bennett, take your case and 
 mine. God knows we were wild enough. I hope Harold uses 
 just a Httle better judgment. And yet with all our carousing 
 and our intercourse with the lowest types of women, what 
 has been the outcome ? There it is down on the court." 
 
 Allaine had promised Harold to play tennis that morn- 
 ing. They were both dressed in white; he in a soft silk 
 shirt, flannels and buckskin shoes; she in a simple flowing 
 skirt and a waist which exposed her snowy throat to the 
 wind and the sun. Both of them moved about the court 
 very gracefully, the brilliant sunlight accentuating the white- 
 ness of their attire against the dark green hedges in the 
 background. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 121 
 
 "Your girl and my boy," continued Richard Mollis, "look 
 at them — both of them immaculate — both of them without 
 a blemish — both of them paragons of purity. Two swans 
 floating on a silver lake would not present a finer picture, 
 as far as graceful perfect bodies are concerned." 
 
 Bennett nodded; "we have much to be thankful for. 
 God has been merciful to us." 
 
 "He is merciful to nine out of every ten perhaps," 
 added Hollis. "That is what leads me to beHeve that He 
 doesn't take it so seriously as we do. And as for the un- 
 lucky one — ^well, it gives the doctors something to quack 
 about. They like to bring themselves into the limelight too, 
 just as much as men in other professions do." 
 
 "But think if you had been the unlucky one! Think if 
 that boy down there had been born with it! Think if your 
 sins had polluted his blood !" 
 
 "I am not looking for trouble, Bennett; I don't care to 
 think of matters as being any worse than they are." 
 
 **But have you no sympathy, no consideration for the 
 unlucky devil who doesn't escape? Don't you think he 
 should also concern us? Don't you think we should con- 
 sider our children's children as well as our own? Who 
 knows but that there may be a trace of it in the boy my 
 daughter should marry, or in the girl your son should take 
 to wife? If it appeared in their offspring, we would cer- 
 tainly regret it, even though we ourselves were not the 
 source of it." 
 
 "You look too far ahead, Wallace; why don't you look 
 at the more cheerful side of life, and try to know that these 
 things will turn out all right?" 
 
 "The fact that God, after all my abuse of his powers, 
 has blessed me with so clean a child as AUaine makes me 
 feel that I owe Him something in return." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "That I cannot be too careful in the examination of the 
 man who selects her — that I shall in no way expose her to 
 the slightest infection which might mar her future hap- 
 piness." 
 
122 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 "Well, I hadn't thought of it heretofore, but just now 
 it occurs to me that a marriage between our two children 
 would relieve both of us of that anxiety and investigation. 
 I am sure that you and I, as old college chums, would not 
 object to the union," added Richard Mollis smiling. 
 
 "Decidedly not;" said Bennett, "if Allaine wins a hus- 
 band as clean as Harold, I know I shall be happy the rest 
 of my days." 
 
 "And I couldn't hope for a more charming daughter-in- 
 law." 
 
 "Of course the two children must also be satisfied with 
 each other," said Bennett. 
 
 "Well, it looks to me as though the tournament down 
 there on the tennis court might end up in a love game," 
 said HolHs. 
 
 Just then Mrs. Bennett joined them. 
 
 "I am so delighted with Allaine," she said. "I have 
 never seen her make up with boys before. There must be 
 some magic charm about your son, Mr. Hollis. It is rarely 
 if ever that she even looks at a man. I am so glad Harold 
 has been able to draw her out of the library. Wouldn't it 
 be interesting if something should come of this?'* 
 
 "Wouldn't it though," said Mr. Hollis. 
 
 "It is not impossible; and it is not improbable," said 
 Bennett. 
 
 And that evening at dinner Allaine Bennett and Har- 
 old Hollis were being closely watched by their parents, al- 
 though they were almost unaware of the presence of the 
 seniors. 
 
 That night after Mr. Hollis had retired, his son entered 
 from an adjoining room in his pajamas and sat on the edge 
 of the father's bed. 
 
 "Say, Dad," whispered Harold, for he thought that his 
 father might be asleep, and he did not wish to waken him. 
 
 "What is it, Harold?" 
 
 "I've got a confession to make." 
 
 "A confession I" 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 123 
 
 "Yes," said the boy, glad that the room was dark, for he 
 felt himself blushing. 
 
 "Well, out with it, my son." 
 
 "I believe I'm in love." 
 
 The father sat up in bed. 
 
 "You believe it ! Why don't you know it ?" 
 
 "I know it too," said Harold, with assurance. 
 
 "Good! who is the lucky girl?" 
 
 "Miss Bennett," answered the boy, his voice wavering. 
 "She is beautiful — ^beautiful not only in appearance but 
 also in personality. I love her; I simply can't help it. I 
 wish to be at her side all the time; I am unhappy when I 
 am not with her^I am somewhat ashamed of myself." 
 
 "It's nothing to be ashamed of, my boy; for Allaine is 
 a charming girl, and if I were a little younger, I might try 
 to cut you out." 
 
 "You like her, then ; do you Dad ?" 
 
 "Certainly; who wouldn't like her?" 
 
 "And you wouldn't object to having her for a daughter?" 
 
 "Don't be too previous, Harold. Remember you can't 
 marry until you are out of college." 
 
 "Four years!" groaned Harold. 
 
 "Four years," repeated Mr. Hollis. 
 
 "It is a long time, but I can wait," added the youth in 
 a brighter vein. "If I felt sure I could have her, I would 
 study all the harder and try to do something big — something 
 that would make me worthy of her. And the thought that she 
 would ultimately be mine would always keep me straight." 
 
 "I believe it would," said the father. "She is a very 
 sweet girl, but at the same time you must not let her blot 
 everything else out of your life." 
 
 "Just what do you mean. Dad ?" 
 
 "Don't get the idea into your head that you must be- 
 come a saint; don't consider yourself tied down until you 
 are married." 
 
 "Well," said the boy, as he arose from the bed, "I am 
 glad I told you about it. I think I shall feel some better 
 now — at least I hope so. Good night." 
 
124 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 There was a similar scene enacted almost simultaneously 
 across the hall that night. Mr. Bennett, in his bath robe 
 and slippers, had crossed to AUaine's chamber. He rapped 
 lightly and then entered. AUaine had not yet retired. 
 
 "Well, how do you like your house guest, Allaine ?" 
 
 ''My house guest! Your house guests," she said. 
 
 "How is the tennis progressing ?" he asked. 
 
 "Not very well for me. Father; we are to play another 
 set tomorrow.'" 
 
 "That's good," said Mr. Bennett. 
 
 Then both of them were silent for a few seconds. 
 
 "I have come to find out if you are interested in Mr. 
 Hollis' son, because I have taken a great liking to him, 
 Allaine." 
 
 '*He is good fun," said Allaine, "and a natural gentle- 
 man." 
 
 "You seem to enjoy his company." 
 
 "He is most pleasant," answered the girl. 
 
 "Allaine," said Mr. Bennett, placing his hands on her 
 shoulders and looking squarely into her eyes, "tell me 
 frankly — do you love him?" 
 
 "Oh Father!" she exclaimed with a smile, "it is not so 
 serious as that. Mr. Hollis is your guest, and for that rea- 
 son I feel it my duty to do what I can to entertain him. It 
 is one way in which I can show my love for you. And here 
 is another." 
 
 She threw her arms about his neck and kissed him. 
 
 "There; good night. Father." 
 
 "Good night, my little daughter." 
 
 And after he left her and closed the door, she sat at 
 the open window, gazing sadly at the willow trees in the 
 moonlit garden and wondering if her love for her father 
 might not, perhaps, be greater than her love for Paul Milton. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE GRADUATE STUDENT 
 
 In the early part of the summer, Paul Milton glanced 
 through some of the books with which "The Alumni" had 
 presented him, but he found them very dry reading indeed 
 — not even a triangle or a polygon or a parabola to break the 
 monotony of hundreds of pages of solid print. 
 
 "Why did they present me with a set of Emerson," said 
 he to his mother, "when they knew I was going to continue 
 my studies along mathematical lines? They would have 
 done better to have given me a set of textbooks in Higher 
 Mathematics, or the money with which to buy them." 
 
 When Paul returned to the university, he left the Emer- 
 sons on a shelf in the little studio under the roof, and there 
 they remained unread and unopened. 
 
 On his arrival in town, he went directly to Miss Jones' 
 house. In an instant she was standing before him — the same 
 happy Miss Jones whom he had seen from the window of 
 Mr. Sweeny's garret in June. How different she appeared 
 from the landlady whose fat steaming hand had placed the 
 food on the "dummy." His graduate scholarship was suf- 
 ficient to pay for his room and board. He would no longer 
 have to wait on Mrs. Sweeny's tables or shovel coal for the 
 watchdog. How happy he was that he would never again 
 meet that snarling face ! Only the kind smiling countenance 
 of Miss Jones would greet him as he passed in the hall. 
 
 "Have you any rooms for rent?" asked Milton. 
 
 "No," said the landlady, "all the rooms in my house are 
 reserved by contract at least a year in advance." 
 
 Milton had never thought to engage a room beforehand. 
 He had been accustomed to living in a garret, which no 
 
126 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 other student would care to occupy. He thought he could 
 find an empty attic room in any house at any time. 
 
 "I am very sorry I did not make arrangements with you 
 last June. I had hoped so much to live in this house. I 
 am not particular about location or size. I simply want a 
 room — a room of any kind — a room under the roof." 
 
 "Well," remarked the landlady, with pretended hesi- 
 tancy, "I have a small room in the attic, which has never 
 been occupied. Perhaps I could furnish it so that it might 
 be comfortable although not very elegant. Would you like 
 to see the room ?" 
 
 "Please," said Milton. 
 
 "Just place your suitcase here in the hall," said Miss 
 Jones. 
 
 Milton bounded up the stairs. On the third landing, she 
 unlatched a door, which opened into a small room where 
 several odd pieces of furniture stood in one corner. 
 
 "You would be the only one on this floor," she said. 
 "You might find it rather lonesome up here." 
 
 "Not at all," answered Milton, as he stood on one of 
 the chairs to look out at the garret across the street, heav- 
 ing a sigh of reHef. 
 
 "The windows are rather high," remarked Miss Jones. 
 
 "They are ideal windows for a study," said Milton. 
 "One is not Hkely to be peering out of them all the time, 
 seeing things which detract one from one's books." 
 
 "Yes, and at the same time they admit lots of sunlight. 
 The room is always very bright, both in morning and after- 
 noon. I shall get you a little gas-stove in winter. When 
 furnished it will be very cheerful." 
 
 "What is the rental?" inquired Milton. 
 
 "Well, I hadn't thought of that. You see the room has 
 never been rented before, and I don't know just what to 
 ask. But there is no hurry about that. First see if you 
 like it, and then pay me what you think it is worth." 
 
 Imagine Mr. Sweeny renting a room on these conditions ! 
 Milton told Miss Jones he thought her too kind, but he de- 
 cided to take the room. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 127 
 
 "You used to live across the street, I believe," said the 
 landlady, as they were descending the stairs. 
 
 "Yes ; for four years," said Milton. 
 
 "You are accustomed to garrets then." 
 
 Miss Jones had observed more about the neighborhood 
 than Mr. Sweeny had imagined. 
 
 "I used to see you occasionally at your window over 
 there," she continued, "and I have heard every note you 
 ever played on your violin. I would sit for hours listening 
 to your music. Once last June just before Commencement 
 it seemed you played until daybreak. Your music fasci- 
 nates, entrances ; you play with so much feeling and soul. 
 In particular the aria from Saint-Saens — Mon coeur s'ourve 
 a ta voix — you interpret that so wonderfully. One could 
 almost believe your violin possessed with a human voice. 
 It stirs one up so. When you play that aria, it thrills me 
 through and through." 
 
 They had reached the door. Milton held out his hand. 
 
 "I shall have the room ready for you this evening," said 
 the landlady. 
 
 "I know I shall live happily here," said Milton. 
 
 He hurried to the office of the dean of the Graduate 
 School to submit his course of study for the coming year. 
 The schedule was a rather severe one — so the professor 
 thought, but at the same time he had no doubt of Milton 
 being able to carry it. 
 
 Then he walked across the campus, passing the dear old 
 buildings, to whose walls the richly colored vines seemed 
 to cling so lovingly. Nothing had changed : everything was 
 the same. He was back again at the grand old university 
 to continue the studies and learning which would eventually 
 lead him to "the good and great purpose." 
 
 The average student who, after graduation, returns to 
 his Alma Mater to pursue higher courses in the Graduate 
 School feels lost without the companions of his preceding 
 years. Some have gone east, some west, some north, some 
 south ; but the change in the nature of their new occupations 
 leads them to expect a change in their surroundings and 
 
128 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 associates, to which they at once become accustomed. The 
 graduate student, however, finds himself in the same sur- 
 roundings and interested in work very similar to that which 
 formerly occupied his mind, and unlike the man just out of 
 college, he feels that he should see the famiHar faces of his 
 senior days. He passes the dormitory and looks in vain for 
 his roommate to "stick his head out the window." He even 
 calls out the name, but there is no answer. If a face ap- 
 pears at all, it is the face of a stranger — one that does not 
 belong there — one which makes him feel sadder than had 
 no face appeared at all. He goes to his old boarding house 
 and finds the undergraduates at lunch. He knows a man 
 here and a man there perhaps, but does not feel at home 
 among them. He enters the tavern and sits down at a 
 table — the same table round which his chums and he used 
 to gather and listen to many a good story while the waiter 
 was ''filling 'em up." Where are these friends — these dear 
 ones? Gone. Through half-closed eyes he sees their faces 
 faintly outlined in the smoke which meanders from his 
 pipe, but he knows it is all a dream from which he must 
 awaken to find himself alone. 
 
 Paul Milton suffered none of this. He had made no 
 bosom friends. He had frequented no taverns. He had, 
 of course, waited on Mr. Sweeny's tables, but the students 
 whom he served changed from year to year, and there were 
 no strong ties between him and them. Arch Coddington 
 was perhaps the only one with whom he had come in close 
 contact outside of the classrooms, but Arch could scarcely 
 be called Milton's friend, although Arch did much to open 
 his eyes — eyes which immediately closed again on the 
 scenes which had passed before them. It seemed that Arch 
 had entered his Hfe to perform a secular duty by intro- 
 ducing him to certain phases of the college world, and 
 had then passed out — passed out with Milton's own assist- 
 ance. Milton was indeed happy that Coddington was no 
 longer at the university ; for his presence would only serve 
 to recall experiences which Milton was only too willing to 
 forget. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 129 
 
 When he returned to his new quarters that evening, he 
 found the room transformed as if by magic. There was a 
 briUiant Hght burning on the wall, just over a firm-looking 
 oak desk which had a row of drawers at either side. A 
 soft green rug had been placed in the middle of the floor, 
 and a very comfortable Morris chair had been drawn up 
 invitingly before a little stove, which was diffusing both 
 light and heat. A cot stood under the windows, its gayly 
 colored couch-cover turned back and disclosing a pair of 
 white sheets and a soft downy pillow. How different it 
 was from Mr. Sweeny's garret with its old rag carpet, its 
 broken table and lamp, and its twisted iron bed with the 
 sagging springs ! 
 
 Milton fell into the Morris chair. He could scarcely 
 believe that the little room was for his sole use. What a 
 wonderful place to work and study ! How much good he 
 would accomplish there! He stretched out comfortably 
 that he might enjoy the warmth of the little stove against 
 his legs and knees. How good it felt! How superior to 
 the tin chute which conducted the fumes from Mrs. 
 Sweeny's kitchen! It was like the sunlight of a Spring 
 morning beaming across a soft grassy meadow — for the 
 bright green rug did look like one. 
 
 It was a chilly, fall night outside, but it was Spring in- 
 deed in Milton's cozy little room — the beginning of another 
 year — the opening of a bud, which would later develop into 
 a marvelous flower, rare, wonderful, great. He sat there 
 dreaming of his future. He could see that bud opening: 
 he could see each petal unfold and assume its true form 
 and position, each petal symbolizing a different event, an 
 experience, an achievement — some dark, others bright, but 
 all combining to make the final blossom which would greatly 
 enhance the university and become the admiration of the 
 alumni. That is what his professor had said when he 
 offered him the free graduate scholarship. Yes ; he would 
 work hard to assure them that they had made no mistake 
 in their selection. He would study day and night, and would 
 let nothing interfere with **the good and great purpose." 
 
130 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 There was a light tap on the door. 
 
 "Come," said Milton. 
 
 Miss Jones entered. Milton arose to greet her. 
 
 "I just came up to ask you how you liked it — the room," 
 she said ; and then she sat down in the rocker which he had 
 pulled up for her. 
 
 "I am almost afraid it is too good for me," he answered, 
 taking his chair again. "It is so much better than what I 
 was accustomed to last year. But how about the rent. Miss 
 Jones?" 
 
 "Let us not make that so impwDrtant a matter. Let us 
 wait. You have not been here long enough. You see it 
 really did not cost me anything to furnish it. The desk, 
 the rug, the cot, the chairs, the pillows — all were left here 
 by former students. The boys usually give me their furni- 
 ture when they leave college. The gas you burn is practic- 
 ally the only expense, and that will be a trifle." 
 
 "Then I have much to be thankful for, both to former 
 students and to you," said Paul. 
 
 "Yes ; I believe in treating every one nicely and kindly ; 
 then they treat me in just the same way. I have always 
 enjoyed living in the midst of students. They seem to 
 brighten things up so much, and they are such perfect gen- 
 tlemen. These reports we here about the terrible condi- 
 tions at the university are not only exaggerated but many 
 of them are false. I couldn't ask for the company of nicer 
 young men than those who have lived with me the last few 
 years. We have been more Hke mother and sons. They 
 have done everything they possibly could to make me happy, 
 and I have done all I possibly could to make them, the 
 same." 
 
 "Indeed I believe that, when I see what you have already 
 done for me. I hope I shall be able to return this kindness 
 in some way." 
 
 "I am happy so long as you are satisfied," she added, 
 walking toward the door. "I don't want to keep you longer 
 from your work." 
 
 "I have nothing to do tonight but to unpack my suitcase." 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 131 
 
 "Oh yes — your suitcase; I carried it up for you. You 
 will find it there in the closet." 
 
 Milton opened the _door of a spacious closet, which he 
 had not yet observed. 
 
 "What a fine place for one's clothes !" he exclaimed. 
 
 "I shall get more hooks if you need them," said Miss 
 Jones. 
 
 He placed the suitcase on the desk, and two large red 
 apples rolled out when he opened it. 
 
 "My mother gave me these before I left home; won't 
 you have one ?" 
 
 "Thank you; you had better keep them for yourself," 
 she said, "and if you care for more, you will always find 
 a basketful in the hall. I keep them there for my boys, and 
 you are one of them now. You are all welcome to fruit 
 whenever you wish it." 
 
 Milton wondered if it were a real landlady before him; 
 she was almost too kind. 
 
 "I do hope you won't get lonesome," she added, with her 
 hand on the knob. 
 
 "No indeed ; I am accustomed to being alone." 
 
 "You are quite sure there is nothing else you need or 
 want?" 
 
 "I am perfectly comfortable," he answered. 
 
 She hesitated a moment on the threshold, then bade him 
 good night. A half hour later he was sound asleep on the cot 
 under the windows, in his own little world among the stars. 
 
 The next morning Paul arose bright and early in prepa- 
 ration for his first lecture. The subject-matter interested 
 him intensely. He took notes copiously and then hurried 
 down town to purchase material and tools for the construc- 
 tion of conies. The professor had said that, in solving the 
 problems, the students would frequently have to draw 
 ellipses and parabolas and that it would save time if they 
 made, once for all, a set of these from wood or celluloid 
 and ran their pencils or pens around them when the prob- 
 lem called for a figure. He procured celluloid and sand- 
 
132 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 paper, and a file at the drug-store ; and then he returned to 
 his study. 
 
 He found the room in order, the colored cushions ar- 
 ranged artistically on the cot. He had been obliged to make 
 his own bed at Mr. Sweeny's. 
 
 He sat at his oak desk and immediately began to make 
 the conies, using the string constructions which he had 
 learned in his freshman year. He traced the curves care- 
 fully upon the sheet of celluloid, cut the pieces from it, at 
 first roughly with his knife, then filed ofif the rough corners 
 and finally sandpapered them down until the outlines were 
 smooth and accurate. It seemed more like play than work. 
 It is so with every task in which we are sincerely interested. 
 He fondled the complete conies with joy, for they were in- 
 deed beautiful and beautifully made. 
 
 He used them throughout the year. These, together with 
 the triangles, compasses and rulers he had used in his 
 course in Mechanical Drawing, enabled him to insert very 
 neat drawings in his notes, which he rearranged and copied 
 after each lecture. When he had written enough to form a 
 book, he had the notes bound in cloth and placed on his 
 book-shelf among the works of the great mathematicians. 
 Each new volume indicated another step forward — another 
 petal unfolding in the bud. 
 
 His schedule was a heavy one. He had much to keep 
 him occupied. He took most interest, however, in those 
 studies which were geometrical in nature. 
 
 The Differential Geometry — the works of Scheffers, 
 Bianchi, Joachimstahl, Czuber and Serret all appealed to 
 him. Curvature, contact, invariants, trajectories, envelopes, 
 evolutes, differential equations, Fldchentreue Abbildung 
 isothermals, skew curves, Fremet's formulae, torsion, the 
 osculating helix, developables, the theorems of Gauss and 
 Euler, the indicatrices of Dupin — all these topics followed 
 in rapid succession, each in turn attracting his attention and 
 deepest admiration. 
 
 This was also true of the Projective Geometry. He 
 would sit at his desk for hours entranced by the new con- 
 
. THE NEW FRATERNITY 133 
 
 ceptions: the line at infinity and its relation to the three 
 types of conies he had constructed, cross ratio, correlations 
 — the wonderful duality between line and point geometry. 
 He amused himself one whole afternoon writing corre- 
 sponding theorems in parallel colums — theorems of Carnot, 
 Ceva, Pascal, etc. 
 
 These courses gradually prepared him for more ad- 
 vanced work, which would ultimately lead to a thesis and 
 a degree — perhaps. Geometry was his stronghold — the 
 favorite branch to which he clung. Later he became fas- 
 cinated with the cubic surfaces. How often he stood before 
 the case which contained the famous Brill Collection of 
 plaster models, viewing them from all angles, counting the 
 Hues, the nodes and the binodes ! He loved to hold them 
 in his hands just as a child loves to hold a pretty kitten 
 in its lap. 
 
 The ruled surfaces, illustrated by the thread models, 
 seemed to fascinate him most. He wanted to have them 
 near all the time, that he might see and enjoy them. It was 
 for this reason that he undertook to construct some of his 
 own. He purchased cardboard, went to the planing mill 
 and ordered a load of lumber — just a small load — a bundle 
 of small square sticks, which he sandpapered and then 
 painted with drawing ink. He also bought brass tacks, a 
 small hammer and a saw. He went to the department store 
 and selected several spools of colored silk, some needles, a 
 package of black beads and a package of white ones; the 
 girl behind the counter snickered at him, but he was too 
 much absorbed to notice it. He hurried home, worked 
 out the equations of the traces of the surfaces made by 
 parallel planes; plotted these traces on the cardboards, 
 which were held apart and in place by the small wooden 
 sticks. Then he threaded the needles with various shades 
 of silk and strung it through the perforations in the card- 
 board ; and where two threads intersected, he placed a 
 bead, just as the original model had instructed him to 
 do. His work was very successful. The models with 
 their glossy silk threads sparkled in the sunshine, which 
 
134 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 poured through the high windows and flooded his desk with 
 light. 
 
 His room had now become a workshop and a study ; 
 for he did no small amount of hammering and sawing and 
 needlework. One of his professors gave him several prints 
 of famous mathematicians — Klein, Cay ley, Kummer, Lo- 
 batchefsky, Riemann, Sylvester, Darboux; he tacked them 
 on the walls where they served him as inspiration. He was 
 happy — extremely happy — as he sat and mused and planned 
 and worked and thought there alone in his cozy little study 
 among his pictures, his models and his books. 
 
 What had become of his violin ? Alas ! he had forgot- 
 ten it. The case was under his bed, and in it lay the mute 
 instrument, which he had once loved so well. It had ceased 
 to vibrate, ceased to sing to him. Cayley, Salmon, Grass- 
 mann and Clebsch had put Moskowski, Schubert, Wagner 
 and Beethoven to flight; Barcarolles, sonatas, operas and 
 Spanish dances had been superseded by congruences, cy- 
 clides, matrices and integrals. 
 
 Miss Jones listened in vain for her favorite aria from 
 Saint-Saens, but never a note came from the room overhead. 
 Had it not been that Milton went out for his meals, she 
 would have all reason to believe that he had passed away. 
 "The boy has gone insane," she would murmur to herself 
 as she glanced at the thread models when moving them to 
 dust his desk. ''All he does is build and study these mouse 
 traps." Once she opened a volume of his notes, trying to 
 read what he had written. To her it was like so much 
 Greek — and all these mysterious figures he drew in the text ! 
 "The boy is mad." Then she saw an hyperbolic paraboloid 
 drawn with the Z axis horizontal and the X axis vertical : 
 "A pair of corsets !" she exclaimed. "Ah," she sighed, 
 "there's still hope for him — his thoughts are human once 
 in a while." 
 
 Miss Jones was quite right : Milton was insane. He 
 had become a monomaniac, and his mania was geometry. 
 He thought geometry all the time he was walking, talking, 
 eating, sleeping. He was interested in anything geometrical. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 135 
 
 He avoided everything else, unless his imagination could 
 transform it into some configuration with which he had 
 already met in his work. He always walked alone, select- 
 ing the least frequented streets and alHes; these streets to 
 his mind formed a system of orthogonal trajectories. The 
 telegraph wires became a pencil of lines with its vertex at 
 infinity; the buildings along the streets, polyhedrons; the 
 church steeple became an octagonal pyramid, and its large 
 colored glass window became a system of polar coordinates ; 
 the trunks of trees became cyHnders ; the limbs became skew 
 curves of higher order, on which he sought to locate cusps 
 and nodes ; the outlines of the leaves became cardioids and 
 other well-known loci; the birds in the air described lem- 
 niscates and conchoids ; in the flowers he saw roulettes ; 
 the fountain in the park became a paraboloid of revolution. 
 At dinner, the plates became circles; the peas became 
 spheres ; the butter became cubes ; the doughnuts became 
 cyclides ; the crullers became helices ; the buns became sur- 
 faces with a double Hne; the piece of pie became a sixty- 
 degree sector. The boy was geometry-mad. He saw geom- 
 etry in everything — in everything except humanity, and in 
 humanity he saw nothing. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 WHEN ONE STUDIES HARD ENOUGH ONE BEGINS 
 TO SEE THINGS 
 
 There was nothing extraordinary about Paul Milton's 
 insanity. We are all more or less insane at times ; we have 
 some mad hobby or other in which we become so completely 
 absorbed as to forget about those persons in whose very 
 midst we live. We continue existing in this state until some- 
 thing occurs — something which suddenly awakens us from 
 our futile dream and brings us back to our senses. 
 
 Paul Milton had even forgotten about his mother. He 
 walked by her letters on the table in the hall. Miss Jones 
 had to bring them to his room, where they would sometimes 
 remain on his desk for several days unread. But the widow 
 was never disturbed because he did not write frequently. 
 Her husband had often become so enwrapped working over 
 his musical manuscript that at times he seemed to ignore 
 her, but love her the more ardently after he came out of 
 his trance. She knew well the trend of genius ; and her son's 
 seeming negligence was, after all, natural and necessary. 
 
 Paul knew there were other students rooming in the same 
 house, but he had never spoken with any of them. Why 
 should he seek their acquaintance? Their conversation 
 would be absolutely ungeometrical. 
 
 Furthermore, why should they care to know him ? They 
 would pass on the stairs and in that way were occasionally 
 reminded of the fact that some graduate student did his 
 "grinding" up there in the attic. As long as that "grinding" 
 ' did not interfere with their affairs, why take notice of him? 
 Thus Miss Jones was the only one who spoke to him as 
 he went to or came from his lectures. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 137 
 
 Aside from his professors, there were only two persons 
 with whom Milton cared to converse : the two graduate stu- 
 dents who were taking the same courses as he. All three 
 of them ate at the same table in the boarding house and 
 talked of nothing but geometry across their plates. The 
 other students were bored to distraction, but the three geom- 
 eters appeared totally unaware of the disgust and the ridi- 
 cule they were provoking. More than once Milton left the 
 table without having tasted his food. The old colored 
 waiter wondered how the boy existed and used to stand 
 dumbfounded by the figures which he formed with knives, 
 forks and spoons to illustrate the theorems he was proving 
 to his fellow-maniacs. 
 
 Milton remained in his room every evening save one — 
 one in every two weeks. Then he would attend the fort- 
 nightly meetings of the Mathematical Club. The papers 
 presented at these meetings were usually beyond him, but 
 he seldom left the lecture without having acquired a half 
 dozen or so new conceptions, and he used to walk home 
 alone, often repeating to himself the theorems he had 
 learned. 
 
 One night, returning from the Club, he was ascending the 
 stairs to his room when he saw a white form glide across the 
 hall. The hall was only dimly lighted by the reflection from 
 the lamp on the lower floor. The white form had come out 
 of the landlady's room. Aside from his geometry, this 
 vision was the only thing in several months which had at- 
 tracted his attention. He was still thinking about it when 
 he reached his room. He concluded at first that it was 
 merely an hallucination, for he had been working very hard 
 over his books that afternoon. But even if it were not an 
 hallucination, he decided not to be disturbed, for it might 
 have been none other than Miss Jones herself, however 
 much it resembled one of her students. 
 
 But, two weeks later when he was returning from the 
 meeting of the Club, he met with the same vision and ob- 
 served quite clearly that it was a student in white pajamas — 
 and not Miss Jones — who had come out of her room. 
 
138 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 This time he could not easily forget the incident. Was 
 the relation of the landlady, after all, that of mother and 
 sons? He hated to think of it as anything else. Even 
 though he knew a boy had left Miss Jones' room — even 
 though he had touched him in passing, he wanted to believe 
 it another hallucination. He must not study so hard. He 
 must try to forget his geometry and take long walks in the 
 afternoon. But with this decision, there came suddenly to 
 his mind a remark which the landlady had made earlier in 
 the year. "They have done everything they possibly could 
 to make me happy, and I do all I possibly can to make them 
 the same." The remark at that time implied nothing extra- 
 ordinary, and yet it had secretly taken root in his memory. 
 Now he could see in it a double meaning. 
 
 He recalled how extremely kind she seemed that first 
 night, how she had lingered on the threshold, and how his 
 music — Mon coeur s'ouvre a ta voix — thrilled her through 
 and through. Then it suddenly flashed through him that 
 he had never given her a penny in return for providing such 
 a home-like room. His geometry had interested him so in- 
 tensely that he had completely forgotten about rent. The 
 fact that he had lived there free of charge and that she 
 was allowing him to continue so without his serving her by 
 mowing the lawn or firing the furnace began to trouble him. 
 In what manner did she expect him to repay her? What 
 were the designs of this extremely kind landlady ! 
 
 He paced the floor and then sat down disgusted with 
 himself for having allowed such an impression of this good- 
 hearted woman to occupy and disturb his mind. But it was 
 something beyond his control ; he could not prevent thought. 
 Another remark of the landlady shot through his head. 
 "These glaring reports we hear about the university are not 
 only exaggerated, but many of them are false." Was she 
 defending the students? or was she defending herself? Did 
 she know a girl was hidden behind the piano that night? 
 What was he to believe ? He paced the floor again and then 
 threw himself upon the bed; but he jumped up instantly 
 as though the springs had suddenly released and hurled him 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 139 
 
 into the air, for at that moment an unbearable thought 
 flamed across his mind: the house in which he now Hved 
 was another estabHshment similar to May Stanley's. He, 
 Paul Milton, had walked into it knowingly, for his very eyes 
 had seen that girl lowered from the window. His room 
 seemed unendurably hot, and the desk, the chairs, the stove, 
 the pictures — all began to whirl about him; it was May 
 Stanley's dance over again. He staggered to the bed, stood 
 upon it, and flung open the window for air. The stars were 
 shining brilliantly. He wished that his mind were with 
 them, far, far off in space, away from the evil thoughts 
 which were tormenting him — away from the wicked world 
 on which he lived. Then he happened to glance across the 
 street below. He imagined he saw two green stars flashing 
 behind a lace curtain — the eyes of the watchdog staring 
 at him from the pitch-dark kennel and grinning fiendishly 
 because he had been lured and trapped. 
 
 Was the dog right after all in his views of university 
 life? Somehow he wished he were back in Sweeny's garret. 
 Mrs. Sweeny was a decent woman; she was clean morally 
 at least. It was nothing but hard work that had brought 
 about her physical unattractiveness. He hated to think what 
 it was that enabled Miss Jones to live so comfortably and 
 dress so well. He recalled how charming she looked the 
 morning she was out sweeping her pavement — the morning 
 she placed a rose in Arch Coddington's buttonhole. Arch 
 and she were on friendly terms ; that was enough to convict 
 her. Think of it! in a house with such a woman! if he 
 could only leap across the street to his old room ! 
 
 And then he thought of the restless night he had spent 
 in that room, and he feared another such storm was brew- 
 ing. He recalled how his music had calmed him. He closed 
 the window, descended from the bed, and pulled the violin 
 from under it. Two of the strings were broken. He threw 
 the instrument back into the case and sat down at his desk 
 and tried to read and study. His geometry might bring 
 him peace. He opened a book and read one line ten times, 
 but had no idea of its meaning. The triangles seemed to 
 
140 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 dance all over the page; the circles were going round and 
 round. He closed the text in despair. His eyes caught sight 
 of the thread models. He picked one up — the most com- 
 plicated one he had constructed. He had worked on it for 
 several days. "What good is this?" he asked himself. "It 
 is only a trap — a trap in which the human mind is held 
 captive like a mouse, so that the possessor of that mind 
 knows nothing of what is happening about him." And he 
 crushed the model ruthlessly between his hands. Then he 
 took up his violin again and tried to play on two strings. 
 The first note seemed to give some reHef. He found an- 
 other string in the case. He had not touched the instrument 
 for months. How good it felt to hear it again ! How lov- 
 ingly it spoke and sang to him despite the fact that he had 
 so cruelly ignored it ! For his technique and his wonderful 
 flowing legato had not suffered from lack of practice. The 
 music was bringing perfect peace to his agitated soul. 
 
 He had just finished the Traumerei when he heard some 
 one at his door. His heart leaped to his throat. Had his 
 art awakened and aroused Miss Jones? Miss Jones com- 
 ing to his room at this hour! He alone with that woman! 
 He would rather draw the bolt and not admit her. The 
 knock was repeated. He managed to say come in. 
 
 The door opened, and a student in white pajamas and 
 moccasins entered the room. It was the same boy whom 
 he had seen coming out of the landlady's bedchamber. 
 
 "I just came up to hear that music," he said. "It is 
 certainly wonderful. My name is Hollis — Harold Hollis." 
 
 The boy held out his hand. Milton took it rather re- 
 luctantly, but he found much that was trustworthy and 
 honorable in the grasp. 
 
 "I hope you don't object to my attending your concert 
 deshabille/' said the boy, smiling and disclosing his white 
 teeth, which sparkled like the eyes above them. 
 
 "Not at all," responded Milton, who could not help 
 admiring the clean-looking youth, in spite of the doubt 
 which was hovering over his own mind. 
 
 "Had I known you played the violin, I would have been 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 141 
 
 up to see you long before this," said Mollis. "I love music 
 — I mean good music ; and you know how to play it. How 
 does it come you never tuned up before tonight?" 
 
 "I have been too busy with my work," was the answer. 
 
 "What in the deuce are these?" inquired the boy, as he 
 picked up one of the string constructions on the desk. 
 
 "They are thread models illustrating certain theorems 
 in Higher Geometry," said Milton. 
 
 "Did you make them ?" he asked, examining closely. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You're some genius. You are certainly going to make 
 your mark some day. I wish I were half as sure of hitting 
 mine." 
 
 "You will if you aim in the right direction," said Milton. 
 
 "I doubt it," said Hollis. He seemed to meditate, and 
 then he added : "I'm only a freshman ; what class are you ?'* 
 
 "I'm a graduate student ; I graduated from this univer- 
 sity last year." 
 
 "With Arch Coddington's class," said the boy quickly. 
 "Did you know Arch?" 
 
 "Yes," answered Paul, thinking how queer it was that 
 this boy should mention first the name of the only man in 
 his own class whom he really knew ! 
 
 Tine fellow — don't you think so?" asked HoUis. 
 
 How should Milton answer ? Yes or No ? 
 
 "He was very well liked by most of his classmates," 
 was the fortunate reply. 
 
 "He is a very close friend of mine," admitted the boy. 
 
 The teeth of doubt, which were gnawing at Milton's 
 mind, seemed to sink in deeply with this remark. Hollfs 
 and Coddington were friends — Miss Jones and Coddington 
 were friends. Two persons who are friends of a third per- 
 son are friends of each other. 
 
 "Does Arch know that you have come back again this 
 year ?" 
 
 "I think not," replied Milton. 
 
 "I shall have to write about it and tell him I've met you. 
 I know we are going to be good friends — you and I. Music 
 
142 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 always draws me on. Do you know that song from Samson 
 and Delilah— My Heart At Thy Sweet Voice?" 
 
 Miss Jones' favorite! Had she told him about it? And 
 yet HoUis had said he did not know of Milton's violin. 
 
 "Yes ; I know that song," said Milton, awakening from 
 his debate. 
 
 "Please play it for me." 
 
 Milton did not care to "thrill" Miss Jones in the room 
 below. 
 
 "There are only three strings on my violin," he replied, 
 by way of excuse. 
 
 "Well, let me hear it as far as they'll take you, and I 
 shall fill in the other notes," suggested Hollis. 
 
 It was hard to decHne. Milton tuned his violin, and 
 began the aria, which, as the reader may know, begins with 
 deep, sonorous, meditative strains gradually working up 
 to an amorous cHmax. Hollis, lying on the cot, his arms 
 under his head, half-closed his eyes as if in a dream. Was 
 he thinking of Allaine? Then as the music became more 
 and more emotional, he stood up and joined his accom- 
 panist, singing in a baritone, which was wondrously rich and 
 flexible. But it was not the passionate voice of a burning 
 Delilah; it was rather like the pure sweet voice of a choir 
 boy. Indeed, as Harold stood before the vioHnist in his 
 white night clothes, Milton could think of him as nothing 
 other than an angel. The vision — for Milton, dreamer that 
 he was, considered it only a vision — impressed him much 
 the same as Allaine Bennett had impressed the widow the 
 night she stood at the side of Paul's cot in the little cottage 
 at Norford. Paul, like his mother, also imagined God had 
 sent a comforting angel. It began to pain him that he had 
 suspected the boy and falsely judged his character. He 
 wanted to take Hollis in his arms there and then. He loved 
 him from that moment on, and in case he had done wrong, 
 he wanted to shield and guide him. 
 
 Just as they finished the song. Miss Jones opened the 
 door and appeared before them in her kimono, clapping 
 her hands in ecstasy. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 143 
 
 "Oh!" she exclaimed, "it is beautiful — magnificent^ 
 glorious !" 
 
 Milton stood gasping, but HoUis seemed very calm. 
 That this woman and this boy, attired as they were, should 
 appear before each other and before him without the slight- 
 est embarrassment was something Paul Milton could not 
 understand. He at once felt that his suspicion was correct. 
 What he had seen was not an hallucination but a reality. 
 And then Miss Jones walked to the cot, sat down with 
 Hollis and tenderly pushed the hair back from his fore- 
 head. Milton felt the blood freeze within him. Such an 
 open display of wantonness ! How could Hollis permit this 
 disgusting woman — this lascivious Delilah — ^to fondle him! 
 
 "I am so glad we all know each other at last," said Miss 
 Jones. "I was reluctant about introducing you to Harold; 
 it seemed you were always so busy, and I did not wish to 
 disturb you. Had Harold known earlier that you played 
 the violin, he would have given you no rest. Both of us 
 are so fond of music. It runs in the family. Harold's 
 mother was my sister; she died a few years ago," added 
 Miss Jones sadly. 
 
 Milton fell back in the Morris chair. He wanted to 
 speak, but he could not; the last remark of the landlady 
 came as a sunstroke from a dark sky. 
 
 "Isn't it fortunate for him," she continued, "to be able 
 to come to a college in a town where his Aunt Clarabelle 
 lives. She can take such good care of him — just as his 
 own mother would have done. But I take care of all my 
 boys in just the same way; and by making a real home, I 
 keep them off the streets and out of the taverns, and in this 
 way maintain their interest in books. Harold came up to 
 see you tonight without my permission. He would stay all 
 night so long as you played for him. I thought I had bet- 
 ter come up and send him back to bed. He is keeping you 
 up or, perhaps, away from your work. We will both come 
 to hear another concert sometime again when it is more 
 convenient." 
 
 She arose and walked toward the door. 
 
144 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 "Come along, Harold," she added. 
 
 Harold followed. 
 
 "I suppose I shall have to obey Aunt Clarabelle," said 
 Hollis, with a smile, his eyes twinkling merrily, "but I am 
 mighty glad to have met you. Good night." 
 
 And he took Milton's hand and held it with a grasp 
 which proved convincingly to Milton that the boy was 
 honorable. 
 
 "Good night," said Miss Jones, as she walked down the 
 stairs with her arm across the boy's shoulders. 
 
 "Good night," said Milton. 
 
 He listened, and heard two doors closing — first the land- 
 lady's at the foot of the stairs, then the door to Hollis' 
 room at the other end of the hall. He closed his own door 
 happily, undressed, and extinguished the lamp. The visit 
 of Miss Jones and her nephew had removed the faintest 
 shadow of suspicion from his mind. How often he him- 
 self, dressed in pajamas, had tiptoed into his own mother's 
 room to kiss her good night ! and if she were to die and if 
 he were to live with a dear kind aunt, would he not treat 
 her with the same affection ! 
 
 The moonlight fell through the high windows upon his 
 bed. He knelt there and prayed that God might prevent the 
 future visitation of evil brooding upon his mind, that God 
 might check and destroy the growth of poisonous thought- 
 seeds, which the attempted but unsuccessful escapade with 
 Arch Coddington had planted in his head and which later 
 experiences were tending to nourish. 
 
 And he slept soundly, for God did send him relief — 
 temporarily. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 HOLLIS AND DE SOTO 
 
 The next day Milton was at his work again, happy that 
 he Hved in a house where the landlady was so good and 
 kind, happy that he had made the acquaintance of Harold 
 Hollis, happy that he had again found interest in his geom- 
 etry — for he was reconstructing the thread model which he 
 had destroyed, because it was the most beautiful one of 
 his entire collection. How glad he was to see it brought 
 back to life again ! 
 
 A few days later he was asked to present, before the 
 Mathematical Club, a paper on a topic which was left to 
 his own discretion. He at once thought of his string con- 
 structions. His name and his subject appeared on the uni- 
 versity bulletin. He carried the models to the lecture hall 
 in his suitcase; he had so many that it was necessary to 
 make several trips. He exhibited the collection before a 
 large audience of faculty and graduate students and ex- 
 plained the theory which determined the method of struc- 
 ture. His work was warmly applauded. 
 
 After the meeting, on his way to his room, he stopped 
 before Harold Hollis' door. The success of his paper had 
 thrown him into a joyous mood, which he wanted to share 
 with the boy whom he longed to know as a very close 
 friend. Hollis had not called at Milton's room since the 
 night he and his aunt were there. Milton had not invited 
 them to another concert ; he was again lost in his geometry, 
 and his violin had been buried in its casket under the bed. 
 If Milton wished another visit from Hollis, he believed that 
 the first one must be returned. 
 
 Milton had never called on any boys in Miss Jones' 
 
146 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 house, but now he not only felt that he owed Hollis a call 
 but that he really wanted to make it. And yet he hesitated 
 before entering. As he stood there trying to decide whether 
 or not to knock, the door suddenly opened, and Hollis, on 
 his way out, almost collided with him. 
 
 "I was just going to drop in and see you," said Milton. 
 
 "Oh!" exdaimed Hollis, "is it you? Come right in. I 
 didn't recognize you at first ; the hall is always so dark. I was 
 just on my way to your room to see you about a problem in 
 Analyt. I had about given it up and was ready to go to bed 
 when I thought you might be willing to give me a lift." 
 
 "Gladly," said Milton, removing his overcoat. 
 
 Hollis was in his pajamas and moccasins, just as we had 
 met him before. He drew up a chair to his desk and asked 
 Milton to sit down before the open textbook. 
 
 "It is this one :" said Hollis, "to prove that the area of 
 the triangle formed by the two coordinate axes and a tang- 
 ent to the equilateral hyperbola is constant." 
 
 "How far have you worked it?" asked Milton. 
 
 Hollis searched through some loose papers on his desk 
 until he found one covered with equations. 
 
 "That's as far as I can get," he admitted, pointing to his 
 result. 
 
 "That's as far as is necessary." 
 
 "Yes, that is the expression for the area, but I don't 
 see why it is constant." 
 
 "Because the point of contact lies on the curve, and its 
 coordinates must therefore satisfy the original equation," 
 said Milton. 
 
 "What a dunce I was not to see that myself," said Hollis, 
 rapping his knuckles against his head. 
 
 Hollis, of course, was by no means a dunce. He was 
 brilliant; he had simply overlooked this condition. 
 
 "You don't mind my coming up to ask you a question 
 now and then ? I get stuck occasionally, but not very often," 
 he admitted. 
 
 "I shall be glad to help you out," said Milton, "any time 
 you wish." 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 147 
 
 "Do you like roasted chestnuts ?" asked Hollis, preparing 
 to repay Milton for his service. 
 
 '*Yes." 
 
 Hollis disappeared behind the portieres, which were 
 drawn across the alcove, and then appeared again with a 
 paper bag and a corn popper. 
 
 "Let's just sit here on the floor," suggested HolHs. 
 
 Milton lost no time in obeying. Hollis was soon on his 
 knees before the fireplace, roasting the chestnuts over the 
 smouldering logs in the grate. Milton could not refrain 
 from admiring the boy's face. The brilliant red glow of the 
 embers was reflected in the clear whites of his eyes, and his 
 cheeks soon began to bloom like roses coloring under the 
 warmth of June sunshine. The white coat, buttoned snugly 
 about his throat, and the lock of brown hair, which fell over 
 his smooth forehead, both helped by contrast to offset his 
 ruddy countenance. His pajamas covered but did not conceal 
 his square shoulders and his rounded chest; physically he 
 seemed perfect. It was a picture Milton always remembered. 
 
 "I had a letter from Arch Coddington today," said Har- 
 old, as he continued to shake the nuts. 
 
 The name Coddington awakened Milton from his rev- 
 erie. The fact that Coddington and Hollis were friends 
 was somewhat disturbing — the only unpleasant information 
 he had gathered from the boy. 
 
 "You remember, I said I was going to write to him 
 about you," added the freshman. 
 
 Milton began to feel uneasy. He never knew definitely 
 whether or not May Stanley had taken Coddington's money 
 that night — the money in payment of Milton's "initiation." 
 Perhaps she had given Coddington the impression that she 
 had been successful with her "new customer." Perhaps 
 Coddington had written about it to Hollis, and Hollis was 
 now judging him accordingly. But was not the boy justi- 
 fied when he himself had judged Hollis, and judged him 
 falsely too. 
 
 "He mentioned your playing," continued Hollis, "and 
 something else which I myself don't care to hear." 
 
148 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 Milton at once concluded that May Stanley had be- 
 trayed him, and he resolved to tell HoUis the whole story. 
 
 "What is the something else you don't care to hear?" 
 asked Milton openly, ready to defend himself. 
 
 ^'Ragtime," answered HoUis. 
 
 Milton quickly forgot about May Stanley. - 
 
 "I get so tired of it, but Arch is ragtime-crazy," added 
 the boy. 
 
 ''Yes ; so I discovered." 
 
 "It is such wild lawless stuff — just like Arch himself," 
 said Hollis. "But Arch is a good fellow nevertheless. It 
 was through him that I got a room in this house — the 
 rooms are all reserved in advance as you know." 
 
 It puzzled Milton that Coddington should have to re- 
 serve a room for Hollis in a house where his own aunt was 
 landlady, but Hollis' next remark dispelled the doubt before 
 it had time to take root. 
 
 "Of course Aunt Clarabelle would have had one for me 
 anyhow, but Arch didn't know she was my aunt — not until 
 later. However, Arch has helped me attain a lot of other 
 things in which Aunt Clarabelle has no influence." 
 
 Milton, at that moment, saw the firelight reflected from 
 a pin on the boy's pajamas. He had not noticed it before, 
 but now at once realized it was the insignia of the fraternity 
 which Coddington and Tom Kuhler had made — also Mr. 
 Bennett, as the reader has already learned. The thought 
 of May Stanley again returned to his mind, and with it her 
 denouncement of this same brotherhood: "When a fellow 
 gets in with that bunch it's good-bye to his virginity." 
 
 "Do you like your chestnuts well done?" asked Hollis, 
 as he scattered them upon the hearth. "Try some of these — 
 be careful ; they are hot." 
 
 Milton took one and cooled it by passing it from one 
 hand to the other. He opened it, ate the meat, and threw 
 the shell into the fire, where it squirmed and writhed under 
 the heat which quickly consumed it, leaving only a gray 
 weightless powder. And he wondered if Hollis would be 
 able to resist the temptation which was undeniably lying 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 149 
 
 in wait for him, or would he also be consumed like the 
 helpless shell which had been tossed among the hungry- 
 flames. 
 
 His attachment to the boy seemed to grow as the even- 
 ing wore on, and he began to feel that it was not only his 
 desire but his duty to warn and save him. His Aunt Clara- 
 belle would have little influence when he left her to live 
 in his new quarters at the fraternity house. Milton tried 
 hard to know Hollis would stand the test, but he believed 
 a warning thrown out in advance might make the fight eas- 
 ier for him. His aunt would probably say nothing by way 
 of admonition. She was a staunch optimist in regard to 
 the student morale. True, the boy was remarkably well 
 preserved; his own father had very likely counseled him 
 just as Milton's mother had counseled her son. Perhaps, 
 after all, it was unnecessary to mention the matter. 
 
 Hollis continued to eat chestnuts. He was aware of the 
 fact that Milton had seen the pin, and he noticed the medi- 
 tating silence that followed the observation. 
 
 "Are you interested in girls?" asked Hollis, hoping to 
 awaken the dreamer. 
 
 "No," answered Milton. 
 
 "Neither was I until I met this one," added Hollis, as 
 he reached for a framed photograph on the mantelpiece over 
 the fire. It was a photograph of Allaine Bennett which he 
 had secretly carried away from Willow Lodge. "I should 
 Hke to know what you think of her; all the fellows say 
 she is a beauty." 
 
 Milton turned the photograph toward the firelight. The 
 face was unknown to him. He had not seen Allaine Ben- 
 nett since, when as a little girl, she had presented him with 
 the invitation to her party. Nevertheless the face influenced 
 him strongly and strangely. The eyes, it seemed, were im- 
 ploring him to save the boy at his side. 
 
 "She looks like a girl of considerable influence," said 
 Milton. 
 
 "Influence in what way?" asked Hollis. 
 
 "Influence in the way of keeping a man straight — influ- 
 
I50 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 ence in the way of keeping a boy from doing what he 
 should not do." 
 
 'That is just why I keep her constantly before me. I 
 expect to win her as wife some day — win her by working 
 for some good and great purpose," said Hollis. 
 
 These words — "good and great purpose" — delighted 
 Paul unfathomably. 
 
 "She is a girl whom a fellow wouldn't dare marry unless 
 he felt that he really deserved her — that he was worthy. 
 There's something more to her than mere good looks ; 
 she sees a real object in life. She is striving to uplift 
 and make cleaner the wretched souls of the settlements. 
 She is a wonderful girl, and if I don't win her eventu- 
 ally by helping along some good cause, I shall never be 
 happy." 
 
 Milton looked at the photograph again, thinking what a 
 wonderful girl she must be to influence a boy as she had 
 influenced Harold HolHs; and the one desire on his own 
 mind was that this youth and this maiden should some day 
 be happily united. 
 
 "I can't tell you how much I have enjoyed my little visit," 
 said Paul, as he rose from the floor and placed the photo- 
 graph carefully on the mantelshelf. 
 
 "Take some of these with you," said Hollis; and he 
 gathered a handful of chestnuts from the hearth and emp- 
 tied them into Milton's pocket. 
 
 "Thanks ever so much," said Milton. 
 
 The two boys clasped hands warmly. 
 
 After the door was closed, Hollis walked to the fireplace, 
 took down the picture of AUaine Bennett, looked at it lov- 
 ingly, and then returned it to its place. He gazed into the 
 dying embers, wondering why he had discovered Paiil Mil- 
 ton just outside his door that evening. Then he walked 
 to his desk, unlocked a drawer, took out a letter, and reread 
 the following lines: 
 
 "The main fault with Milton is that he's too damn good. 
 Even May Stanley couldn't warm him up. He's a virgin, 
 and he will probably try to make a goody-goody out of you. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 151 
 
 Don't let him do it, old boy; don't let him keep you away 
 from your fun." 
 
 Hollis extinguished the desklamp and left his room. 
 
 How glad Milton was he had visited Harold Hollis that 
 night and had met this girl whose influence was keeping 
 him upright and true ! The visit had completely vindicated 
 Hollis, by wiping out the last trace of the earher suspicion 
 under which Milton had placed him. 
 
 But the evening spent in the freshman's room had also 
 awakened a broader spirit in Paul Milton — the spirit to 
 associate with his fellow-men. He began to realize how 
 much he had missed in his own undergraduate days be- 
 cause he had so isolated himself from others. There had 
 been, no doubt, many boys like Harold Hollis in Milton's 
 own class. He would have discovered them had he made 
 the effort. He began to think he had been deprived of one 
 of the best features of a university education. And yet 
 that would have been denied him even if he had desired it ; 
 for his time had been completely taken up by his books 
 and the various chores which earned him his food, clothing 
 and shelter. It was true that he had given many leisure 
 hours to his violin, which he might have spent socially be- 
 fore the fireplaces of his classmates; but why muse over 
 opportunities which are past and irrevocable? And after 
 all, perhaps it was best so, for had he known his classmates 
 better, he might have neglected his studies. He certainly 
 would not have captured all the honors and prizes at the 
 end of his senior year, and had he not won those, it might 
 have discouraged the awarding of free scholarships by the 
 alumni. If he had merely graduated as Coddington had 
 done, what impression would that have made ? None ; thou- 
 sands do that. 
 
 There was one thought which pleased him above all 
 others — the fact that he deserved all that he received, and 
 had it not been for the hard though selfish study which 
 earned it, he would never have been the recipient of the 
 second free scholarship from the faculty, and therefore 
 
152 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 would not have returned to the university to meet Harold 
 HoUis. Was fate such a cruel thing after all? 
 
 Milton's father, as we know, had died when his son was 
 yet a mere baby. Paul had never known what fellowship 
 with one's father meant. There was only his mother to 
 whom he might speak, and he remained constantly at her 
 side. Now he wished and longed for a brother — one like 
 Harold Hollis. He loved Harold devotedly. He did not 
 know just how Hollis felt toward him, and yet, judging 
 from the hospitality and the friendliness with which he had 
 been entertained, he believed the boy was not altogether 
 displeased by his company. The violin had, after all, played 
 its part and played it well. It had brought two boys to him 
 — two boys who were widely different in character — two 
 boys who had opened new avenues in Milton's life. He, 
 Milton, now stood between them; for Coddington had 
 pointed out to Milton the very trap from which Milton 
 must save Hollis, his brother. 
 
 But to Milton, Hollis became a representative rather 
 than an individual. He thought there must be more like 
 him, — many more, — and he wanted to know them. There 
 was in Milton a perfect seed of fraternal love which was 
 only now beginning to sprout and blossom. Deeply as he 
 loved Harold Hollis, he was capable of loving hundreds of 
 boys with the same depth and sincerity ; for Hollis was but 
 a symbol for the entire student-body. He wanted to do as 
 much for the boys as Miss Jones was doing for her stu- 
 dents. He wanted to help keep them upright and studious. 
 At the same time he would not lose interest in his geometry, 
 but go at it more sanely. He began to see something more 
 than geometrical configurations as he walked along the 
 streets; he began to see humanity. He was interested in 
 the face of each student he met. He noticed several boys 
 who influenced him just as strongly as the youth in his own 
 house, and he longed to know them, to meet them, to con- 
 verse with them, to love them as he loved Harold Hollis. 
 He wanted to form instantly all the friendships which he 
 had allowed to pass. How could he reach these boys ? He 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 153 
 
 longed to live his undergraduate days over again. It seemed 
 all his classmates had returned to the university. He wanted 
 to stroll with them about town. He wanted to take part in 
 the games they were playing on the campus. He wanted 
 to frequent each entry of the dormitory and stop in every 
 room. He wanted to participate in the singing of the col- 
 lege glees. He wanted to join the story-telling circles 
 around the blazing wood fires. He yearned to be closer, 
 to lounge with them among the pillows on their window- 
 seats, to cuddle up and feel the pure warmth of their hearts 
 against his own. 
 
 But alas; they never felt that his heart as well as his 
 eyes were fixed upon them — they scarcely noticed him as 
 he passed. There was a gulf between these boys and Paul 
 Milton. He could not do the things he wanted to do ; some- 
 thing held him back. Perhaps he would only bring dis- 
 favor upon himself by trying to establish the associations 
 which he had lost and which fate seemed to deny him. So 
 he sat alone in his little room, and the only thing there in any 
 way resembling a human companion was his own shadow, 
 which the little gas-stove cast upon the wall. HoUis came 
 up to see him but only seldom, and the short visits merely 
 served to intensify his longing and darken the hours which 
 followed them. He was a vessel overflowing with true fra- 
 ternal devotion, and yet there was none flowing into it. To 
 love and cherish but receive nothing in return — that seemed 
 his destiny. 
 
 But with the approach of Spring a ray of sunshine came 
 into the loneliness of his soul. 
 
 The impression which he had made with his collection 
 of models at the Mathematical Club lasted longer than one 
 evening. Toward the end of the college year, Milton's 
 professor called him into the oflice to praise his work, tell- 
 ing him that the construction of the models and the expla- 
 nation of it proved he had the ability to teach. 
 
 **We will need an assistant to help us with our instruc- 
 tion next year," said the professor. "The classes are grow- 
 
154 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 ing too large to be managed conveniently by the present 
 number of our faculty. Do you think you would like to 
 try your hand at teaching?" 
 
 "It would be a wonderful experience," was Milton's 
 affirmation. 
 
 "Of course," added the professor, "while we expect to 
 have our teaching done well and efficiently, nevertheless you 
 must not let it interfere with your graduate studies; we 
 must not lose interest in them. The teaching will amount 
 to only a few hours a week — perhaps three or four. The 
 subject will be an elementary one; it will not require much 
 time for preparation on your part. We shall use every 
 possible means to arrange your teaching-schedule so that 
 it will not interfere with your attendance at lectures. You 
 know we are expecting great things of you in mathematical 
 research." 
 
 "I trust my work will come up to these expectations," 
 said Milton. 
 
 "I don't doubt that in the least," said the professor, 
 "but, at the same time, teaching has spoiled the career of 
 many a promising graduate student; I think it best that 
 you should know this in advance. Research, you under- 
 stand, is the main thing nowadays ; there are already more 
 than enough good teachers. The university expects each 
 member of its faculty to contribute several papers annually 
 to the scientific journals. The man who doesn't give most 
 of his attention to original investigation will never amount 
 to a row of pins." 
 
 The professor picked up a few of the loose sheets of 
 paper which were scattered over his desk. 
 
 "I am working up an article myself," he continued, as 
 he glanced over the rims of his spectacles, "and the extension 
 and the more detailed treatment of several topics therein will 
 serve for the subject-matter of your Doctor's Thesis. We 
 older men often pass over things of minor interest, leaving 
 them for the younger scholars like yourself to solve." 
 
 "Have I studied far enough to enable me to understand 
 your work ?" asked the boy. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 155 
 
 "Oh! my no, my no," ejaculated the professor, with a 
 superior air of importance, "my work is far — very far — 
 in advance of anything which has ever been done along 
 this line. The great geometers of the past never dreamed 
 of it, and their investigations, which are as yet unknown 
 to you and of which my work is both a generaHzation and 
 a correction, are very elementary indeed compared with the 
 results which I have obtained." 
 
 The professor cleared his throat and curled his mustache 
 on the ends of his fingers. Milton felt he was in the pres- 
 ence of some great dignitary. 
 
 "But," added the scientist, "at this time next year you 
 will have had sufficient preparation to enable you to out- 
 line your dissertation — ^that is, the part of my work 
 which seems too trivial to concern one in my position. 
 When you grow older and more experienced, you will 
 feel the same way toward certain parts of your own re- 
 searches — ^and your teaching. Your teaching will become 
 purely mechanical : at a certain hour of the day you will 
 meet your undergraduates just like a farmer who, at a 
 fixed time every morning, throws out a measureful of corn 
 to a flock of geese and then goes on to something more im- 
 portant." 
 
 The professor smiled at his own simile. He expected 
 Milton to do the same, but he was disappointed. He then 
 felt that he had spoken too lightly of teaching before the 
 new assistant, and he undertook to modify the impression 
 made by his former remarks. 
 
 "Don't get the idea that I do not care or never have 
 cared to teach," he said. "It was not that I disliked it that 
 I gradually forsook it. Brutus did not slay Caesar because 
 he disliked him ; he slew him because he loved Rome more. 
 So it is in my case: not that I love teaching less but that 
 I love research more. Research and Rome ! Two wonder- 
 ful empires, rising, spreading, advancing !" 
 
 The professor accompanied his awe-inspiring analogy 
 with appropriate gestures. Milton remained silent, but 
 thoughtful; and while drinking in all of this bombastic 
 
156 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 grandiloquence he was, at the same time, making a close 
 study of the source from which it sprang. 
 
 "The salary will, of course, be small at the start — the 
 four hours a week will probably bring you no more than 
 a couple of hundred dollars for the year. But later on, 
 after you have spent a year or so abroad and have become 
 active in research, the university will reward you with a 
 couple of thousand dollars for your discoveries and investi- 
 gations. Well," said the scientist, feeling that he was losing 
 precious time, "shall we call it settled then ? You will be one 
 of our teaching-staff next year?" 
 
 Milton at once agreed to take the position, and seeing 
 that the professor was eager to resume work, he backed 
 out of the office. The investigator at once bent over his 
 desk, and, holding his pen very tightly between his fingers, 
 he looked very much like a child amusing itself by drawing 
 pictures of airships and soap bubbles. 
 
 Professor Ambroise De Soto — for that was the name 
 of the great geometer — was a man of very small stature. 
 His complexion was sallow from overapplication to his 
 work, but his eyes were sharp enough to penetrate the bottle 
 of Higgin's Eternal Ink with which he recorded the thoughts 
 of his stupendous mind. His head was almost as thick 
 as his shoulders were narrow. Milton, when standing be- 
 side him, looked fully six inches taller. He was always 
 neat and immaculate, extremely accurate; even his steps 
 were timed and seldom varied in length by more than a 
 millimeter. His most distinguishing characteristics were his 
 gray hat, shaped not unlike a truncated cone, and his black 
 mustache, curled at the ends Hke a logarithmic spiral. 
 
 De Soto was also active in the administration of the 
 university. He was, in fact, a Richelieu to the president, 
 who lauded the former's scientific researches gorgeously 
 and frequently in public speeches. 
 
 De Soto's talk on the importance of research had not 
 inspired Paul Milton so deeply as the scientist had intended 
 it should, although his mind had retained several of the 
 statements which the geometer had uttered with emphasis. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 157 
 
 It was, however, the idea of teaching — the idea of coming 
 in contact with the undergraduates — that had aroused the 
 boy's enthusiasm. It was for this reason that he seemed 
 so happy on the way back to his room — as happy as the 
 squirrels which frisked along at his side as he fed them 
 with the chestnuts which Harold Mollis had placed in his 
 pocket. Harold Hollis, as we have been told, represented 
 youth in general — youth on the threshold of manhood — 
 youth on the threshold of the great university. He was now 
 going to meet and know that youth, not at the fireside but 
 better still, in the classroom, where he felt he could exert 
 even a greater influence over them. The opportunity which 
 he thought he had lost forever had been offered to him 
 once again. This time he would not let it pass. With each 
 step he took, he felt his heart leap with joy, for at last he 
 was going to talk with the boys who were now passing him 
 on the street at every minute. 
 
 When he got to his room, he took one of the thread 
 models in his hands — the one which he had crushed and 
 reconstructed again. He at one time had called it a trap 
 which imprisoned his mind and isolated him from the men 
 among whom he lived. But now he caressed and fondled it, 
 for he realized that this very trap had helped him procure 
 the assistant instructorship which was going to bring him 
 in contact with these self-same men. The yellow silk floss 
 was the golden path which he was to follow — a path which 
 now went forward, then backward, piercing and repiercing 
 the cardboards, zigzagging from right to left between them, 
 passing through beads, — some dull black, others shiny white, 
 — intersecting itself at various points — points over which 
 it had already traveled and points over which it must yet 
 pass. The model became a symbol for his own life — the 
 life, which, ever changing its course and altering his views 
 as it seemed to do, would eventually lead him to **the good 
 and great purpose." 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE DANCE AND THE DESK 
 
 Paul Milton had helped both Arch Coddington and Har- 
 old Hollis in their studies. The reader will remember how 
 he sat at Coddington's desk in the fraternity house helping 
 him make up his conditions, and he will also recall how, 
 at Hollis' desk in Miss Jones' dormitory, he told him he 
 had already solved a problem without knowing it. He had 
 helped Coddington very much — too much; he had helped 
 Hollis very little — just enough. The two kinds of assist- 
 ance were radically different. 
 
 Coddington knew almost nothing about his subject. 
 Milton had to pump it into him, because Coddington had 
 never tried to study; he devoted all his time to pleasure. 
 The process which Milton used on Coddington is known as 
 tutoring. Of course, Coddington graduated, but it was 
 Milton's brain that put him through. We know the char- 
 acter of the man who stooped to such parasitism; we rea- 
 lize it procured a diploma for him unjustly; we saw how 
 he had planned to repay the tutor that evening when the 
 tutor rightly refused to accept money. Viewed from all 
 sides and angles, in this case at least, nothing favorable can 
 be said for tutoring. 
 
 Now let us consider the assistance Milton gave to Hollis : 
 Hollis had studied his subject, worked it out for himself, 
 knew it ; only the final step puzzled him. It is in just these 
 small things that help can truly be called help. Milton 
 explained it to him by a process known as teaching. Its 
 superiority over tutoring is at once evident: it encourages 
 study ; it does not stifle it. This contact with Hollis awoke 
 in Milton a desire to come in closer contact with the whole 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 159 
 
 student-body; in the case of Coddington it undeniably re- 
 sulted in his desire to shun it. 
 
 Milton did no more tutoring after he had helped Cod- 
 dington to get his degree. That had shown him how in- 
 jurious and unjust it was. He considered it nothing more 
 than a decided evil, which enabled students to continue their 
 immoral pleasures and, at the same time, draw their diplo- 
 mas without working for them. 
 
 But in teaching, Milton saw great opportunities for 
 helping the students morally as well as intellectually, and it 
 was toward teaching that he now turned his attention. He 
 had purchased many textbooks on the subject in which he 
 was to give instruction, and every morning and afternoon 
 during vacation he sat in the little studio at Norford, read- 
 ing and preparing for his work in the fall. Indeed, not infre- 
 quently after his mother had gone to bed, he used to take the 
 old-fashioned oil-lamp up there and work until late into 
 the night. The set of Emerson from "The Alumni" was 
 also on a shelf in the studio, but he never saw them. Only 
 textbooks attracted him. He observed all the new or bet- 
 ter ideas which they introduced, and recorded notes on the 
 margins of the pages. He solved and graded all the prob- 
 lems, checking those which mig'ht lead to oversights similar 
 to the one Harold HoUis had made. HoUis was constantly 
 before his mind, as a type of the class he was going to in- 
 struct. 
 
 He thought out various schemes to make the subject 
 interesting to his students, how he would present this or 
 that theorem before his class. He used the wall of the 
 studio for a blackboard, on which he practiced the free- 
 hand drawing of mathematical figures so as to become quite 
 expert at it, thereby saving time in the classroom. 
 
 He constructed more models — wooden models of cones 
 and quadrics, which he sawed apart and then united again 
 with wooden pins, to illustrate the conic sections. There 
 was a planing mill in the neighborhood, and the foreman 
 gave him permission to use the various mechanical devices 
 and tools, which enabled him to turn out more accurate 
 
i6o THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 and more beautiful workmanship. He also constructed 
 some simpler models from thread and celluloid, illustrating 
 the various loci such as the ellipse, the cardioid, the cycloid, 
 the witch of Agnesi, the four-leaf rose, etc. 
 
 He designed more convenient coordinate paper — rec- 
 tanglar and polar — for plotting curves and evolutes. He 
 invented hundreds of new problems, both in Plane Analy- 
 tics and in Analytics of Space, to replace the time-worn ex- 
 amples in the usual text. He made seating-plans for the 
 distribution of the students at examination and compiled 
 several examinations and tests in advance. 
 
 In fact when he returned to the university, he had 
 mapped out his work for the whole year and could give all 
 his time to individual instruction in the classroom. How 
 happy he was to look forward to his new duty, which would 
 not only give him the opportunity to review, revise, revive 
 and apply all he himself had learned as an undergraduate, 
 but would also give him the opportunity which his strict 
 application to that learning had prevented — the contact with 
 the undergraduates themselves. 
 
 While Paul Milton was at work in the studio that sum- 
 mer, let us see what was taking place at Willow Lodge. 
 
 "Well, Allaine," said Mr. Bennett, "another year has 
 passed, and Paul Milton has made no effort to better my 
 Alma Mater. He is a good scholar, to be sure, but no 
 reformer." 
 
 "Don't give up," said Allaine, imploringly. "Give him 
 more time — more chance." 
 
 "Time !" repeated Mr. Bennett, "he has been there now 
 for five years; isn't that time enough? If he is to see the 
 need of reform at all, he should have seen it before this. 
 And haven't we tried to deliver the message to him in a 
 way that should have been most effective? If Emerson 
 can't move him, do you suppose any one else could. He is 
 a complete failure — that's all there is to it. I'm through 
 with him." 
 
 Allaine wondered what she could possibly do or say to 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY i6i 
 
 buoy up her father's depressed hope. She had noticed that 
 he was growing less and less sanguine in regard to Paul 
 Milton's reforming the university. 
 
 Milton's hesitancy to act was, however, not the only rea- 
 son why Wallace Bennett was losing faith and interest in 
 him. The visit of Richard Hollis and his son the preceding 
 summer had done far more to establish this attitude. In the 
 first place, the senior Hollis had spoken so lightly and so 
 optimistically of college morals that he had influenced Mr. 
 Bennett considerably, drawing him, at least half way, to 
 the same opinions. In the second place, the junior Hollis 
 seemed to be the ideal husband for his daughter, Allaine. 
 
 Mr. Bennett loved Harold Hollis as he would his own* 
 son, and the mutual happiness which seemed to exist be- 
 tween the son of his old chum and his own daughter began 
 to detract somewhat from his interest in other things. He 
 had seen Harold steal Allaine's photograph, and was de- 
 lighted with the theft. Furthermore, he noticed the girl 
 was receiving letters regularly from the university ; he knew 
 they could be from none other than young Hollis. This 
 correspondence pleased him. Allaine, of course, had told 
 her father it was "nothing serious" — which Mr. Bennett 
 interpreted as an open confession of her deep attachment 
 to the boy. In fact the father practically saw them married ; 
 it was only a matter of a few years. 
 
 Naturally enough the relation between Allaine and Har- 
 old Hollis seemed to bring Mr. and Mrs. Bennett themselves 
 closer than they had been in recent years. Very often they 
 spent a whole evening in the library discussing their daugh- 
 ter's affaire de coeur. 
 
 Mrs. Bennett was even more enthusiastic than her hus- 
 band, because Harold Hollis had begun the conquest of 
 her daughter's heart and would gradually lure her away 
 from that "disgusting" settlement work. She planned a 
 brilliant house party which lasted a whole month — a 
 sequence of dances, dinners, regattas, tennis tournaments, 
 swimming parties, excursions, etc., — all in honor of Harold. 
 Allaine, whether inclined to or not, took part in all of them 
 
i62 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 to please her father. In fact she was pleasing every one — 
 every one but herself. She dressed and danced and seemed 
 as happy as the others, but it was all on the surface. At 
 heart, it pained her, for her thoughts were in the little stu- 
 dio among the rafters with Paul Milton. 
 
 Thus while Paul studied, Harold HoUis was enjoying 
 one continual whirl of pleasure and gayety. 
 
 The last night of the house party had arrived ; it was 
 the chmax of all the festivity — a promenade. Even Mr. and 
 Mrs. Bennett danced together in the spacious ball room, 
 which was decorated with garlands and garlands of natural 
 flowers studded here and there with tiny colored electric 
 lights. Allaine and Harold had just finished the waltz pre- 
 ceding the intermission. The small balcony gave them a 
 magnificent view of the gardens and the central fountain, 
 which the moonlight was transforming into a spray of shim- 
 mering silver. They remained there for some time, inhal- 
 ing the cool night air scented with the perfume of the flow- 
 ering vine that twined itself about the stone balustrade upon 
 which Allaine was seated. How glorious she appeared to 
 him! She spoke much, but he said little. He knew not 
 what either of them was saying. She certainly could not 
 understand what he was saying, but from what he said she 
 knew that he knew not what she said. The orchestra at 
 last came to his rescue. During the intermission there was 
 a cornet solo from Samson and Delilah. The psychological 
 moment had arrived: Hollis was on his knees instantly. 
 Had any other girl seen those large clear eyes at that 
 moment, she would have jumped from the balustrade di- 
 rectly into his arms. 
 
 "Oh!" murmured Allaine. *T'm sorry." 
 
 "Why sorry?" asked the youth, his voice wavering and 
 his eyes growing dim with tears. 
 
 "Think of your school — three more years at college." 
 
 "I will quit school — quit everything if I may have only 
 you — ^you — adorable one — Allaine !" 
 
 "No, no; I must wait," she whispered, calmly stroking 
 his forehead. "I must wait." 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 163 
 
 And she gazed wistfully across the slumbering gardens, 
 and far beyond them she saw the little studio window, where 
 the soft golden light from an old-fashioned oil-lamp seemed 
 to vie with the moon, which, curiously enough, had suddenly 
 and discouragingly disappeared behind a cloud because it 
 had failed in its mission. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 RESEARCH AND TEACHING 
 
 The opening of the fall term found Paul Milton back 
 in his room at Miss Jones' house. Harold Hollis had re- 
 moved to the chapter house, just as Arch Coddington had 
 done after his freshman year. But Coddington had not con- 
 tinued his calls on Milton after he left Mr. Sweeny's ; 
 Hollis, however, seemed to keep up the acquaintance, al- 
 though Milton knew the main object of Harold's visits was 
 to call on his Aunt Clarabelle; for he came to her house 
 regularly, dropping in to see Milton at the same time. 
 Milton usually found him in his room when returning from 
 the meetings of the Mathematical Club. 
 
 It was a curious coincidence that the night which Hollis 
 had reserved for visiting his aunt was also the night on 
 which the meetings of the Mathematical Club were held. 
 Chance also had it that Hollis take a weekly test in Calculus 
 on the following morning, and it was for this reason that 
 he always brought a textbook with him to Milton's room. 
 Milton was not teaching Calculus that year, but he enjoyed 
 reviewing the work each week with the boy he loved and 
 whose company continued to give him so much pleasure. 
 He never met Hollis in the classroom; he instructed fresh- 
 men only. Milton's relation to Hollis was not that of a 
 tutor — at least Milton did not consider it so. There was 
 no financial dealing connected with the assistance he gave; 
 Hollis offered to pay, but Milton refused to take it. To 
 have the boy near him meant far more to Milton than a 
 fee for his service. 
 
 The truth of the matter was that Harold Hollis, how- 
 ever bright, had begun to neglect his studies. The influence 
 
• THE NEW FRATERNITY 165 
 
 of fraternity life was gradually becoming apparent: pleas- 
 ure was slowly taking him away from his books, and Mil- 
 ton's help to Mollis was assuming more and more the nature 
 of tutoring, even though it had not been commercialized. 
 Indeed the assistance which HoUis received from Milton, 
 in preparing for the weekly test, was treasured perhaps as 
 highly as the pleasure of visiting his Aunt Clarabelle after 
 leaving Milton's room. 
 
 Milton tried hard not to believe that Hollis came to him 
 for no reason other than to get help on his studies; he 
 wanted to feel that the boy would visit him on those nights 
 even if the day of the tests were changed. Sometimes 
 when he sat close beside him at the desk, he longed to 
 place his arms about Harold's neck. He often saw mem- 
 bers of Hollis' fraternity walking along the street with an 
 arm thrown across the boy's shoulders, and he yearned to 
 do the same. But he denied himself that privilege and hap- 
 piness, believing that Hollis might resent it ; friendly as 
 the boy seemed toward him, there was, nevertheless some 
 secret bond with others which held Milton and Hollis apart. 
 
 It was not only toward Harold HoUis that Milton felt 
 this way ; it was toward all the boys he was instructing. 
 What Milton wished to do for one he wished to do for all. 
 In the classroom he was something more than a mere ma- 
 chine which took the attendance, assigned the next lesson, 
 and then talked like a graphophone. He was a teacher in 
 the truest sense of the word : he worked with his students — 
 not apart from them. He was more than interested in them ; 
 he loved them. 
 
 At the beginning of the term both he and his pupils 
 seemed to be enthusiastically interested in their work, but, 
 as the term wore on, the student interest waned, and they 
 began to take part in other activities, to make numerous 
 friends, and to shirk their duties in general. Milton began 
 to think that he was not forceful enough as a teacher, and 
 he blamed himself entirely for the general "slump" which 
 seemed to affect the whole class. He never once thought 
 that it might be due to the fact that the students were being 
 
i66 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 initiated into the more entertaining features of college life. 
 He forgot that there were two football games played each 
 week, and that these furnished a lively topic of conversation 
 during the days which intervened. He did not consider 
 that the "big game" was approaching, and that the tension 
 of enthusiasm was increasing hour by hour, crowding out 
 books and learning. Somehow or other he imagined foot- 
 ball had passed out of existence. Neither did he know that 
 the promenade and a hundred other events were looming 
 into prominence and gradually usurping the place which 
 scholarship should occupy. He himself had never taken 
 part in these events when an undergraduate; he knew little 
 about them. 
 
 He took the whole blame upon his own shoulders and 
 worked harder than ever to maintain interest in the class- 
 room, devising many new plans and schemes, all of which 
 proved futile. The models awakened a temporary concern, 
 but the novelty of them soon wore off. It was all he could 
 do to prevent himself from becoming discouraged, for the 
 application of his students was diminishing noticeably week 
 by week, day by day. The result was that, at the end of 
 the term, Milton had a list of ten men — one third of his 
 class — ^to debar from the final examination just before 
 Christmas. Their grades were so low as to necessitate their 
 
 repeating the subject the following year. 
 
 t 
 
 A faculty meeting was called to discuss the results of 
 the work for the first term. Professor De Soto sat at the 
 head of the long oak table in the departmental room, with 
 the members of the Mathematical faculty on either side 
 of him. 
 
 "Well, Doctor Leech," began De Soto, "have your fresh- 
 men done well this term?" 
 
 "Very well — splendidly — ^better than ever,"' answered 
 the instructor, whose description we shall postpone until 
 later. 
 
 "And how is your research progressing ?" added De Soto. 
 
 "Admirably; I expect to see one of my papers in the 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 167 
 
 Journal for February, one in the Bulletin the following 
 month, one in the Transactions ; and I have also contributed 
 a short article which will appear in the next issue of the 
 Mathematische Annalen." 
 
 ''That's good," replied De Soto, grinning like the Che- 
 shire Cat in Lewis Carroll's famous classic. 
 
 De Soto then glanced at the instructor sitting next to 
 Leech. 
 
 "And your work on Dirichlet's Series, Doctor Weaver ?" 
 
 "I shall have it ready for publication in March," 
 answered Weaver, as the smoke of his cigarette curled from 
 his nostrils. 
 
 "By the way," said De Soto, "I noticed a dissertation in 
 the Comptes rendus de V Academic des Sciences, Vol. 149, 
 page 909, on Dirichlet's Series, which might help to settle 
 the question we were debating last week. It gives no details 
 of the proof however." 
 
 Weaver jotted down the reference on the cuff of his 
 shirt. 
 
 "And what about your article on EHiptic Functions?" 
 asked the professor of the rather frail specimen of humanity 
 which sat next to Weaver. 
 
 "Almost complete," said a hollow voice, squeaking like 
 an E string. The students called him Lizzie. 
 
 "Have you any candidates for exclusion?" asked De 
 Soto. 
 
 "Two," said the E string. 
 
 "Let us hear their records?" 
 
 "The first has done his notebook work regularly and 
 beautifully," responded the E string. "He recites extremely 
 well in the classroom, but he seems to lose his head when 
 it comes to taking a test. He hasn't passed a single weekly 
 test — his test average is only 1.2." 
 
 "There's no hope for him," was the professor's verdict. 
 "Exclude him. Let us pass on to the second candidate." 
 
 "The second man is Mr. Harold Hollis — a very hand- 
 some chap — who does nothing at all in class and who has 
 handed in his notebook but twice during the whole term. 
 
i68 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 Nevertheless, he has passed all of his weekly tests — his test 
 average is 34." 
 
 "There is surely no doubt in his case," decided De Soto. 
 
 "You mean I should exclude him?" asked the E string. 
 
 "Exclude him?" exclaimed the professor, at the top of 
 his voice. "How can we exclude him when he seems to 
 know more about the subject than all the rest of us put 
 together ?" 
 
 "But aside from his tests, his grade is practically zero." 
 
 "That makes no difference — the boy is brilliant. It is 
 absurd to debar a man on a test average of 3.4," said 
 De Soto. 
 
 Milton had listened to the discussion of Hollis' case in 
 silent interest. He had never dreamed there would be any 
 doubt as to admitting the boy to the final examination, and 
 if Hollis would have been excluded, Milton was ready to 
 rise and defend him. At the same time, glad as it made 
 him that Hollis was to be given another chance, he felt that 
 a great injustice had been committed, and, furthermore, be- 
 lieved that he himself was much to blame for that injustice. 
 He realized now, after hearing this report, that Hollis had 
 forsaken his studies and was depending entirely on his 
 help before the weekly tests. He was helping Hollis to get 
 a degree that Hollis did not deserve, whereas the other 
 student was excluded, although his notebook record and 
 his work in the classroom showed that he was an earnest 
 and honest worker. Milton made up his mind to urge Hollis 
 to take his work more seriously; he decided to speak with 
 him plainly. There was only one thing about the whole 
 matter that consoled Milton : Hollis' instructor was not 
 a very inspiring teacher. 
 
 "How are your student's behaving this year?" asked 
 De Soto. 
 
 "Fairly well," said the E string. "The other day one of 
 them threw an eraser at me, but I managed to catch it before 
 it mussed up my coat with chalk dust." 
 
 "Is that all. Doctor Oswald?" 
 
 "That's all, thank you," said the E string. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 169 
 
 "Oh, by the way, Doctor Weaver, I forgot to ask if you 
 had any men to debar from the examination," said the pro- 
 fessor. 
 
 "None," said Weaver, lighting another cigarette. 
 
 "What excellent work we are accomplishing this year!" 
 remarked De Soto, elated. "I suppose you are not going 
 to spoil this record by adding more to the number of ex- 
 clusions. Doctor King." 
 
 "I have only one to add," mumbled King, without lift- 
 ing his eyes from the newspaper he was reading. "At the 
 last class faculty meeting I give him a warning at 1.3, and 
 since that it has fell to 0.9, which ain't half low enough be- 
 cause he don't know nothing." 
 
 "A very clear case very clearly stated," said De Soto. 
 "And as to your article on Partial Differential Equations — 
 that is coming along nicely I suppose." 
 
 "Oh yes, oh yes," mumbled King, bored to distraction. 
 
 "The university will be very well represented in the 
 scientific periodicals this year," remarked De Soto. "And 
 now, Doctor Wellworth, of course you have no students to 
 exclude and no research to report on. It is well to keep 
 one good teacher in the department, and we are willing to 
 accept his excellent suggestions on classroom work in lieu 
 of original investigation and contributions to the journals. 
 By the way. Doctor Wellworth, will you see to the mak- 
 ing out of a seating-plan for the final examination for all 
 divisions, to posting it up, to distributing the examination 
 papers and the log' tables, to collecting the books at the 
 end of the hour, to assorting them and distributing them to 
 the various instructors who will need all their time to com- 
 plete their researches before vacation comes. I should also 
 like to call the attention of the faculty to the meeting of The 
 American Mathematical Society which will be held in New 
 York City shortly after New Years. I shall present a very 
 important paper at that meeting, and I should like to see 
 all of you there to represent the university — would you 
 mind taking my graduate class that day, Doctor Well- 
 worth?" 
 
170 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 Wellworth was silent. He merely nodded his head as 
 he sat in a chair tilted on two legs and rested against the 
 window sill. 
 
 "I shall also present that paper at our own Mathe- 
 matical Club tonight," added De Soto, "and I shall be 
 glad to have you all come there also. Should any of you 
 notice a defect, I shall correct it before presenting it in 
 New York." 
 
 Milton was sitting at the other end of the long table 
 directly opposite the head of the department, who now 
 turned his small sharp eyes in that direction. 
 
 "And now, Mr. Milton," said De Soto, straightening up 
 in his chair, " — our promising young investigator of the 
 future, — how many students have you to exclude?" 
 
 "Ten," answered Milton firmly. 
 
 De Soto shrank back to his usual dimensions ; his spec- 
 tacles dropped off his nose and fell to the floor, one of the 
 glasses breaking into slivers. 
 
 Wellworth almost fell out of the window. 
 
 King continued to read his newspaper. 
 
 "Gracious, gracious," said the E string. 
 
 Weaver swallowed his cigarette. 
 
 Leech was thinking about his octic curve with seven 
 cusps ; he couldn't have swallowed that had he wanted to. 
 
 "I should like to see you in my office directly after the 
 meeting to talk about your thesis," said De Soto, after his 
 recovery. 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Milton. 
 
 "The meeting is adjourned," said De Soto quickly; and 
 he balanced the broken spectacles on the end of his nose 
 and limped out of the room. 
 
 De Soto had already reached his private office and closed 
 the door with a bang ; Milton rapped. 
 "Come in," shouted De Soto. 
 Milton entered. 
 
 "Close the door," snapped the geometer. 
 Milton obeyed. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 171 
 
 "Well! Well! Well!" shouted the professor. "That 
 was a blow." 
 
 "What was?" asked Milton nervously. 
 
 "Ten men to exclude — one third of your class ! What's 
 the trouble?" 
 
 "They don't know anything." 
 
 "Perhaps you didn't teach them anything," suggested 
 De Soto sarcastically. 
 
 "On the contrary, sir, I worked very hard with them. 
 I spent the whole summer inventing problems, constructing 
 models and preparing test papers." 
 
 "Have you a copy of the last test you gave them ?" asked 
 the professor authoritatively. 
 
 "I can get it from my desk downstairs." 
 
 "Do so," commanded De Soto. 
 
 Milton started out. 
 
 "By the way, have you returned the papers from that 
 test to your students ?" 
 
 "Not yet, sir." 
 
 "Bring the papers with you also." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 De Soto paced up and down the floor until Milton re- 
 turned ; his steps were a few millimeters longer than usual. 
 
 "Here they are," said Milton. 
 
 "Sit down," said De Soto gruffly. "Let me see the test 
 paper first." 
 
 Milton passed it to him, and he examined it through the 
 one eyeglass of his broken spectacles. 
 
 "Where did you get that first problem? It is too dif- 
 ficult." 
 
 "I took it from a test which you gave us at this time 
 of the year when I myself was in your freshman class," said 
 Milton. 
 
 De Soto rubbed his chin. 
 
 "It's a good problem," he added, "but we don't work 
 that kind any more. That was four years ago." 
 
 "Has the course been simplified since then ?" 
 
 "Certainly, certainly ; the University is growing." 
 
172 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 De Soto took a second glance at the paper. 
 
 "Where did you get this second problem?" 
 
 "It is worked out in the textbook, but I made it slightly 
 different by interchanging the a and the &." 
 
 "You should have kept it as it was. What is the nature 
 of the third question?" 
 
 "The definition of the locus of an equation." 
 
 "That's good ; it is always well to ask for several defini- 
 tions. The students can commit them by heart." 
 
 "Not all students." 
 
 "No, of course not; but they usually write down some- 
 thing or other." 
 
 "The fourth problem is an original," explained Milton. 
 
 "How do you work it?" asked De Soto. 
 
 "By first applying one theorem and then the other." 
 
 "We don't give originals nowadays ; we don't expect all 
 our students to take up research. Now suppose you select 
 what you consider the best paper handed in by your 
 students." 
 
 Milton handed De Soto the paper on the top of the 
 pile. 
 
 "I considered that perfect, and I gave the boy a 4," said 
 Milton. 
 
 "Never give a student a mark of 4; he will not do any 
 more work for a month after he receives it. Now let me 
 see a paper that is not quite perfect." 
 
 "Here is one I graded at 3.9." 
 
 ''What was the error ?" 
 
 "He mistook a 2 for a Z." 
 
 "Heaven !" shouted De Soto, throwing up his. hands. 
 "You have graded him far too high." 
 
 "What would you have given him ?" asked Milton. 
 
 "3.8." 
 
 Milton changed the mark accordingly. 
 
 "Now show me the paper of a man who has all but 
 passed." 
 
 "Here is one graded at 1.9; he mistook a Z for a 2 — 
 just the reverse of the other man's mistake." 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 173 
 
 *'Just the reverse ? then add a point and pass him." 
 
 Milton raised the mark to 2. 
 
 "Now let me see a very poor paper," said De Soto. 
 
 "Here is one graded at zero." 
 
 "How much has he right ?" 
 
 "Nothing," answered Milton. 
 
 "He has drawn the circle for the first problem." 
 
 "But he hasn't worked it." 
 
 "Nevertheless it is a very nice-looking circle — a very 
 round one." 
 
 "Yes ; it was drawn with a compass," explained Milton. 
 
 "Isn't it worth something?" 
 
 "How much?" asked Milton. 
 
 "Give him five points ; I always allow something for a 
 good figure." 
 
 "He didn't even try the second problem," said Milton in 
 advance. 
 
 "He could have worked it if you hadn't interchanged the 
 a and the h. Give him half credit. Now what about his 
 definition of a locus?" 
 
 "He has written something which doesn't mean any- 
 thing to me," said Milton. 
 
 "That doesn't make any difference as long as he under- 
 stands it himself. Give him full credit." 
 
 "That gives him a passing grade," said Milton. 
 
 "That's good; we won't have to consider the original." 
 
 "Do you wish to see more of the papers, sir ?" 
 
 "No ; I shall ask you to reread them all yourself after 
 the fashion I have just shown you. Don't mark so strictly, 
 and remember that not all students have brains like you and 
 I. Be a little more lenient, young man. Never exclude 
 more than three men in one division. It gives the depart- 
 ment a bad reputation." 
 
 "I believe you wanted to speak with me about my 
 thesis," said Milton. 
 
 "I thought I told you once that you wouldn't be ready 
 to think of that until the end of the year," remarked 
 De Soto. 
 
174 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 De Soto, in his excitement, had forgotten the excuse 
 which he had offered before his department to call Milton 
 in for an interview. The boy's remark, however, served as 
 a valuable suggestion. 
 
 "However, I think I shall set you to work on it," added 
 De Soto, "because you are giving entirely too much atten- 
 tion to your teaching. Be sure to come to the Mathematical 
 Club tonight. What I shall have to say will be of help 
 to you. And, by the way, suppose you call on Doctor Leech 
 this afternoon, and let him explain to you the kind of 
 tests we are accustomed to giving our students. His ad- 
 dress is 53 Mellon Street." 
 
 Milton took his test papers and left the office. He rea- 
 lized that the old geometer had been excited, and did not 
 know what ridiculous remarks he had made. 
 
 Nevertheless, it was not all due to excitement. When 
 great scientists are called down to earth to consider such 
 a trivial thing as the grading of a freshman test paper, 
 we soon discover how useless, bored, absurd and inapt they 
 are in undergraduate instruction. It is far better that they 
 keep their heads among the clouds, their feet dangling in 
 the air, and their hands off those things with which they 
 are no longer fit to deal. 
 
 That afternoon Milton plodded through a driving snow, 
 searching for the house on Mellon Street. He finally dis- 
 covered the number, very dimly visible, over a doorway, 
 so low that even Professor De Soto could not have entered 
 without denting his conical gray hat. As he stood waiting 
 on the rickety veranda only a yard wide, he could not fail 
 to observe how much the building seemed like a paper shell ; 
 in case of a severe gale, the number would probably have to' 
 be changed to either 51 or 55, depending on which way 
 the wind blew. 
 
 A little old man, with a long beard as white as the 
 snow and with eyes Hke a pair of shoe buttons, answered 
 Milton's knock on the door. 
 
 "Is Doctor Leech in ?" 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 175 
 
 "Yes," said the old man. "Just walk up stairs and ham- 
 mer on the first door you come to. Don't rap; hammer," 
 repeated the old man emphatically. 
 
 Milton carried out the landlord's direction so faithfully 
 that the old man stood gasping at the foot of the stairs lest 
 the pounding prove disastrous to his property. And still 
 no response came from Doctor Leech's room. Finally Mil- 
 ton opened the door and entered, unannounced, an atmos- 
 phere in which the fumes of gas, tobacco and alcohol each 
 tried to gain predominance. 
 
 It was the front room on the second floor. The only 
 thing on the wall was a calendar. An antiquated bookcase 
 occupied one corner, the upper part consisting of shelves, 
 which sagged under the weight of many thick volumes, the 
 lower part consisting of drawers, which were open and filled 
 with reprints and apple cores; a pseudosphere, black with 
 dust, stood on the top, puncturing the ceiling. A thread- 
 bare couch, ruptured in many places and littered with re- 
 search journals, was pushed up quite close to a table, which 
 was strewn with stimulants and several sheets of paper. 
 On one side of this table, — almost under it in fact, — stood 
 a rusty roaring stove ; on the other side, a revolving chair 
 and an immense cuspidor. Leech had told the landlord to 
 furnish him with "a spittoon that he couldn't possibly miss." 
 
 Leech was sitting at the table in his bare feet, which were 
 almost inside of the stove. His hair, brick-red in color, was 
 badly in need of trimming. There was a circular hole in 
 one of his front teeth ; he had lost the filling. He was smok- 
 ing a cigarette and scratching with a fountain pen. 
 
 "Professor De Soto sent me over to see you," yelled 
 Milton in Leech's ear. 
 
 Leech looked up with a start. 
 
 "What's your name ?" 
 
 "Milton." 
 
 "Oh, yes ; yes," said Leech. "Have a seat here on the bed." 
 
 Milton sat upon the research journals. 
 
 "Do you smoke?" asked Leech, as he held out a box 
 of cigarettes. 
 
176 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 "No, thank you." 
 
 **But you'll have a little nip, I guess." 
 
 "I don't drink either," admitted Milton, boyishly. 
 
 "And a mathematician ! How in the devil do you man- 
 age to think? I couldn't do a stroke without my Deities 
 and my rye." 
 
 He took hold of the bottle, poured some whiskey, and 
 lifted the glass nervously to his thick lips; then wiped his 
 mouth on the back of his hand. 
 
 "Well, what does Professor desire?" asked Leech, after 
 he had resumed puffing at the butt of his cigarette. 
 
 "He wants you to show me how to make out a test 
 paper. Were you at the faculty meeting this morning ?" 
 
 "I don't know," answered Leech. 
 
 "I saw you." 
 
 "Then I guess I was there. These meetings are such a 
 bore. I never hear anything that's said at them. I am 
 usually thinking about my research — my octic curves. It's 
 the same way in the classroom. I never know whether I 
 am there or not, and I never know whether my students 
 are there or not either." 
 
 "Don't you take the attendance to find out?" asked 
 Milton. 
 
 "Once a year — the morning of the big football game. 
 Then I write across the card: entire class absent. It saves 
 time and work." 
 
 "I noticed Professor De Soto did not ask you if there 
 were any students to be excluded in your division." 
 
 "I never exclude students from the exam ; I always pass 
 them," said Leech, as he threw the butt of his cigarette into 
 the cuspidor and lighted another one. 
 
 "They must be very brilliant," suggested Milton. 
 
 "They are hopelessly stupid," replied Leech. 
 
 "And you pass them nevertheless?" inquired Milton. 
 
 "Yes — unless they come around here and ask me how 
 much they have to make to get through." 
 
 "Then what do you do ?" 
 
 "I flunk them." 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY ij? 
 
 "Do any of them ever ask you how much they have to 
 make?" 
 
 "They never come within a radius of six feet of my 
 desk in the classroom," replied Leech, placing his half- 
 smoked cigarette aside and cutting off a large chunk of 
 tobacco. "They're a damn nuisance — a pest," added the 
 "dope" fiend, as he crushed the wad mercilessly between 
 his bony jaws. "My idea of heaven is a place where no 
 student asks you his stand;" and he squirted the juice 
 through the hole in his tooth over his left shoulder into the 
 cuspidor. 
 
 "Is your class very large ?" asked Milton. 
 
 "I'm the most popular instructor in the school," was the 
 reply. 
 
 "I suppose most boys hate the instructor who excludes 
 them." 
 
 "They'd murder him if they had brains enough to 
 do it." 
 
 "I wanted to exclude ten this morning," said Milton. 
 
 "Ten!" shouted Leech, with a jump that upset the 
 whiskey bottle. 
 
 "Yes ; is that an unusual number ?" 
 
 "It should be the regular number," said Leech. "I guess 
 if you were doing the right thing, you'd exclude them all — 
 but right is not always policy. After you have been here 
 a year or so, you'll get next to a thing or two ;" and he 
 slid his hand along the table to collect the spilt liquor. 
 
 "What is policy ?" asked Milton. 
 
 "Pass your students and say nothing," answered Leech. 
 He swallowed what little whiskey he had saved, and then 
 mopped up the rest with a blotter. "You haven't been hired 
 to teach, unless you want to make a slave of yourself. Just 
 take notice sometime to the way De Soto treats Wellworth — 
 our crack teacher; it's a wonder he doesn't ask Welly to 
 mow his lawn for him after recitations. Teaching around 
 here doesn't amount to that." He snapped his wet fingers 
 in Milton's face, and a drop of the liquor flew into the boy's 
 eye. "You're blind — ^you are." 
 
178 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 And Milton rubbed his eye to relieve the smart. 
 
 "Research is the one and only thing that counts," con- 
 tinued Leech. "You notice we have no assistant professor 
 in our department, and we all stand a show for it — all but 
 Wellworth. Of course I'm not considering you, because 
 you haven't taken your doctorate yet. But we are all work- 
 ing our heads off to get that assistant professorship. I am 
 far ahead of the others now. I've had a paper in each of 
 the journals this year, two in some of them, three in one. 
 I'm a wonder as far as quantity goes, and it's quantity that 
 the university wants. It doesn't matter much what kind 
 of dope you cook up for publication. Nobody reads it — 
 nobody but the editors ; poor devils ! As a matter of fact, 
 such old boys as Euclid, Newton, Descartes and Leibnitz 
 contributed the only things worth while in mathematics. 
 They built the foundation; a few other great men put up 
 the walls and the roof, and all of us modern would-be math- 
 ematicians are putting on the decorations, which go out of 
 style almost as soon as they come in. That's all modern 
 research is — style — fad. But we've got to be up to date 
 if we expect to be promoted." 
 
 He made another contribution to the cuspidor, and then 
 continued : 
 
 "Some of the faculty think it helps along their promo- 
 tion if they get married. Fools ! Doctor Oswald tried 
 that — he's the fellow with a voice like a string. He dropped 
 in here the other night to tell me his troubles — ^twins and a 
 mother-in-law. The kids have the measles, and the old 
 woman's laid up with lumbago. Holy Jerusalem ! I'm glad 
 I'm single. After Oswald left, I got down on the floor and 
 rolled over and over again ; I was so happy. His house 
 is quarantined ; he's not allowed to go home — how glad 
 he must be! He has written up a paper during his fur- 
 lough, in hopes of getting the assistant professorship. He 
 needs the money more than I do, but I'm going to come out 
 on top all the same." 
 
 Leech grinned maliciously, showing the hole in his yellow 
 tooth. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 179 
 
 "Here's my family," he added, pointing to the whiskey 
 and the tobacco. "They do my research for me ; they don't 
 keep me away from it." 
 
 By this time Milton was almost suffocated, not only by 
 the heat, the smoke, the fumes of gas, and the liquor on 
 Leech's breath, but also by the trend of the man's thought 
 and conversation. He felt that if he were to remain with 
 him five minutes longer, he would faint ; so he took his hat 
 and walked toward the door. 
 
 "What's your hurry ?" 
 
 "I have to reread some test papers," said Milton. 
 
 Leech arose, and accidently stepped into the cuspidor. 
 
 "Damn it," he cried, "that's what I get for not wearing 
 my slippers. However, I hope I've given you some point- 
 ers on making out your next test. Good night;" and he 
 held out his long, trembling, white hand with its dirty nails. 
 "Come again." 
 
 A few minutes later Leech had reloaded himself with 
 more ammunition and sat down to transform it into curves 
 of the eight order, while Paul Milton was walking briskly 
 through the fresh white snow, trying to purge his lungs 
 and his brain by taking long deep breaths of the clear 
 cold air. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE THIRST FOR BROTHERHOOD 
 
 The fresh air had thoroughly purged Milton's lungs of 
 the fumes from Leech's sordid nest, but it failed to disperse 
 those ideas which had nettled the boy's mind. It is hardly 
 necessary to inform the reader that although Milton at- 
 tended the Mathematical Club that night and although De 
 Soto looked directly at his star graduate student while em- 
 phasizing certain parts of his paper, nevertheless the boy 
 retained nothing which the great geometer had said. Not 
 only Leech's idea but Leech himself sat at his side through- 
 out the entire lecture, and when De Soto brought his paper 
 to a close, Milton fairly ran from the hall to the solitude of 
 his own room, where he sank down upon his bed, reviewing 
 his experiences of that day and trying to interpret them in 
 a sane and satisfactory manner. 
 
 Thus we begin a new chapter of misery in the book 
 of Paul Milton's life — the golden floss of the thread model, 
 symbolizing the path along which he must travel, is about 
 to pass through another black bead. 
 
 At the beginning of the year he was radiant — radiant 
 because he had been appointed assistant instructor — radiant 
 because he had been given the opportunity to mingle with 
 the undergraduates, to know them, to love them. How he 
 had labored the preceding summer, preparing his subject 
 and trying to make it interesting ! What had it all amounted 
 to? Who knows but that the students themselves were 
 ridiculing his efforts! Who knows but that they were 
 laughing at him when his back was turned! Was not his 
 record a sufficient proof of the fact that neither he nor they 
 had accomplished anything? Ten exclusions — one third 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY i8i 
 
 of his class ! The boys for whom he had worked so hard, 
 the boys whom he loved so dearly! This was the recom- 
 pense they gave him. 
 
 It was the fact that he had excluded ten while the other 
 instructors had excluded practically none or one at most — 
 it was this that made his case appear so dark; it was this 
 which brought the wrath of De Soto upon him. But after 
 all, had not the other instructors played falsely — at least 
 the majority of them? Leech, for one, had certainly done 
 so. De Soto had said never to exclude more than three men 
 from any one division ; otherwise, it gave the department a 
 bad reputation. Leech and the others therefore were not 
 acting justly ; they were simply keeping up the reputation — 
 the false reputation. Of course Milton reread his test 
 papers, and, by changing the grades by the method a la De 
 Soto, he had managed to reduce his list of ten exclu- 
 sions to three. This, however, did not reduce the number 
 in Milton's mind, but it at least brought considerable re- 
 lief to the professor; for the Hst had not yet been publicly 
 posted. 
 
 To give the men a chance to take an examination when 
 they did not deserve that chance, when their disinterest in 
 and their disrespect for their studies showed clearly that 
 they were unworthy of it; to allow them to hire a tutor to 
 put them through, to literally permit them to buy a diploma 
 without even paying the university for it — this, to Milton, 
 was disgracefully lowering the standard of scholarship, al- 
 though it gave the public the impression that the students 
 loved their books and that the faculty were by no means 
 neglecting their interest in teaching. It was, in fact, cor- 
 roborating the secret views of the students and the faculty 
 themselves — the view that a boy could get a degree without 
 opening a book. 
 
 That was just what Coddington had done; that was 
 just what Mollis was doing. It was now clear that Hollis 
 never opened his book except when he brought it to 
 Milton's room. The report on Hollis' scholarship, which 
 Milton had heard that morning, still annoyed him ; although 
 
i82 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 he did not forget the fact that Doctor Oswald — Hollis' 
 instructor — was not the type of man to inspire HolHs to 
 study. 
 
 But was Oswald entirely to blame for the fact that he 
 was not an inspiring instructor? Perhaps Oswald had also 
 discovered that instruction would never lead to advance- 
 ment. Could one, after all, reproach Oswald for turning 
 his entire attention from teaching to research? He had 
 even better reason for doing so than Leech had. Leech 
 was a single man and from all appearances he was willing 
 to remain so. His present salary was enough to enable 
 him to live comfortably — certainly more than enough for his 
 present state of existence. But here was Oswald, a temper- 
 ate man, who, with a family to support, had to neglect his 
 teaching because the university would not pay him enough 
 for that alone. Milton began to pity poor Oswald, comical 
 and effeminate as he appeared. It seemed that everything 
 was against this unfortunate instructor : His looks, his 
 voice, his actions all seemed to retard his progress; his 
 students laughed at him and threw erasers at his carefully 
 brushed clothes (Leech's clothes had never felt a brush) ; 
 his children had measles ; his mother-in-law, lumbago ; he 
 had no money to pay the doctor bills; and here was this 
 fiend. Leech, who with money enough and to spare, was 
 not only trying to keep it out of reach of the almost im- 
 poverished man, but also took a malicious delight in doing 
 so. Was it any wonder Oswald seemed irate and uninspir- 
 ing to his students? Was it any wonder his voice was 
 under strain? Milton would not beHeve Oswald had mar- 
 ried simply to gain the sympathy and attention of those who 
 controlled his advancement. Oswald had another reason : 
 Not all men are contented with selfish isolation, a whiskey 
 bottle and a box of tobacco ; some are more human and long 
 for the companionship of a loving wife and children. A 
 loving father always makes an inspiring teacher. Is it not 
 possible that Oswald's failure to inspire resulted, in great 
 part, from the resistance which came from all directions 
 against his efforts? 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 183 
 
 Milton decided that Oswald had really shown himself 
 superior to De Soto in wishing to exclude Harold HoUis ; 
 for by doing so, he would have brought Hollis around to 
 his senses — the ability to do which is the real test of the 
 truly inspiring teacher. Nevertheless, he hoped there might 
 be a change in schedule for the following term, because he 
 believed Hollis would brace up under a new instructor who 
 devoted his entire attention to his teaching and his students 
 — an instructor who had no researches to lessen that inter- 
 est. Milton himself was such an instructor ; and yet, had not 
 Milton excluded ten? 
 
 Then what was at the bottom of it? What was the 
 cause of so much poor scholarship? Ah! it was neither 
 Hollis nor Oswald nor Milton who were at fault ; it was the 
 general idea in vogue at the university — ^the universal idea 
 that neither teaching nor learning amounted to a row of 
 pins. De Soto had expressed the unimportance of teaching ; 
 Coddington had expressed the folly of learning. But Mil- 
 ton had defied both; he bravely undertook to learn and to 
 teach. He was successful in learning, but he had failed 
 miserably in his first attempt at teaching. However, he was 
 not discouraged. His failure only served to open his eyes to 
 De Soto's method of grading test papers and to Leech's 
 views of the university. 
 
 After all, De Soto himself had lacked the moral courage 
 to state the naked truth; he had left that coward-like to 
 his understudy. There was indeed nothing radically differ- 
 ent in the opinions expressed by the two men: Leech's 
 were crude; De Soto's were varnished. If De Soto had 
 had a deeper insight into the mind of his so-called prodigy, 
 he would never have sent him to the hole of this toad, 
 whose confession that his students never came within a 
 radius of six feet of his desk only served the more to in- 
 flame the mind of Paul Milton with a desire for closer con- 
 tact between the teacher and the taught. But it was not 
 De Soto, after all, who sent the boy on his mission. De Soto 
 was merely an avenue through which the power was con- 
 ducted — that same power which had pushed Paul Milton 
 
i84 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 up the stairs to follow May Stanley and open his eyes to 
 the conditions amidst which he was living. It would have 
 been far more pleasant to have called on Doctor Wellworth. 
 Wellworth was a human looking man with humane interests. 
 He was a teacher — a man deeply interested in his students. 
 All this mental turmoil would have been avoided had Well- 
 worth's ideas been the first to reach Milton's ears before 
 they were poisoned. But now the poor boy's mind was set 
 at variance against the ideals of his beloved university ; 
 for he soon began to think that all instructors in all depart- 
 ments entertained the same views on teaching as Leech 
 himself. He believed Leech's policy was the general policy : 
 Pass your men and say nothing — research is the only thing 
 that counts — it is downright nonsense to take an interest in 
 one's students — research itself is just as nonsensical — a 
 mere fad. What a shallow thing the university was be- 
 coming! How it began to sink before the eyes of Paul 
 Milton ! How he longed to save it and restore it to what 
 a university should be! The "good and great purpose!" 
 At last it was unfolding to him. Providence was surely 
 leading him by the hand. 
 
 Yes, it was Providence which had lead him into the 
 watchdog's kennel and into the toad's hole. These two 
 men — Sweeny and Leech — were now vivid in his mind. 
 Horrible and inhuman as they seemed, they had a mission. 
 One had pointed out to him the defects of the undergrad- 
 uates ; the other, the defects of the faculty. Here were 
 the two distinct parts of the university — the student and 
 the teacher, or, more true, the so-called student and the so- 
 called teacher. Each was at fault — each a separate unit 
 in no way related or connected to the other by friendship 
 or fraternal bonds. His hatred for Sweeny and Leech was 
 growing less and less ; they were the microscopes through 
 which he had been able to see more plainly the evils of the 
 two departments, exaggerated, magnified perhaps, just as 
 the germs, which undermine the health and welfare of the 
 human constitution, must first be viewed and studied 
 through a very powerful lens before we are convinced that 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 185 
 
 they exist and before we can take action upon their ex- 
 termination. 
 
 Milton recalled once having seen a case of buzzards and 
 vultures at a museum. Tliey were ugly horrible-looking 
 birds of prey, hovering over the dead body of a deer, which 
 had been wounded by a hunter's arrow. The deer had 
 sought a secluded spot among the bushes, where it might 
 die in peace. The carcass had been there for sometime; 
 otherwise the buzzards and the vultures could not have 
 found it, for they scent, not the pure and the clean, but 
 only that which is putrid and decadent. Time had ripened 
 the flesh and prepared it for their gruesome feast, and there 
 they were, shrieking and gorging, their beaks and claws 
 besmeared with blood. The scene was revolting. And yet 
 the card which described the exhibit stated that these birds 
 had their place and use in Nature; they were scavengers 
 who soon detected the presence of decay and rottenness, 
 upon which they fed, and, by so doing, kept the atmosphere 
 sweet and pure. 
 
 Thus Sweeny and Leech also had their places and uses 
 in the university world. What God cannot accomplish 
 through Nature, He accomplishes through man. These 
 men were the human vultures which God had sent to detect 
 injustice and corruption, to gloat over it, and to point it 
 out to others who wished to make the university a cleaner 
 and more honorable community. 
 
 Yes ! Milton had been dreaming. Sweeny was right. 
 The violin had closed his eyes and ears to the corruption 
 which was thriving about him, and he decided not to 
 touch it again until he had done his part in clearing away 
 the evil which was undermining the health of the Alma 
 Mater. Yes ; music is very beautiful. It had kept him clean 
 and upright, as it had kept his own father. But it is not 
 enough that we see only to our own cleanliness and moral- 
 ity. Of what good is our goodness if we do not use it as 
 a shield in fighting the evil which is degrading others ? 
 
 True enough his mother had once called his attention 
 to the birds, who sang so beautifully in the tree tops because 
 
i86 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 they were near God; but God has created other birds as 
 well. He has created some that cannot sing so beautifully, 
 some which only shriek and scream — the buzzards and the 
 vultures. We must listen to them also, for they are attract- 
 ing our attention to the corruption which is endangering 
 the lives of those of our fellow-men who are so unfortu- 
 nate as not to be able to appreciate the songs of the whip- 
 poor-will and the nightingale. It is not sufficient that those 
 of us who love only beauty and purity should sit by our- 
 selves listening to the music which elevates only our own 
 souls; it is also necessary that we hear occasionally the 
 shrill, coarse cry of the vulture to arouse us from our peace- 
 ful dream and enlist us in the army which is fighting for 
 the salvation of the souls of our brothers. The vulture ! — 
 he too is one of God's birds, terrible though his song may 
 seem. 
 
 Milton wanted to rush forward to battle, and yet he 
 felt that he should not go alone. There came to him sud- 
 denly the thought of Harold Hollis. He recalled the even- 
 ing he had spent in Hollis' room before the bright warm 
 fire and the picture which Hollis had shown him — the pic- 
 ture of a girl — a girl who had already enlisted in the army 
 which was fighting for morality. Curiously enough, this 
 girl had continued to remain in Paul Milton's mind. He did 
 not know her, but she seemed to beckon him onward. It 
 was the girl whom Hollis would some day marry and for 
 whom Hollis wanted to do something big to feel that he 
 deserved her. Here was a great cause for which he and 
 HolHs could work side by side. How he rejoiced over the 
 thought of helping to join the boy he loved with the girl 
 whom that boy loved ! 
 
 It was the night before the last weekly test in Calculus. 
 Milton could scarcely wait until he heard the rap on his 
 door, which would announce the arrival of his pupil. He 
 would tell Hollis to again take interest in the studies he hafl 
 neglected, and he would explain his plan for their working 
 together like two brothers to ameliorate the university. He 
 lay there on his bed expecting every moment to hear Hollis' 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 187 
 
 footsteps on the stairs — Hollis! who would bring so much 
 happiness and love, and who would now help him solve a 
 problem — the great problem which had set fire to his mind 
 and filled it with burning enthusiasm. How he longed, 
 yearned, craved for the boy ! 
 
 Some one knocked. Milton jumped up quickly and 
 opened the door. He was standing face to face with Miss 
 Jones. 
 
 "Here is a letter for you," she said sweetly. 
 
 "Do come in," said Milton urgently. "I wish to speak 
 with you. I am going to ask something of you." 
 
 He had decided to lay his plans before Hollis' aunt 
 that she too might use her influence to bring them together. 
 He knew she was optimistic, but he would try to convince 
 her of the need of reform as he saw it. 
 
 "Gladly," said Miss Jones, taking the rocking chair be- 
 fore the fire and still holding in her lap the letter which 
 Milton, in his enthusiasm, had forgotten. 
 
 "I am miserable," he began. 
 
 "Oh," said Miss Jones, with compassion. 
 
 "You have always seemed so happy to me," he continued. 
 "I used to watch you from my window when I roomed 
 across the street. I used to wish I lived in your house 
 That is why I moved over here. I thought I would be hap- 
 pier. That is why I came here." 
 
 "Are you not happier?" she asked. 
 
 "No;" he answered, "I believe there are times when I 
 am far more miserable." 
 
 "You are too much alone," she suggested. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I realize that; but the nearer I try to 
 get to those whose presence I yearn for, the farther away 
 they seem from me, and the more unhappy I become." 
 
 "Are you unhappy even now?" asked Miss Jones, with 
 hesitancy. 
 
 "I have never been more so," he answered. 
 
 "I do not understand you; you must make yourself 
 clearer." 
 
i88 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 "You will understand me when I tell you what I wish 
 to ask of you," he explained. 
 
 "I am waiting to hear it," she responded. 
 
 Milton sat down on the floor between Miss Jones and 
 the little gas-stove. The mellow light illuminated his face, 
 and she saw that he was suffering and sad, that something 
 was weighing heavily upon his mind, that he was yearning 
 for something which seemed to be denied him. 
 
 "I crave ; I hunger ; I thirst," he said. 
 
 "For what?" she asked. 
 
 "For love," he answered. 
 
 She said nothing, only reached out and stroked his head 
 tenderly. The door to Milton's room had been left partly 
 open. Harold Hollis had noiselessly ascended the stairs, 
 and was standing unobserved in the hall. Milton sighed 
 with joy when he felt the touch of Miss Jones' hand. 
 
 "Just that; just that," he murmured. "If I could do 
 but that. If only I could allow myself to do but that — 
 just that." 
 
 "Just what ?" she asked. 
 
 "The touch — the contact — the union," he said. 
 
 "The union of man and woman," she added, continuing 
 to smooth his hair. "Ah, you should have a companion — 
 a wife." 
 
 "But I must first earn one; I must first accomplish a 
 broader union," said Paul. 
 
 "Not the union by marriage?" 
 
 "No ; the union of man and man — brotherhood." 
 
 Miss Jones withdrew her hand abruptly. 
 
 "We live here in a university," began Milton. "There 
 are two distinct parts to the community — ^the faculty and 
 the students. What common relation exists between them? 
 None. How can they therefore better each other? They 
 can't. 
 
 "Here are the faculty and the students, each with widely 
 divergent pursuits. The faculty symbolize mind and work ; 
 the students symbolize body and pleasure. The faculty are 
 satisfied to let the students continue their pleasure; for by 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 189 
 
 making physical pleasure foremost in student interests, the 
 work of the faculty meets with no interference or interrup- 
 tion. The students are satisfied to let the faculty continue 
 their work ; for by making mental work foremost in faculty 
 interests, the pleasure of the students meets with no ob- 
 jection or prevention. Each destroy their own end by over- 
 developing it at the sacrifice of the other. The farther the 
 interests of the two groups are separated, the happier they 
 seem to be. And what is accomplished? Nothing. What 
 is the meaning of education under such conditions? Alas, 
 there can be no education — the word is meaningless. 
 
 "Select the man on our faculty who is most applauded 
 for his achievements — a great scientist. Mentally he is 
 brilliant, but bodily he is stunted — devoid of physique. 
 Furthermore, his extraordinary mental development has car- 
 ried his thoughts so far in advance of the average man that 
 his works are likely to be useless to mankind in general. 
 
 "Select the man among our students who is most ap- 
 plauded for his achievements — a great athlete. Physically 
 he is perfect, but mentally he is dull — devoid of intellect. 
 Likewise, his extraordinary physical development has car- 
 ried his appetites so far in advance of the average man that 
 his pleasures are likely to be ruinous to mankind in general. 
 
 "Neither the scientist nor the athlete is human. One is, 
 in a sense, superhuman ; the other, animal. They are ex- 
 tremes, antagonists. Their interests are exact opposites. 
 In neither is there a proper coordination of mind and body. 
 One shuns physical effort; the other, mental effort. There 
 is no friendly relation between them and their interests, 
 and no effort is made to bring them together into a com- 
 mon brotherhood. The gulf between them widens and deep- 
 ens from year to year. Here we erect a costly stadium 
 for athletics ; there we erect a costly laboratory for research. 
 But what do we erect for scholarship ? Those who are sup- 
 posed to teach have no interest in the subject they teach or 
 in the students to whom they teach it ; those who are sup- 
 posed to learn have no interest in the books where learning 
 is written or in the teachers who are to impart it. What 
 
190 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 chance has scholarship under such conditions? What is a 
 university without scholarship? without this contact — this 
 brotherhood between the teacher and the taught? 
 
 "There must be a reform. How will it come about? 
 Two centers or nuclei must appear : one, among the faculty ; 
 the other, among the students. There must be a union be- 
 tween these two centers ; they must come together as broth- 
 ers. The union of these two centers will eventually lead to 
 the union of the two forces, — the mental and the physical, — 
 which they represent. Then, and not until then, will edu- 
 cation have its true meaning and a significance. 
 
 *T have volunteered to be the center on the faculty. As 
 to the center among the students — I see him also. / have 
 already united myself with him, but he has not as yet come 
 in close enough contact to enable me to explain freely what 
 we could accomplish in working side by side for our com- 
 mon cause. The students could have no better representa- 
 tive than he. He is a youth, honorable, bright, clean, whole- 
 some, manly. He has not yet been ensnared by the tempta- 
 tions which surround him. There is one whose influence 
 keeps him upright. He is noble, grand, great; and you 
 have done much to keep him so. You have guarded him, 
 watched him, and protected him in the absence of his 
 mother as though he were your own child. You are a 
 mother to all your students, but you have been closer to 
 him than to all the others. You are his blood relation. 
 He has felt the great power of good in you — the great 
 power which resists evil. He has felt it in the kiss and 
 caress the mother gives her boy when she places him in his 
 cradle ; he has felt it in the kiss and caress which she gives 
 as she sends him off to school; he has felt it in the kiss 
 which she continues to give him when she goes to rest at 
 the end of her happy day and he steals to her chamber to 
 clasp her lovingly to his manly bosom. You know that 
 boy. Bring him to me; he does not seem to care to come. 
 You love him, but your love for him is no greater than 
 mine. Now you understand why I am lonely, why I am 
 miserable, why I crave for the fraternity of the brother 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 191 
 
 who is going to help me reform our Alma Mater — your 
 nephew — Harold HoUis." 
 
 Hollis had intended leaving when he discovered Miss 
 Jones stroking Milton's head as the instructor revealed his 
 craving for love — and yet something, perhaps that same 
 Providence, held him there. But when his own name came 
 at the very end of the soliloquy, it seemed he could not 
 get air enough to enable him to breathe ; he crept down the 
 stairs and then ran down the street in search of his friends, 
 whose company, he hoped, would help him forget all he 
 had seen and heard. 
 
 Miss Jones was silent during the soliloquy. She had lis- 
 tened with interest to all Milton had said, although he 
 seemed wholly unaware of her presence. She believed he 
 was talking to some one other than her — to some invisible 
 companion. His eyes had been fixed in the direction of the 
 little stove before him. Its door was made up of several 
 thin bars of iron, radiating from an open semi-circle. The 
 golden light, reflected from the copper lining through this 
 grating, gave the effect of a sunrise. No doubt the reader 
 has seen just such a stove. Milton was speaking as one in 
 a dream. He imagined his sun was gradually rising higher 
 and higher while the light, which it diffused, was becoming 
 brighter and brighter, illuminating his little world among 
 the stars with hope and faith and love. After he men- 
 tioned the name of Hollis, he turned his head and saw large 
 tears streaming from Miss Jones' eyes. 
 
 "Why do you weep ?" he asked softly. 
 
 "It is all so wonderful," she sobbed. "Your idea of 
 what a university should be compared with what it is. Your 
 wish, your thirst, your hunger, your desire to make the 
 students better, more upright, more studious, more clean. I 
 am going to help you do it. You must not know just yet — 
 in fact you may never learn in what way I have assisted 
 you; it is best for both of us that I do not mention it. 
 But you have shown me the proper path. Know that I shall 
 always be thinking of you and your noble work, and help- 
 ing you to succeed with your undertaking. I can do some- 
 
192 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 thing to prevent, in a small degree, the conditions you have 
 observed in your surroundings, and which have incited in 
 you the spirit of reform. I shall be glad to play my part 
 in your work of reconstruction. It shall be but a small 
 fraction and therefore I shall expect no credit at all. Let 
 us not speak of it further. Good night." 
 
 Milton offered her his hand, and she held it firmly in 
 her grasp for an instant, her handkerchief to her eyes. 
 Then the door closed softly ; she was gone. The light from 
 Sunrise fell full upon the letter which had slipped unob- 
 served from Miss Jones' lap to the floor. Milton opened 
 it and read : 
 
 Dear Mr. Milton: — 
 
 I am sorry indeed if it has appeared to you that I have 
 insinuated that your work in the classroom was unsatis- 
 factory. I want you to feel that we have in no way lost 
 interest in you. A new assistant always has more or less 
 difficulty getting his class in running order. We shall hope 
 for better results next term. Do not allow any matter con- 
 cerning your students to discourage your interest in the 
 greater task for which you are destined, and for which 
 the university has now installed you on its faculty : I shall 
 speak with you later in regard to your thesis. 
 
 Another matter : One of our undergraduate fraternities 
 has decided to erect a beautiful new building on the same 
 site where their present domicile stands. The wrecking 
 of the old structure will begin at the end of the present 
 college year, and the new one will not be ready for occu- 
 pancy until year after next. The members of that fraternity 
 have obtained permission from the faculty to use, as tem- 
 porary quarters for a part of their brotherhood, a private 
 residence recently willed to the university. We must, ac- 
 cording to our rules, place a member of the faculty in this 
 building to act as proctor. I thought you might like to 
 consider the position. The free room will save you the 
 expense of rent, which, in a way, might be considered as 
 an addition to your salary aside from the contemplated 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 193 
 
 increase which your excellent teaching during this term 
 seems to justify. 
 
 We will talk these matters over in greater detail when 
 it is convenient for us to do so. 
 
 Yours very truly, 
 
 Ambroise De Soto. 
 
 Milton folded the note and pressed it against his heart, 
 which was beating madly with ecstasy; the fraternity re- 
 ferred to was that of which Harold Hollis was a member. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 WHAT HAPPENED TO JONES? 
 
 The next morning Milton read the note again. This time 
 he studied it more deeply than he had the night before, 
 and realized that De Soto's wrath over the "ten exclusions" 
 was mostly excitement; he expected the old professor to 
 take the matter differently as soon as he had regained his 
 self-composure. This part of the note seemed only natural, 
 but the thing that puzzled Milton was De Soto's attitude 
 in regard to his moving into a fraternity house. The head 
 of the department had plainly told Milton that he was giv- 
 ing too much attention to his students in the classroom, 
 and yet here he was trying to bring about closer contact by 
 appointing him as proctor over their dormitory. 
 
 Milton conducted his usual morning recitation directly 
 after breakfasting, and then called at De Soto's private 
 office. 
 
 "Good morning," said the geometer, smiling. "I take it 
 you have received my note." 
 
 "Yes," said Milton. 
 
 "I thought perhaps you would mention it at the close of 
 the meeting of the Mathematical Club. You hurried off 
 so last night." 
 
 "I only found the note after I returned to my room 
 from the meeting," explained Milton. 
 
 "Oh, I see," said the geometer. "Sit down, and let us 
 talk it over." De Soto cleared his throat. "I feel that I 
 owe you an apology for the attitude I took toward the result 
 of your teaching yesterday. I lose my self-control so easily. 
 However, let us forget that. By the way, did you call on 
 Doctor Leech ?" 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 195 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "And he informed you as to the nature of the tests we 
 give to our students?" 
 
 Milton nodded. 
 
 "Leech is a genius — a great mathematician," added De 
 Soto. "I hope you will some day be his equal if not his 
 superior." 
 
 De Soto expected a remark from the boy, but the latter 
 decided to let the professor do the talking; he learned 
 more by it. 
 
 "Of course his appearance is very much against him, 
 but then we can't all be handsome; some of us must have 
 brains. A few of us are fortunate enough to have both — a 
 very few," he added, leaning back in his chair and twisting 
 his mustache on the end of his finger. "Leech has certain 
 mannerisms which annoy all of us at first, but his remark- 
 able mentality soon causes us to forget them. He is un- 
 married, which is very much in his favor. A man who is 
 fashioned by nature *to strike new springs of thought' — 
 as Huxley puts it — can't very well be bothered with a wife 
 and children. It was Lord Bacon, I believe, who said that 
 memory, merit and noble works are proper to men while 
 the perpetuity by generation is common to beasts." 
 
 And Milton wondered under which category Leech be- 
 longed. 
 
 "After all," continued the professor, "the money of a 
 university should be used for the advancement of science 
 and not for feeding the mouths of the children of its 
 faculty. Babies are all right in their place, but we should 
 not be so tender-hearted as to pity the instructor who holds 
 them before us on his pleading arms to ask for an increase 
 in the father's salary, or who offers them as an excuse for 
 the absence of his contributions to science. It is mental 
 and not material production that should serve as a basis for 
 professional remuneration and promotion. Human love 
 is an element which makes the home, but it defeats the real 
 purpose of a university. When a man becomes interested 
 in science, he sees how far superior it is to marriage, and 
 
196 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 he realizes that human love, and even Christianity, to a 
 certain extent, are farcical and illusory." 
 
 To Milton, that moment, the thin transparent body of 
 the great geometer looked exactly like an icicle which he 
 had seen hanging from the roof that morning just outside 
 his window. The geometer's statement that human love 
 defeated the real purpose of a university was one which 
 Milton could not easily forget. 
 
 "And now in regard to your thesis," began De Soto, 
 emphasizing the pronoun as though his former discourse 
 had been intended as a piece of advice for Milton's future, 
 "of course you understood some of the things I explained 
 to you at the Club last night. Were you able to follow me ?" 
 
 "Not very well," said Milton. 
 
 "I tried to make it very plain for your special benefit,'* 
 remarked the geometer, "but I realize it is very advanced 
 in its nature. I did not expect you to understand it imme- 
 diately. Later on, you will run across certain topics in 
 your graduate courses which will make things clearer, but 
 even so, you will have to give a great deal of time to special 
 study before you can master it. I am going to give you all 
 — one hundred and thirty-two pages; and I shall ask you 
 to look them over just as soon as you find it convenient 
 to do so." 
 
 The geomter unlocked a drawer of his desk and took out 
 a stack of papers. 
 
 "You understand," added De Soto, "that I am always 
 ready to help you in case you run across anything which is 
 obscure; and there will be much of that. If you need more 
 time, I shall gladly read your test papers for you. Through- 
 out the work there are numerous problems suggested. The 
 solution of these will constitute your thesis. I myself have 
 labored on the more important and more difficult part — the 
 theory. The thesis submitted for the Degree of Doctor of 
 Philosophy must be deposited at the university library on the 
 first day of May of the same year in which the degree is 
 conferred. It is now close to the first of January. You 
 will get your degree one year from the coming June. There 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 197 
 
 is no need for hurry. You have sixteen months, including 
 the summer vacation. It is expected of course that you 
 will devote the coming summer to the preparation of your 
 dissertation — just a few hours each morning. You will 
 enjoy that, I know. Most members of our faculty do the 
 greater part of their researching during vacation, when they 
 are not tied down by their teaching." 
 
 And Milton thought how Leech was tied down by his 
 teaching. 
 
 "The final work will be published under my name, and 
 I shall make especial mention, in the preface, of all your 
 problems and valuable suggestions. The complete work — 
 including the preface — will later be translated into many 
 foreign languages, and, while serving to advance the stand- 
 ing of this great university, it will, at the same time, intro- 
 duce you to the ever-growing world of mathematical re- 
 search. Now in regard to the proctorship — " 
 
 Milton was glad to hear this abrupt change in the topic 
 of conversation. He was well nigh weary of the professor's 
 babble on research. 
 
 **Have you considered that ?" 
 
 Milton answered in the affirmative. 
 
 "And at present you are rooming at — " 
 
 "At 97 Walnut Street." 
 
 "Oh, yes; that is the house run by Miss Jones," said 
 De Soto. 
 
 Milton thought it extraordinary that the professor should 
 be so well posted ; but Milton did not know that some one, a 
 few years before, had reported to the faculty how the stu- 
 dents of that house had taken a girl in through the window. 
 
 "How long have you been there?" asked De Soto. 
 
 "This is my second year." 
 
 De Soto reflected a moment ; the event had occurred be- 
 fore Milton roomed at that house. 
 
 "During your stay there, have the students seemed well- 
 behaved ?" 
 
 "Yes;" answered Milton, "quite well behaved — the in- 
 fluence of Miss Jones keeps them so." 
 
198 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 "Miss Jones makes a good landlady; does she?" asked 
 the professor, as he absent-mindedly turned over some of 
 the papers on his desk. 
 
 "An ideal landlady," answered Milton. "She runs her 
 house more like a home than a dormitory." 
 
 "She speaks very highly of the morals of the students, 
 and opinions of that nature are very helpful to the uni- 
 versity. Aliss Jones is well thought of by the university 
 officials." 
 
 "She is a good woman," said Milton. 
 
 "Yes," said De Soto, scratching his chin. 
 
 "There are enough indecent ones in the community," 
 added Milton. 
 
 "No more than there are in any other community," said 
 the professor. "Have you decided to accept the proctor- 
 ship?" asked De Soto, anxious to change the subject. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Aside from the money, which a free room will save 
 for you, is there any other reason which leads you to make 
 the change?" 
 
 Miss Jones had refused to accept rent of Milton, al- 
 though he had offered it several times. 
 
 "It is not the idea of a free room that leads me to make 
 the change ; it is the idea of living among the students and 
 influencing them as well as I can in matters of conduct." 
 
 "You help Miss Jones in that too; do you?" 
 
 "No; but when I become a proctor, I shall feel it my 
 duty to do so." 
 
 "Oh," replied De Soto, "your responsibilities will be 
 very light indeed. We are not placing you in the building 
 as a watchdog." 
 
 The name watchdog, coming from this man, had a 
 peculiar effect on Milton; he wondered if De Soto knew 
 Sweeny. 
 
 "We must not forget that boys will be boys," continued 
 the geometer. "You will find them hilarious now and then 
 when they drink a little more than they should — almost 
 everybody likes beer." 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 199 
 
 "What will my duties be ?" asked Milton. 
 
 "Simply to be there— that's all. It is a rule, you know, 
 that there shall be a member of the faculty in every dormi- 
 tory connected with the university. It makes the parents feel 
 easier about their boys. Some mammas are so afraid their 
 sons will learn a thing or two by experience that we have 
 adopted this means of soothing their nerves. It's mere 
 formality, you understand — mere formality." 
 
 "Am I expected to report ill-behavior?" 
 
 "Not unless it is something serious," said De Soto non- 
 chalantly. 
 
 "For example?" 
 
 "Well, now in case they attempted to burn down the 
 house, it would be well to send in an alarm to the fire de- 
 partment." 
 
 De Soto grinned. 
 
 "But the less you interfere with them the better," he con- 
 tinued. "The men in these fraternities belong to a rather 
 exclusive set; most of them are wealthy. They are not 
 here primarily for the purpose of study; they have other 
 interests — fellowship, football, promenades, etc. If I were 
 you, I should not mingle with them — not too much. You 
 of course will have your work to do ; you will be kept busy 
 solving the problems for my new book.-'* 
 
 De Soto handed Milton the stack of papers. 
 
 "The room, by the way, is the small chamber on the 
 third floor," said the professor. 
 
 "Is that the top floor?" asked Milton. 
 
 "No; there is one other above it, but the rooms on the 
 fourth floor are unfinished and unfit for occupancy. Why 
 do you ask ?" 
 
 "I am accustomed to living in a garret." 
 
 De Soto smiled. 
 
 "It is the only place for a mathematical genius like you," 
 he said, "but as it is, there will be no students living over 
 you; nothing will be done overhead to disturb or hinder 
 your progress in the work on my book in any way.'* 
 
 "Is the room furnished ?" asked Milton. 
 
200 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 "No; but there isn't space for much more than a bed 
 and a desk. You can furnish it easily and inexpensively." 
 
 "I wish to thank you for doing all this for me." 
 
 "Don't mention it; and, by the way, take very good 
 care of my precious manuscript." 
 
 Milton, as usual, had said little but had heard much. 
 De Soto's ideas and opinions were all recorded in his mind 
 along with those of Doctor Leech, Mr. Sweeny and May 
 Stanley. 
 
 When he returned to Miss Jones' house, he found the 
 front door locked. He had never found it so before, and 
 for that reason had never carried a latch key. He rang the 
 bell. There was a heavy step in the hall ; the door opened, 
 and something like a woman confronted him. She was 
 more like a man; there were a few long hairs on her bony 
 chin, and two huge warts on her long pointed nose; she 
 had lost several of her teeth." 
 
 "What do you want ?" she grumbled. 
 
 "I am on my way to my room; I am sorry to trouble 
 you, but I have forgotten my key." 
 
 "Well, you'll need it all the time from now on," she said 
 imperatively, "/'w going to run this house hereafter, and 
 the front door's going to be kept bolted. Miss Jones has 
 been called out of town very suddenly, and she's not coming 
 back again." 
 
 Milton was stunned. 
 
 "What's your name ?" she shouted. 
 
 "Milton." 
 
 "Oh, you're Mr. Milton, are you?" she said with a 
 smile, her voice becoming more civil. "Pardon me for 
 speaking so impolitely. I thought you were one of the 
 students." 
 
 Then the giantess disappeared so suddenly that Milton 
 believed she had dropped through the floor. When he 
 reached his room, he found a note on his desk, stating that, 
 although there had been a change in landladies, the room 
 was still to be his ; that neither the rent for the past nor the 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 201 
 
 rent for the future would be collected ; that the new landlady 
 would be sure to keep the room clean and in order. It also 
 stated, that if he cared to move out of the house at any time, 
 he was entitled to take the furniture with him wherever he 
 might go. Miss Jones herself had signed the note. 
 
 She had told Milton, only the night before, that she was 
 going to help him, and that she was going to prevent at 
 least partially the conditions he had observed. She had 
 also said that she would not speak of it again. It was all 
 so strange, so mysterious that she, who had treated him so 
 kindly, should leave so suddenly without a word of expla- 
 nation. He could not fathom it. 
 
 On his way out to lunch, he noticed that Miss Jones* 
 students were, from all appearances, changing their quar- 
 ters. Evidently they took a strong dislike to their new land- 
 lady. She was certainly less attractive than Miss Jones. 
 One of them was carrying a drop-light under his arm; a 
 second had several pillows and books ; a third, framed pic- 
 tures; a fourth, a Morris chair balanced on his head. 
 Milton recalled that Miss Jones had told him how the stu- 
 dents left all their furniture with her. It was evident that 
 the giantess had manifested little or no kindness during her 
 short regime, for the students would surely have repaid 
 her for it just as they had Miss Jones. 
 
 When Milton returned after the Christmas vacation the 
 first thing to attract his attention was a sign in the window 
 from which the students had lowered the girl. It read : 
 Rooms For Rent, but the rooms remained empty. Milton 
 and the giantess were the only two persons in the house. 
 She said nothing more than "Good morning" and "Good 
 night." Several times he asked her why Miss Jones had 
 left; but he soon gave up all hope of elucidation, for the 
 giantess would close her mouth so firmly that her lips 
 would turn white. 
 
 Harold Hollis discontinued his calls. Milton never saw 
 him again the rest of the year. He concluded that Miss 
 Jones had left without delivering his message, for he be- 
 lieved that Hollis knew nothing of his project — the project 
 
202 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 in which Hollis and he were to work side by side. Once 
 he was on the point of calling on Hollis at the fraternity 
 house, but the admonition from De Soto — ^that it was best 
 not to mingle with this "exclusive set" — prevented his visit. 
 Milton decided that Hollis would visit him sometime soon, 
 but not, however, for assistance on his Calculus. For he 
 now had a new instructor; the new schedule gave him a 
 more inspiring teacher — Doctor Wellworth. No doubt 
 Hollis had revived interest in his studies without Milton 
 urging him — at least Milton thought so, and he was glad 
 to believe Hollis was earning his diploma honestly. But 
 nevertheless HolHs would come back once in a while to see 
 his old friend — the friend who was going to help him win 
 the girl of the photograph by allowing him to assist in "the 
 good and great purpose." Yes ; Hollis would return. How 
 often Milton sat in his room of an evening waiting for him! 
 How often he imagined he heard footfalls on the stairs, 
 breathlessly awaiting the knock which would announce his 
 arrival. But Hollis never came. 
 
 Once Milton descended the stairs and walked to the 
 room at the end of the hall on the third floor. He 
 opened the door; the room was empty, cold and silent. It 
 had not been swept since the last student had deserted it; 
 strangely enough, there were several chestnut shells on the 
 hearth. He imagined he saw the selfsame woodfire begin- 
 ning to glow again, and the boy in his white pajamas on his 
 knees before it. The room seemed to grow warmer, and 
 the soft light illuminated the boy's ruddy face. The flames 
 in the grate rose higher and higher; two of them reached 
 out curiously, like a pair of hungry arms, and drew one of 
 the shells into the fire. The shell squirmed and writhed 
 under the heat which quickly consumed it leaving only a 
 gray weightless powder. The vision of Hollis had disap- 
 peared. The room seemed colder than ever. Milton hur- 
 ried into the hall and quickly closed the door behind him. 
 "It was only an hallucination," he was whispering to him- 
 self, as he ascended the stairs to resume the reading of 
 De Soto's manuscript. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 203 
 
 One night during "prom" week a carriage rolled by the 
 house ; in it were a girl, her mother, and a student. 
 
 "I used to room there my freshman year," said the 
 student. 
 
 "What a dark house !" exclaimed the girl. 
 
 "It is no longer used as a students' dormitory," answered 
 the boy, by way of explanation. 
 
 "The only light I can see is in a little attic window," said 
 the girl, turning her head to see through the small oval- 
 shaped glass in the rear of the carriage, which had already 
 passed the house and was turning the corner. 
 
 "Yes; a graduate student lives up there." 
 
 "All alone 1" said the girl. 
 
 "Yes ; they like to live alone. He lived there also at the 
 same time I did. One night he came down to my room, and 
 I showed him your photograph, but graduate students don't 
 care much about girls." 
 
 "They are more like dead men, aren't they?" said the 
 mother. "They become so buried in their books that they 
 look like worms." 
 
 "Didn't he say anything at all when you showed him 
 the picture?" asked the girl. 
 
 "I believe he said you looked Hke a girl of considerable 
 influence," was the reply. 
 
 The girl sighed softly but said nothing as she sank back 
 among the cushions. 
 
 "He used to sit up there day and night making thread 
 models," said the student, for the sake of conversation. 
 
 "What are thread models ?" asked the mother. 
 
 "Oh," said the student, "they have something to do with 
 his geometry ; our landlady used to say they looked like 
 mouse traps, and they did too." 
 
 "Mouse traps !" exclaimed the mother. "What a rat he 
 must be !" 
 
 And the carriage rolled on. 
 
 A few hours later the student and the girl were dancing 
 to a soft dreamy waltz. 
 
 "Do you remember that glorious night last summer 
 
204 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 when you and I were in the moonhght on the balcony ?" he 
 said. 
 
 The girl did not answer. She closed her eyes. He was 
 pressing her tenderly to his bosom. It seemed her feet no 
 longer touched the floor; she had risen and was floating 
 through the air. She was no longer aware of the presence 
 of the dancers, and the music seemed far below her. 
 
 "You refused me then," he continued. 
 
 "No," she whispered softly. "I only said I must wait." 
 
 "And you have waited; it has seemed like years to me. 
 You know how deeply I love you. Why don't you tell me ? 
 Why don't you promise me that you'll be mine now? To- 
 night !" 
 
 Through her closed eyes she could see a lonely light in 
 a little window — a window among the stars. 
 
 "I must wait," she murmured, "I must wait." 
 
 How lonely Paul Milton was that night and all the nights 
 that followed ! There was a time when he loved to be alone. 
 When he lived in Sweeny's garret across the street, he took 
 delight in his solitude, and yet that garret, with its torn 
 rag carpet and its soiled walls, was anything but comfort- 
 able and inviting. But here, where everything was bright 
 and clean, where the new landlady had the light burning for 
 him every evening when he returned to his room, where a 
 fresh bouquet of fragrant flowers was placed on his desk 
 every morning (for Miss Jones had informed the giantess 
 to do this as soon as Spring came) — here he was unbearably 
 lonely and sad, waiting for the boy who never came. 
 
 Recitations closed. How happy he was to leave that 
 lonely house! He took home with him De Soto's manu- 
 script together with a whole trunkful of books and jour- 
 nals, which he had, by special permission, taken from the 
 university library for reference in writing his thesis. The 
 thought of knowing that, after working hard in the little 
 studio under his mother's roof, he would return to the uni- 
 versity as proctor in Harold Hollis' fraternity made his 
 vacation pass quickly and happily. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE THIRD PROPOSAL 
 
 The Bennetts did not entertain an elaborate house-party 
 at Willow Lodge that summer. Mr. Harold Hollis had been 
 introduced to Norford the preceding summer. It was best 
 now to entertain him more privately. Solitude was neces- 
 sary for Harold and Allaine, thought the parents, if they 
 would ripen "the affair" into an engagement. 
 
 Allaine had never mentioned to her father or mother 
 either of the two proposals of marriage which Harold Hollis 
 had made to her. 
 
 It was Mr. Bennett who invited Harold to spend the 
 summer with them in the mountains. Hollis was delighted 
 to accept the invitation to the cottage. For what could be 
 more blissful than being near Allaine for the entire summer? 
 
 Mr. Bennett's attachment to Harold grew closer each 
 year, and the discovery that the boy had made the same 
 "frat" as Mr. Bennett himself doubly served to strengthen 
 the bond of friendship between them. Allaine noticed that 
 her father was again wearing the Greek letters which he 
 had earlier discarded. He felt that his youth had returned, 
 and he was re-living those happy college days. In his 
 actions, if not in his years, he seemed as young as Hollis 
 himself. He had long ago looked forward to the marriage 
 of this boy and his daughter, and he firmly believed that 
 this very summer on the mountain top would open the bud 
 of courtship. 
 
 The two boys — for they were more like two boys than 
 two men — would tramp for hours each morning in the cool 
 shade of the mountain pines. On these strolls they never 
 mentioned the subject which had earlier interested Mr. Ben- 
 
2o6 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 nett : the immorality in college life. Mr. Bennett had com- 
 pletely forgotten Paul Milton; he even neglected to take 
 his Emersons with him that summer. The presence of 
 Mollis was far more interesting to him just then than the 
 pages which had formerly given him such infinite pleasure. 
 He did not even deem it necessary to mention morality and 
 cleanliness in the company of this clean and upright youth ; 
 for he knew that he had refused to follow his own father's 
 loose counsel, which alone would have brought ruin to many 
 a son. 
 
 Harold had never spoken seriously to Mr. Bennett about 
 Allaine. She must first be willing to give her hand, and 
 then he believed her father's consent would be easily ac- 
 quired. Now, however, since Harold felt that the father 
 had considerable influence over his daughter and might be 
 able to help him in his courtship, he approached the question. 
 
 "We seem to be pretty good friends — you and I," said 
 Harold one morning, as they were strolling along a moun- 
 tain path to see the sunrise. 
 
 Mr. Bennett had his arm across the boy's shoulders. 
 
 "The best of friends," he assured him. 
 
 "Then I can expect your assistance in something," ven- 
 tured Harold. 
 
 "In all things," responded Mr. Bennett. 
 
 "I am not going to try to longer conceal the fact that I 
 love Allaine dearly," began the boy. 
 
 "Why should you?" asked Mr. Bennett happily. "It 
 is only natural that a young man should fall in love. I did 
 it myself once upon a time." 
 
 "Did you have a hard time getting Mrs. Bennett to accept 
 your proposal ?" asked Harold somewhat reluctantly. 
 
 "I met her at the promenade during my senior year at 
 college, and we were married the following June." 
 
 "That was quick work," said the boy. "But Allaine 
 doesn't seem so willing. I have known her now for two 
 years and have been corresponding with her regularly. 1 
 have proposed twice — once on the balcony at Willow Lodge 
 last summer, and again at the 'prom' this winter." 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 207 
 
 "And without success!" said Mr. Bennett eagerly; for 
 he was glad to get the information which Allaine was keep- 
 ing from him. 
 
 "She didn't exactly refuse me either time; she merely 
 asked me to postpone it — to wait, but I love her too much 
 to wait." 
 
 "It is probably for your own good that she has asked 
 you to wait, Harold," said Mr. Bennett. "Allaine is a very 
 sensible girl; very often more sensible than I. She has 
 never mentioned the fact to me, but no doubt she was think- 
 ing of your next two years at the university." 
 
 "Yes ; that is just what she said. But you see I was two 
 years later entering college — ^two years later than the aver- 
 age student, and now I have reached the age when most 
 of the fellows graduate. I am not anxious for a degree; 
 I feel that I have a good enough education now, considering 
 my two years of foreign travel with Dad. I'm not working 
 for a diploma — I don't want a diploma; I want a wife. 1 
 wish to get away from college, and get into a home of my 
 own. I am old enough to love and support a girl. I am 
 not a simpleton ; it isn't a case of 'puppy love.' This affair 
 between Allaine and me is no illusion, honestly, Mr. Ben- 
 nett ; not on my part at least. It is true love — real love — nec- 
 essary love. I am looking for a life's companion. My mother 
 is dead ; you know that. My father has his own interests ; he 
 will probably marry again — maybe very soon. And then his 
 house could never be a home to me. What I want is a home of 
 my own, and a wife to keep me straight and happy. If I felt 
 that Allaine and I could marry, say within a year, my future 
 would be a paradise; but now it is only filled with doubt, 
 longing and sorrow which may, perhaps, result in ruin.'* 
 
 Mr. Bennett could hear an occasional sob as the boy 
 emptied his heart to him. The reference to his deceased 
 mother had filled the elder man with compassion and a 
 deeper love for Harold Hollis. He took Harold's right hand 
 and pressed it firmly. 
 
 "Poor fellow, I shall do what I can for you. I shall 
 talk with Allaine today, and then you can arrange a stroll 
 
2o8 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 in the moonlight tonight; and here's hoping you are more 
 successful this time." 
 
 "This is awfully good of you," said Harold. 
 
 By this time they had reached the summit, and the sun- 
 rise never appeared more glorious and brilliant to the hope- 
 ful young collegiate. 
 
 We shall not record here the conversation which took 
 place between Allaine and her father that evening while 
 Harold was bathing, shaving and dressing for dinner. Dur- 
 ing the interview she never mentioned the name of Paul 
 Milton nor the word reform. She knew that Harold Hollis 
 had driven that name and that word from her father's 
 memory. She knew that had Harold Hollis been her own 
 brother, her father could not have loved him more. She 
 knew that if she refused to gratify her father's wish to claim 
 the boy as a son-in-law, she would break her father's heart ; 
 and rather than break his she decided to break her own. 
 
 The soft, liquid notes of the Japanese gongs floated out 
 into the garden where they first kissed the cool mountain 
 roses and were then wafted through the lattice into Harold's 
 chamber. To him, that dinner call was nothing more than 
 Allaine's sweet musical voice whispering her consent — • 
 whispering that oft-postponed promise, which was to unite 
 their souls. 
 
 How radiant and immaculate he appeared at table! 
 How his eyes seemed to sparkle with ecstasy ! Mr. Bennett 
 told several humorous stories to keep Harold smiling, in 
 order that Allaine might constantly see his perfect, solid, 
 w'hite teeth. Allaine — she, too, looked beautiful, but it was 
 that peculiar, etheral beauty which veils the countenance 
 when the soul is suffering. She smiled also, but her smile 
 was delicate and sweet — as sweet as the pale lilies in the 
 centerpiece; it did not seem to reflect that radiance which 
 beamed upon it from across the table — a radiance more 
 splendrous than the sunrise that morning. 
 
 "We shall have coffee served on the veranda, James,'* 
 said Mrs. Bennett. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 209 
 
 The sun had set, but the sky was still bright— so bright 
 that the moon was only faintly visible behind the pine woods. 
 
 "Let us walk to the summit, Allaine," suggested Harold. 
 "The pine trees do not stand in the way of the moon there. 
 We shall watch it rise higher and higher." 
 
 Allaine placed her untouched coffee on the mahogany 
 tray. 
 
 "Perhaps father and mother would like to accompany 
 us," she said, gazing pleadingly at Mr. Bennett, but she 
 imagined his face frowned mercilessly. 
 
 "We shall remain on the veranda," said the father. "We 
 have seen the moon rise very often before." 
 
 Harold offered Allaine his arm, and they strolled out 
 through the garden, among the flower-covered bushes. 
 
 "How happy they are 1" said Mrs. Bennett, as they dis- 
 appeared behind the tall pines. 
 
 "Just as happy as we were then," said Mr. Bennett. 
 
 "Just as happy as we are now and ever shall be," added 
 the wife. "It is this which has brought us together again; 
 it has in fact rewedded us and awakened the old love of 
 former years and dispelled the cold indifference which 
 seemed to have invaded our life." 
 
 Consequently there were more than one pair of lovers 
 watching the moon that night. 
 
 Harold and Allaine were slowly ascending the mountain 
 path. Once they heard a whip-poor-will call to its mate, 
 and afterwards there was only moonlight and silence. Each 
 step was bringing him nearer and nearer to her, and each 
 step was taking her farther and farther from the boy she 
 loved. By the time they had reached the summit, the moon 
 had risen above the pine trees and was shining with un- 
 usual splendor. 
 
 "You know why I have brought you here, Allaine," he 
 began. 
 
 "Yes ; Father has told me all." 
 
 "He told you that my father is about to marry again, 
 and that I shall then be all alone ?" 
 
 "Yes," she said. 
 
210 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 "And you are going to brighten that loneliness of mine 
 just as the moonlight is brightening the solitude of the pine 
 wood. You are going to make me happy, AUaine, by scat- 
 tering the darkness which surrounds me. You alone can do 
 that. You are going to promise me tonight — now — ^that 
 no one shall ever take you from me. You will not ask me 
 to wait any longer; will you, Allaine? Speak, Allaine, 
 speak — tell me you are mine." 
 
 She looked out across the mountains — ^to the east — to the 
 north — to the west — to the south. They seemed like the 
 mighty waves of a silver ocean — waves which were coming 
 nearer and nearer — waves which were about to claim her 
 and carry her away from the boy she had loved and lived 
 for. Where was the ship that was coming to save her? 
 Where was her rescuer? Where was the little head light 
 which had heretofore, at just such perilous moments as this, 
 given her the strength to resist and to wait ? 
 
 Ah! the night was clear enough, but the old-fashioned 
 oil-lamp was too far away. Yet, at that very hour, Paul 
 Milton was working under its steady, golden glow. 
 
 "Why don't you answer?" he cried. "You are tearing 
 my heart. Why do you let me suffer ?" 
 
 "Do not suffer," she murmured. "I know how terrible 
 it is to suffer ; I shall relieve you. I promise ; I promise." 
 
 "Allaine! Allaine!" 
 
 Her head fell upon his bosom, and she began to sob piti- 
 fully; the waves had claimed her — his strong arms were 
 drawing her closer and closer to his heart. He, too, was 
 weeping, but they were tears of happiness which trickled 
 down his ruddy cheeks and nestled among the curls of her 
 soft bright hair. 
 
 In the fall, Hollis returned to the university, where he 
 was to spend one more year. Then they were to be mar- 
 ried in June. Yes; Mrs. Bennett had arranged all that— 
 Allaine and Harold would be united in the month of June 
 on the anniversary of her mother's wedding. No formal 
 announcement of the engagement was to be made until 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 211 
 
 late in the winter, when Mrs. Bennett planned to send out 
 cards to that effect. Nevertheless, her most intimate 
 friend, Mrs. Samson Pokes, was informed of everything 
 as soon as the Bennetts returned to Willow Lodge. But 
 when that fashionable lady hears anything — well, Mrs. 
 Samson pokes it into several other ears as well. Conse- 
 quently, Allaine's engagement to Harold Hollis soon became 
 the chief topic of conversation in every social circle of 
 Norford. 
 
 The Pokes twins had met Mr. Hollis at the time of the 
 house party at Willow Lodge, when they adored him. How 
 often they spoke of him and his bonne mine between them- 
 selves ! and to think that he never paid the slightest atten- 
 tion to their French Songs and had proposed to Allaine 
 Bennett, who didn't know a word of French and who low- 
 ered herself to visit the common folk in the has guar tiers! 
 They consoled themselves by concluding that he had no 
 sense whatever, however handsome he might be ; and Mrs. 
 Pokes agreed with them — although she gushingly compli- 
 mented Mrs. Wallace Bennett very highly and sincerely on 
 her future son-in-law. 
 
 Allaine was not paying much attention to the prepara- 
 tions which were being made for the reception and for the 
 wedding too. It seemed to her that everything was being 
 planned centuries in advance. She left all to her mother, — . 
 even the selection of the bridesmaids, — ^because Mrs. Ben- 
 nett knew how to arrange and manage such things exquis- 
 itely, and she did them so happily and enthusiastically too. 
 
 In the meanwhile, Allaine returned to her charity work. 
 While calling among the tenements, she was able to resume 
 her secret visits to Alice Milton. She had decided to tell 
 the widow everything, because she knew she would learn 
 of it sooner or later. She said that, to please her father, 
 she had consented to marry his college friend's son. She 
 admitted that Harold was a gentleman in every way, and 
 that he loved her dearly, but that it had broken her heart 
 to accept him ; because she had hoped and prayed that she 
 might marry the widow's son — the boy whom she had in- 
 
212 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 duced her father to send to the university — ^^the only boy 
 whom she ever had loved or ever would love. There was 
 one thing which helped to solace her: the fact that Paul 
 had never known that she loved him, that her love for him 
 had not awakened his love for her, which might have kept 
 him away from his studies and stood in the way of his 
 success. And she made the widow promise she would con- 
 tinue to keep this secret forever — the secret of which only 
 Alice and Allaine knew. How it pained the widow ! For 
 she had longed to call Allaine her daughter more ardently 
 than Mr. Bennett had longed to call Harold his son. She 
 had believed with certainty that the day would soon come 
 when she and Allaine would live together and do all they 
 could for Paul, but now all her hopes were blighted, and 
 she sat beside the girl, and both of them wept bitterly. In 
 the presence of her father and her mother, Allaine managed 
 to keep up her spirits; it was only at the widow's cottage 
 that she shed her tears. The widow was the only human 
 soul with whom she shared her sorrow — the only person in 
 Norford who could really comfort her. 
 
CHAPTETR XIX 
 
 THE FINAL IMPETUS 
 
 The proctor's room in the house which the fraternity 
 had leased from the university as their temporary quarters 
 was Httle larger than an alcove. It was, in fact, originally 
 intended for use in connection with the very spacious room 
 adjoining it. The partition between these two rooms was 
 very thin, but the door through this partition had been 
 heavily bolted from the other side. Milton entered his room 
 through another door — one which opened into a general 
 hallway. He removed the desk, the chair, the rug, the cot 
 and the lamp from Miss Jones' attic, as she had requested 
 him to do ; he also decorated the new walls with the pictures 
 of his old friends — the famous mathematicians, which De 
 Soto had given him. After Milton had hung his clothes in 
 the narrow closet, the janitor carried his empty trunk to 
 the fourth floor, and placed it in the room just overhead. 
 
 The house was not large enough to domicile all the mem- 
 bers of the fraternity; only the juniors lived here. The 
 other members had found quarters elsewhere. Harold Hollis 
 was of course a junior now, and, as chance would have it, 
 he and his roommate occupied the spacious room next to 
 Milton's alcove and separated from it by the bolted door. 
 
 Milton had just gone to bed for the first time in his new 
 room. He was half asleep, when he felt some one slap him 
 on the thigh in a friendly way. He woke up with a start 
 and found a boy sitting on the edge of his cot. The room 
 was almost dark ; there was just enough light for Milton 
 to observe that the boy was in white pajamas. He could not 
 see his face, but plainly detected the odor of liquor on his 
 breath. 
 
214 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 "What's the matter ?" asked Milton. 
 
 "Pardon me," said the boy, with a hiccough between the 
 two words. "I must be in the wrong bed;" and he stag- 
 gered through the door. 
 
 A few minutes later that boy was fast asleep breathing 
 heavily in his own bed, which was beside Milton's and sep- 
 arated from it only by the thin partition already referred to. 
 
 Milton never found out who it was that made the visit ; 
 he didn't care to know. The visitor himself never knew 
 what had happened. 
 
 The term rolled on. Milton had remembered De Soto's 
 advice: not to mingle too much with the "exclusive set.'" 
 In spite of the fact that he was living at a house in which 
 every room was occupied, he found himself more lonely 
 than he had been in Miss Jones' house after it had been 
 vacated by all except himself. 
 
 Although the rooms were luxuriously furnished, al- 
 though they were palaces of comfort, nevertheless, the stu- 
 dents cared very little to be in them. They were usually 
 at recitations, ball games, "movies," theatres, taverns, or 
 strolling about town. The house was a dormitory in the 
 truest sense — in it they did little more than sleep. After 
 dinner in the evening, they rarely returned to their rooms 
 until ten and eleven o'clock, when they would open a text- 
 book and study for perhaps fifteen minutes, then either go 
 to bed or leave the house again, some of them remaining 
 out all night and returning in the morning to find the lights 
 still burning over their deserted desks. On Saturdays, the 
 majority of them left town to be gone until the following 
 Monday or Tuesday. 
 
 Milton was not at all astounded when he attended the 
 first Junior faculty meeting of the year and learned that 
 half of the men in the fraternity house were on probation 
 and most of the remaining ones on official warning. He 
 began to understand why there had been "ten exclusions" 
 in his division the preceding year. The poor boy at one 
 time believed that most students studied as conscientiously 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 215 
 
 as he himself had studied in Mr. Sweeny's garret, but now 
 he was learning differently. But as he was requested not 
 to report anything until the students "attempted to burn 
 down the house," he kept silent. He understood also that 
 Oswald's being an uninspiring teacher was not the only rea- 
 son why Harold Hollis had neglected his studies. 
 
 Nevertheless, he had not lost hope. He still believed 
 in Harold Hollis. If HolHs had neglected his studies, he 
 would profit by the serious results of it. He still entertained 
 the hope that he would have him as a fellow-worker for 
 "the good and great purpose." He could not, however, quite 
 understand the change which had come over the boy. Nev- 
 ertheless it only served to deepen his love for him. He 
 wondered why the boy never came into his room, as he had 
 done in preceding years. Milton never went into Hollis' 
 room, because he had the feeling that a proctor was not 
 welcome there. Earlier in the year Hollis used to speak 
 when they met on the stairs, but later he seemed to avoid 
 him. Often Milton would not see him for weeks. But this 
 separation only brought Hollis nearer to him. Milton was 
 happy — happy that he was again under the same roof with 
 the boy he loved — happy that he always slept at his side, 
 even though there was a thin partition between them. 
 
 Milton never closed the door of his own room. He kept 
 it open day and night whether he was at work or asleep. 
 It seemed to bring him nearer to the students, however dis- 
 tant they were to him. Hollis often passed the open door 
 and, on entering his own room, would close his sometimes 
 with a violent slam ; that slam always pained Milton. There 
 was one night in each week when the fraternity marched 
 to its tomb. That night the house was left in total dark- 
 ness, and black shades were drawn over all the windows. 
 This added much to the loneliness of the proctor. He was 
 always glad to hear the clock strike midnight and to hear 
 the footsteps of the returning fraternity come nearer and 
 nearer. He was glad when he heard Hollis pass his open 
 door — ^glad to be near him again on the other side of the 
 partition. Such a thin partition ! 
 
2i6 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 Milton still upheld Hollis as a representative student. 
 He still considered him upright and clean — an example 
 whom other students might well follow. What Milton 
 wanted to do for Hollis he wanted to do for every student 
 in the house, for every student in the university : he wanted 
 to preserve their manhood and their honor. 
 
 The thesis was progressing rapidly. He had completed 
 the greater part of it during the summer. He had worked 
 almost all the problems suggested in De Soto's manuscript, 
 and was now engaged in drawing, with brilliantly colored 
 inks, the final figures which were to accompany them. He 
 had procured a package of paper of the exact size and 
 quality which De Soto himself had used, for Milton intended 
 to insert the problems at the proper places throughout the 
 manuscript and wanted his work to conform accurately with 
 the professor's. The quality of Milton's paper was the 
 same, but the quality of the work which Milton had placed 
 upon it was far superior to that of the scientist. There was 
 indeed as much art as there was science in Milton's thesis, 
 which formed a stack of papers just as high as that which 
 the geometer had given him with the warning to preserve 
 them carefully. 
 
 Milton's thesis had not banished his earlier experiences 
 from his mind ; it did not affect him as his music had done. 
 Leech, Sweeny and May Stanley often loomed up to remind 
 him, it seemed, that he had not yet performed that other 
 duty. At times when he was troubled most by these mental 
 storms, he found shelter in his thesis — shelter, but not 
 escape. The thesis did not stop the downpour — the torrent 
 of thought, which beat upon his brain ; it merely served to 
 lessen the pelts, for he could always hear it splashing and 
 dashing above him, far away perhaps, but always within 
 earshot. During the night he sometimes awoke suddenly 
 with the feeling that a great weight was resting on his brain 
 or that his head was clamped in a vise. The voice was 
 still calling him — the inaudible voice. The music from his 
 vioHn might have silenced that voice, but Milton did not 
 wish to silence it. He wanted to be awake. He wanted to 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 217 
 
 be alert, ready to respond to the cry of the vulture. He 
 wanted to know and understand his fellow-men as they 
 were. Miss Jones' optimism had vanished almost simul- 
 taneously with Miss Jones herself. 
 
 He only began to realize how wonderful his solitude was. 
 It was not the same solitude which his music had produced 
 — ^the solitude which isolated him bodily and mentally from 
 his fellow-beings. It was a solitude which was bringing 
 them into every hour of his daily life. It was an isolation 
 which was uniting him to them inseparately. He was closer 
 — far closer to them now than he would have been had he 
 allowed himself to throw his arms about their necks. 
 
 Allaine Bennett had indeed selected the right boy to 
 send to the university to accomplish that which her father 
 had desired. Mr. Bennett had sent a boy who saw far more 
 deeply into the causes of conditions than Mr. Bennett him- 
 self had seen. Mr. Bennett saw them only from the point 
 of view of a student. Milton had seen that far when he 
 had completed his senior year in Sweeny's garret. It was 
 only natural that Mr. Bennett grew impatient because the 
 youth had not acted earlier. But Providence knew better 
 than Mr. Bennett ; so did Allaine. Providence was showing 
 Milton the matter from all points and angles. Providence 
 was holding the boy back until he saw all and the more 
 important causes which lay at the very root of the immor- 
 ality which flourished around the university. 
 
 Allaine had once told her father that the reason why 
 Paul Milton had not undertaken or agitated a reform was 
 because the things he had seen had not come close enough 
 to the boy's own heart. The girl was quite right. If that 
 moment should ever arrive when the boy's own heart were 
 pierced, then the bulb, now latent as a weight on his mind, 
 would burst; and it would bloom, nourished by the warm 
 blood gushing from the wound and by the penetrating ray 
 of light which had caused it. 
 
 It was next to the last day of the term, just before the 
 Christmas vacation. The students were closeted in their 
 
2i8 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 rooms with tutors, preparing for the last examination. As 
 in Coddington's case, their pleasures had rendered them 
 mentally unfit and too stupid for self-reliance and applica- 
 tion. Milton had solved and copied the last problem in 
 De Soto's manuscript, and the two stacks of papers — the 
 professor's work and Milton's thesis — were on his desk com- 
 pleted. The thought of a Christmas vacation without the 
 burden of mental labor was a happy one, and he had visions 
 of the restful three weeks he would spend with his mother 
 at the little cottage with no thesis to take him from her. 
 He decided to pack his trunk at once. 
 
 The janitor was out, and Milton himself ascended the 
 stairs to the trunk room, which was just over his alcove. 
 While searching for his own among the many other trunks, 
 he noticed a picture — an un framed picture standing on a 
 wooden box. It was a picture of a football squad and was 
 rather faded. Nevertheless he could plainly distinguish 
 the faces of the players — especially the player in the center 
 of the group, who was no other than Tom Kuhler. Some 
 one had written across the picture this inscription: The 
 Varsity Squad that won the Greatest Victory in the History 
 of the University. 
 
 Milton had always learned much in garrets — unpleasant 
 things which he would rather not have learned, but things 
 which seemed nevertheless to lie in wait for him — things 
 which destiny would not permit him to escape. He picked up 
 the picture to view it more closely, but just as his eyes were 
 about to meet Tom Kuhler's they fell on something else: 
 behind the picture stood four small bottles and four syringes, 
 one of which was plainly labeled "HOLLIS." Milton felt 
 himself grow deathly sick ; his face became ghastly pale, and 
 he sank to the floor in a faint. When he came to, he was cov- 
 ered with a cold sweat. He arose and staggered from the 
 room, his knees trembling as though he were being pursued 
 by a poisonous serpent — the serpent of victory, which he had 
 awakened from its long sleep, coiled up in a nest of slime. 
 
 Little wonder that the boy always heard that splashing 
 tempest above ! When De Soto had assigned the proctor to 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 219 
 
 his alcove on the third floor, he had told him there would 
 be nothing done overhead to disturb him. If every room on 
 that fourth floor had been occupied and if in every room 
 each night the students had executed a war dance, it would 
 not have disturbed Milton one small fraction as much as 
 this secret cure and prevention, which they practiced so 
 silently directly over his head. 
 
 When he reached his room he fell across the bed and 
 wept. He lay there for one hour, trying hard to control 
 himself, but in vain; it seemed a knife had entered his 
 heart, and he could not stop the wound. He was bleeding — 
 bleeding for Harold Hollis — the boy whom he loved and 
 whom he had hoped would help him clean the university. 
 
 Dusk was approaching. Milton's eyes were red with 
 weeping; his head, as well as his heart, was throbbing with 
 pain. His love for Hollis had, with this discovery, increased 
 tenfold, and with it a love for all the students of the uni- 
 versity. He jumped from the bed, with a voice ringing in 
 his ears ; it may have been the cry of the vulture, or perhaps 
 it was the voice of God : 
 
 "Go forward! Fight for your brother! Do not faint, 
 but fight! Save them! Die for them if it must needs be! 
 Forsake all! Sacrifice all! Leave all! Follow only me 
 by leading the great battle for Good and Right !" 
 
 The street lamps came on suddenly and illuminated the 
 faces of the great modern mathematicians which were 
 tacked on the wall. 
 
 "What have they done?" cried the voice. "What have 
 they done for humanity? What have they cared for hu- 
 manity ? Nothing. They locked themselves up in their gar- 
 rets. They forgot that humanity existed. They ignored 
 humanity — ignored it as it sank lower and lower, crying for 
 help outside their selfish sanctums. Souls were going to 
 perdition and ruin ; the Spirit of Christian Brotherhood was 
 going there also. And what had replaced it? The works 
 of genius. And what were these? Nonsense — worthless 
 stuff which would mold and rot unread on the shelves of 
 our Hbraries, black with dust and darkness ! And this was 
 
220 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 enlightenment ! This was progress ! This was the great 
 purpose of a university ! This was the purpose which 
 human love defeats ! Well might it defeat it ! Enlighten- 
 ment ? It is not enlightenment ; it is blindness. It closes the 
 ^es of genius to suffering humanity. It closes the ears of 
 genius to the wails of fellow-men. Burn your research! 
 and let the heat from the flames warm the icy heart which 
 has ceased to beat in your cold inhuman bosom ! Burn your 
 research ! and let the light of the flames show you the proper 
 path — 'the path of love, brotherhood, Christianity — ^the path 
 which God has laid out for you to follow ! Burn your re- 
 search ! and let the roaring of the flames open your ears to 
 the silent cries of your suffering brothers ! Burn your re- 
 search ! and scatter the ashes to the wind ! Burn it ! Burn 
 it ! Burn it !" 
 
 Milton heard the crackling of a large wood fire in Hollis' 
 room and saw the red reflection on the wall outside his 
 door. In another moment he had seized the thesis, rushed 
 through the hall into Mollis' room, and hurled the stack of 
 papers among the flames. The fire roared; the heat beat 
 against his face, flushed his cheeks, and dried the tears in 
 his eyes — those large dark eyes which were now beaming 
 as brightly and as wildly as the flames themselves. How 
 it thrilled him to see his thesis reduced to weightless ashes — 
 the thesis on which he had wasted a whole summer, and 
 which was now leaving him free, as it floated lightly up the 
 chimney to be scattered on the wind ! 
 
 A flake of the burned paper floated out into the room. 
 Milton watched it drifting through the air. It finally set- 
 tled on Hollis' desk just in front of a girl's photograph — 
 the picture of Allaine Bennett. His heart was wounded 
 afresh. He took the frame in his hands and sank before 
 the hearth into the davenport. This was the girl whom he 
 had so longed to see united with the boy he loved. This 
 girl who should have been the first and only woman to re- 
 ward Hollis with the sweet pleasure which his work for a 
 great cause would have merited ! How much he had wanted 
 Hollis to enjoy that pleasure — the pleasure which could 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 221 
 
 bring him nothing but happiness and smiling children! 
 What happiness would there be in that union now ? HoUis 
 had tasted that pleasure before he had earned it, and, as 
 Alice Milton said, he was visited by disease. Some woman 
 had usurped the sacred rights and joys which belonged to 
 this girl alone. Some woman had poisoned the boy, and he 
 might in turn poison this innocent girl, whose sweet pure 
 face Milton now held between his own hands. A tear fell 
 upon the glass through which those eyes seemed to gaze so 
 knowingly, so approvingly. How he had yearned to make 
 her happy by preserving the manhood of the boy who had 
 first shown him her beautiful face that night before the fire- 
 place ! What a happy night that was for Milton ! But now 
 — Alas! it was only too true — he saw the shell consumed 
 by the flames, as it lay there, squirming and writhing with 
 pain. 
 
 "Is your room cold?" asked a voice behind him. 
 
 He turned about quickly and saw a boy lying on the bed 
 — a boy wrapped in an ash-colored corduroy robe. Milton 
 had not seen that boy's face for an age. The cheeks were 
 no longer blooming; they seemed yellow and withered like 
 the halves of a pod which has already scattered its seed. 
 The lips were thin and colorless; the forehead, no longer 
 smooth. The eyes, which had turned toward Milton, were 
 dull and heavy. 
 
 "I hope I haven't disturbed you." 
 
 "No," said Hollis coolly. "I'm not feeling very well, and 
 I thought I would try to sleep a little." 
 
 "I am sorry I awoke you." 
 
 "It doesn't matter; I shall soon fall asleep again. '^ 
 Hollis' head fell back on the pillow, and he turned his face 
 toward the partition. 
 
 Milton left the room on tiptoe and closed the door softly. 
 When he reached his own, he found that he had unknow- 
 ingly carried Allaine Bennett's picture with him. Rather 
 than disturb Hollis again, he placed it upon his own desk. 
 The surrounding darkness seemed to intensify the light 
 which the street lamps cast upon the wall. He could see 
 
222 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 the faces of the mathematicians though not distinctly. They 
 had changed, it seemed, since he had burned his research ; 
 they were sneering at him, and their revengeful eyes fol- 
 lowed him about the room reproachfully. He snatched the 
 pictures from the wall and tore them into a hundred shreds. 
 Then he put on his hat and coat, and left the room. 
 
 When he returned after his dinner, he did not light his 
 desklamp immediately, but lay on his bed for an hour or 
 two in the darkness. His thoughts were with the boy in 
 the other room. He imagined he could see those hollow 
 cheeks through the partition. How gladly he would part 
 with his own blood to restore them to their former ruddi- 
 ness! Milton's room was growing cold. How he longed 
 to go into Hollis' room and talk before the cheery woodfire, 
 but he feared he might disturb him. 
 
 It was too early to retire. What should he do? He 
 again donned his hat and overcoat for a long walk through 
 the snow. In the hall all was still save for the occasional 
 moaning of the wind among the rafters on the fourth floor. 
 It sounded like a serpent hissing up there — a serpent which 
 had been cornered and which was fighting to defend itself 
 against some dauntless hero who had appeared to extermi- 
 nate it. 
 
 Milton stopped outside Hollis' door; he imagined he 
 heard the boy breathing heavily. Should he leave him alone 
 in the house? Suppose he should awaken and wish some 
 warm food. It would not do to allow him to go out ; for 
 the thermometer registered zero, and the snow was falling 
 so abundantly that it stood a foot high in the streets. 
 
 Milton was about to take off his overcoat when he heard 
 the front door open. Two boys entered, one helping the 
 other up the steps. Perhaps this "brother" would also help 
 the sick man, and attend to getting him some food. Milton 
 felt more satisfied, and after the stairs were cleared, he de- 
 scended and started out for his walk. 
 
 The streets were alive with students. It was the last 
 night of the term — the last night of the old year which they 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 22^ 
 
 would spend in college. They were out celebrating, snow- 
 balling one another. A dozen or more of them stood before 
 a brilliantly lighted saloon. 
 
 "Doc Leech has passed all the men in his division!" 
 shouted one of them, just as Milton was passing. 
 
 "How do you know?" asked another. 
 
 "He has done it for the last five years, and there's no 
 reason why he shouldn't do it again. I haven't done a 
 stroke of work for him all term." 
 
 "Hurrah for Leech! Let's all have a drink to his 
 health!" 
 
 And with one accord, they filed through the swinging 
 doors. 
 
 Milton walked on. Ten minutes later he passed 53 Mel- 
 lon Street. The shades of the windows on the second floor 
 were closely drawn, but on one of them he saw the shadow 
 of Doctor Leech with a bottle lifted to his lips. 
 
 Later he met three students from his own house, stag- 
 gering along and trying to hold one another up. Not wish- 
 ing to see them, he turned into the dark side street he was 
 about to cross. After walking a few squares, he heard the 
 twangy notes of an ancient piano. Two students opened 
 a door on the other side of the street, and he saw several 
 couples dancing within. One couple in particular appeared 
 more conspicuous to him than the others ; he had seen both 
 their pale worn faces before — one several years ago, the 
 other but a few hours since. Milton groaned. 
 
 Then it was May Stanley — the tail of the serpent of vic- 
 tory — who had poisoned Harold Hollis. Milton hurried 
 away, his eyes burning with unshed tears. If he could only 
 enter that house and persuade Hollis to return again to the 
 dormitory. He knew that the others who were dancing 
 would laugh at him, but even so, he must do it. He turned 
 to retrace his steps, but he was lost. The music had ceased, 
 and the house had disappeared as if by magic. The night 
 was still ; and the snow fell silently and thickly over all. 
 
 Milton walked on — he knew not whither. He was think- 
 ing of all the things that had happened since his own visit 
 
224 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 to May Stanley's establishment with Arch Coddington, now 
 so long ago. It seemed some invisible hand was leading him 
 where he could have a last glance at those things which 
 should incite him to reform the community. It was growing 
 colder and colder. The icy wind pierced his overcoat, and 
 cut into his back. He began to tremble and shiver ; his teeth 
 clattered. He was lonely. Even a kennel would be com- 
 fortable; even a dog would be company. But a light in 
 the lower windows made him doubt if he was really stand- 
 ing before Mr. Sweeny's house. He rang the bell to make 
 sure. Mr. Sweeny himself answered it. He seemed glad 
 to see his fathful servant, helped him off with his coat, and 
 ushered him into the front room, which was nice and warm. 
 
 "You have a light in this room now," said Milton. 
 
 "Yes," replied Sweeny, "ever since Miss Jones has left 
 town." 
 
 Milton was startled at the remark. 
 
 "What has that to do with it ?" asked the boy. 
 
 "We don't have to watch her house no more; it was 
 the only loose house on the street. You've heard about it — 
 hain't you?" 
 
 "I knew she had left town; but I didn't know why," 
 said Milton. 
 
 "Well, its time you're findin' out. She was a clever one 
 • — she was," snickered Sweeny. 
 
 "What do you mean?" asked the boy. 
 
 "And you livin' in the house with her, and never knowin' 
 it ! I just thought so." 
 
 Milton had once suspected Miss Jones, and he began to 
 wonder now if that suspicion was perhaps correct. 
 
 "Well," continued the landlord, "she run a sort of harem 
 over there. It was different from the old Sultan's harem — 
 just the opposite. She was the Sultan herself, and her 
 students were her husbands. Do you get me ?" 
 
 Milton determined to listen to the cry of the vulture, 
 horrible and vulgar as it was. 
 
 "They went into her room on scheduled time — each man 
 had his night in the week," added Sweeny. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 225 
 
 Milton shuddered, for he recalled how Mollis' visit on 
 his aunt occurred regularly on the night the Mathematical 
 Club met, and how he had seen him leaving her room when 
 he was returning from the meetings of the club. He could 
 not believe that Hollis had deliberately lied to him about 
 his family relation to Miss Jones, but the next remark of 
 the landlord removed all doubt. 
 
 "What was your night with Aunt Clarabelle?" asked 
 Sweeny, emphasizing the word Aunt. 
 
 Milton colored. 
 
 "Don't blush," said the landlord. "Every one in the 
 whole town knows you're a virgin. The students told me 
 you was as slow as a snail. They yelled and laughed when 
 they heard that you was goin' to be a proctor for that bunch 
 you're livin' with now. They said the faculty might just 
 as well have put a curlin' poker in the house to keep them 
 guys straight. You didn't care to believe what I told you 
 about this university; did you? I suppose you're goin' to 
 get another degree this June — one of them Ph. D.'s or D. 
 F.'s or something like that. Keep on; you'll learn some- 
 thing some of these days." 
 
 After Milton left Mr. Sweeny's room, he glanced at the 
 house across the street. It was in that house that he had 
 first met the boy who was going to help him reform the 
 university. That house was now dark and deserted. Hollis 
 had lied to him, but Milton now loved the boy more deeply 
 than ever, and in him he still saw a mighty fellow-reformer. 
 The things which Hollis had done would make him a 
 more ardent reformer than Milton himself. Hollis had 
 seen far more of and had come far closer to immorality 
 than Paul Milton ; he had been swamped in the very quag- 
 mire which both of them would strive to exterminate. 
 Was it not their combined action which had already raided 
 and destroyed one of these quagmires — the dark building 
 on the other side of the street? Was it not their com- 
 bined action which had sent Miss Jones out of the com- 
 munity? and sent her out voluntarily? When Milton 
 realized that he had unconsciously opened this woman's eyes 
 
226 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 to her own wrong, he knew the work of reform had already 
 begun ! 
 
 He was considerably happier when he returned to the 
 fraternity dormitory than when he had left it. He lighted 
 his desklamp; the picture of AUaine Bennett smiled up at 
 him, filling him with encouragement and spurring him on 
 to continue the battle — the fight for God and righteousness. 
 It was with some reluctance that he returned the inspiring 
 photograph to the desk in Hollis' room. Then he undressed, 
 extinguished his lamp, and retired, leaving the door of his 
 room open as usual. 
 
 He lay there for some time awake, waiting for Hollis 
 to return. He wanted to have his fellow-worker at his side. 
 The partition between them was becoming thinner and thin- 
 ner ; he knew that it must eventually give way. 
 
 He was almost asleep when he heard a student stumbling 
 up the stairs. The student did not pass Milton's open door ; 
 he stopped before it, and cried out into the darkness with a 
 voice that quivered with misery and dejection: 
 
 *Tt is you who have ruined me. I had a mistress — one 
 whom I could trust — one who took great care not to pol- 
 lute me. You took her away from me; you banished her. 
 I heard all you told her; I was standing outside your door 
 just as I am tonight. You sent her away from me, and 
 I had to find another, because I couldn't resist it. I couldn't, 
 I tell you; I tried, but I couldn't. And I found one, — an 
 ordinary street rat, — and she has ruined me, poisoned me, 
 rotted me. This is what you have brought me to. You! 
 You ! You ! Don't look at me or speak to me again." 
 
 Milton sprang from his bed and ran into the hall. Hollis 
 had entered his own room and closed the door with a vio- 
 lent slam. Milton tried to open it, but it was bolted from 
 the inside. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE MESSAGE FROM 
 
 They were sitting together at the Httle table. He had 
 just arrived that morning and how glad and proud she was 
 to Drepare and serve his breakfast! 
 
 "It feels so good to have you home again," said the widow. 
 
 *T have never been gladder to come home — to come home 
 to you and to Christmas. The real meaning of Christmas 
 is wonderful ; isn't it, Mother ?" 
 
 "Yes, my son, but tell me — must you spend your whole 
 vacation working on your thesis again ?" 
 
 "That thesis is finished." 
 
 "Finished !" exclaimed the widow. 
 
 "Yes, Mother." 
 
 "Oh! I am so glad. I was beginning to grow a wee 
 bit jealous of it, Paul, because it kept you away from me 
 so much." 
 
 "It has kept me away from everybody. It was a hor- 
 rible thesis — a worthless thesis !" 
 
 "Paul! No, no; I did not mean to say that." 
 
 "But I do," replied Paul. "It was nothing but foolish, 
 nonsensical geometry — highly theoretical — absolutely im- 
 practicable — there was not one word in it to benefit man- 
 kind — there was not a thought in it that would cheer a 
 human heart or save a human soul. It was all bosh — noth- 
 ing but bosh from beginning to end." 
 
 "Paul ! Paul ! What has come over you ? This thesis 
 is going to bring you your degree. I shall see my son march 
 up the aisle of that grand old chapel among all those great 
 and dignified men of learning in their gold-tasseled caps 
 and colored velvet robes; and the great pipe organ — the 
 
228 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 majestic voice of God — will pour forth its song of praise 
 from a hundred golden throats; and the President of the 
 University will read your name — and perhaps he will some 
 day place one of those purple velvet hoods over your head." 
 
 "Never over my head, Mother," said Paul. 
 
 "But, Paul! don't you understand that this is the good 
 and great purpose for which you have left me these many 
 years ?" 
 
 "You have the wrong idea of greatness, Mother. True 
 greatness does not consist of such superficial ostentation. 
 Our commencement processions with men dressed up in red, 
 green, blue and yellow robes trailing along after a brass 
 band — why it is almost as spectacular as a circus parade !" 
 
 "Paul ! Paul !" was all the astonished widow could say. 
 
 "It is true. Mother — that is mere ostentation ; not great- 
 ness. Instead of conferring honorary degrees and velvet 
 hoods upon these great scientists and artists and lawyers 
 and poets, the university would do better to reform itself 
 — to Christianize itself. When a man has done something 
 which pleases God, God doesn't decorate him like a clown 
 in a circus. All of this is done to give the university pub- 
 licity — not to reward the man's work. And then the public 
 thinks what a wonderful place the university is — but if they 
 only knew !" 
 
 "I don't understand you, Paul." 
 
 "O Mother, I have never told you anything, but I have 
 seen and heard so much that my heart is sick. I am dis- 
 gusted with universities through and through. I am going 
 to give up my teaching, my geometry, my research, every- 
 thing ; and I am going to fight for improvement— fight for 
 humanity — fight for brotherhood — fight for God." 
 
 "With a sword !" exclaimed the widow — for her son did 
 appear somewhat terrible just then, as his hand grasped the 
 handle of the table knife with a piece of red jelly trembling 
 on the end of the blade. 
 
 "No ; with a pen. I am going to write another thesis. 
 I have destroyed — I have burned the old one — burned it, 
 Mother, burned it !" 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 229 
 
 "Burned it?" gasped the widow. 
 
 "Yes, thank God," said Paul, and his large eyes at that 
 moment seemed to reflect again the light of the roaring 
 flames which had devoured his work on De Soto*s manu- 
 script. 
 
 "But the university hasn't given you all these free schol- 
 arships for the purpose of fighting against its principles. 
 The Alumni sent you there to help the university — to im- 
 prove it." 
 
 "That is just what I am going to do," responded Paul. 
 "The principles of the university are wrong and inhumane. 
 I am going to serve it by bettering them." 
 
 "But, Paul dear, it is not only at the university that such 
 conditions exist. They are prevalent the world over; it is 
 the principles of the world that are wrong and inhumane." 
 
 "True, Mother; yet who but educated men can under- 
 take to reform the world, and how will the world ever be- 
 come reformed as long as students themselves are immoral ? 
 Don't you see clearly that there's only one place to begin 
 the amelioration of the universe? The university." 
 
 He had convinced her. 
 
 "But does the university know what you intend to do?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "No; only you and I know it. Don't tell any one else. 
 Promise me : promise me you won't. I wish to work alone." 
 
 Alice promised, but immediately added : "You can't do 
 it alone, Paul." 
 
 "No ; not without God." 
 
 The widow was silent. 
 
 "It is God who is going to help me," said Paul. "He 
 has already helped me ; He has shown me this path, and it is 
 to Him only that I must look for further guidance." 
 
 "You are right, my boy — ^you are quite right." 
 
 And Paul arose from the table and threw his arms about 
 his mother's neck. 
 
 "You won't mind it — will you Mother ? — if I spend most 
 of my vacation up there," he said, pointing overhead, "up 
 there in the studio." 
 
230 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 "What doing?" asked the widow. 
 
 "Receiving messages — God's messages," was the answer. 
 The mother looked at her son curiously, and then she 
 seemed to understand everything and nodded with a smile. 
 "The good and great purpose !" she murmured. 
 
 When Paul went up to the studio the first thing his 
 eyes fell upon was the set of Emerson with which "The 
 Alumni" had presented him. He had never looked inside 
 of them, because his geometry had kept him away. He took 
 the volume of Lectures and Biographical Sketches from the 
 shelf and opened it, by chance, to the very page on which 
 the essay on Perpetual Forces ended. His eyes became 
 focused on a sentence in the middle of the last paragraph : 
 The soul of God is poured into the world through the 
 thoughts of men. He at once concluded that "God's mes- 
 sages" were to come through these books, and, strangely 
 enough, from that moment on, he read during the entire 
 Christmas vacation, beginning early each morning and read- 
 ing late into the night. It seemed he could not leave the 
 books ; he clung to them as though his eyes were glued to 
 the print. It seemed he was reading his own autobiography 
 — his past, his present, and even his future, as he wished 
 to see it. Each word was a light — ^a lamp, which illuminated 
 the path over which he had already trodden as well as the 
 path over which he was yet to pass. 
 
 And to think that the alumni had sent them — The 
 Alumni of his Alma Mater! After all, they wanted him 
 to do the very thing which he himself had decided to do. 
 Then they did see something more noble than football! 
 Tom Kuhler had received their applause — but what did that 
 wild exotic screaming amount to? How could the boister- 
 ous cheering of that infuriated mob ever incite a man to 
 accomplish something worth while? There was no true 
 reverence in that mad display of animalism. It was the 
 unseen and unheard message which the alumni were voic- 
 ing in these books — only this could lead a hero to real 
 greatness. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 231 
 
 At the end of the vacation, Milton had completed read- 
 ing most of the volumes, underlining and double-underlin- 
 ing something on every page — sentences which were to help 
 him. He had come home without a single book in his trunk, 
 but when he returned to the university he packed the entire 
 set among his clothing, wrapping them in his shirts and 
 linens to prevent them from becoming bruised and torn dur- 
 ing transportation. He told his mother he was taking back 
 a trunkful of friends — not friends who conversed on dry 
 mathematical topics, but friends who spoke beautifully and 
 forcibly — friends with a love for humanity. He could 
 never be lonely again with such as these. 
 
 Milton was unaware of the fact that, while he was read- 
 ing at night, there was often a girl gazing through the 
 studio window from the little stone balcony at Willow 
 Lodge. Her engagement to Mr. Harold Hollis was an- 
 nounced publicly at a monstrous reception which was held 
 shortly after Milton returned to the university. It was 
 almost as happy and as merry a Christmas for Mr. and Mrs. 
 Bennett as it was for Paul Milton in his studio. But it was 
 a sad Christmas for the engaged couple : they had not even 
 spent that day together. Harold had sent Allaine a letter 
 in which he stated that his absence would be due to the fact 
 that his father was soon to be married again, and that he — 
 Harold — felt that they should spend the last Christmas in 
 their old home together, for it would never seem like home 
 again. But he went on to say that he was looking forward 
 to the next Christmas, when he and Allaine would be living 
 happily in a little home all of their own. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 WHAT MILTON UNDERLINED IN EMERSON 
 
 Now and then a man exquisitely made can live alone, and 
 must ; but coop up most men and you undo them.* 
 
 But one condition is essential to the social education of 
 man, namely, morality/ 
 
 Let him look on opposition as opportunity/ 
 
 It is what is done and suffered in the house, in the con- 
 stitution, in the temperament, in the personal history, that 
 has the profoundest interest for us.** 
 
 Genius and virtue, like diamonds, are best plain-set — set 
 in lead, set in poverty.** 
 
 The great make us feel, first of all, the indifference of 
 circumstances. They call into activity the higher percep- 
 tions and subdue the low habits of comfort and luxury ; but 
 the higher perceptions find their objects everywhere; only 
 the low habits need palaces and banquets.** 
 
 It is the iron band of poverty, of necessity, of austerity, 
 which, excluding them from the sensual enjoyments which 
 make other boys too early old, has directed their activity in 
 safe and right channels, and made them, despite themselves, 
 reverers of the grand, the beautiful and the good.** 
 
 For we do not listen with the best regard to the verses 
 of a man who is only a poet, nor to his problems if he is only 
 an algebraist; but if a man is at once acquainted with the 
 geometrical foundations of things and with their festal 
 splendor, his poetry is exact and his arithmetic musical." " 
 
 There can be no greatness without abandonment."" 
 
 No, what has been best done in the world, — ^the works of 
 
 •Society and Solitude. "Civilization. fEloquence. 
 
 ••Domestic Life. ° ° Works and Days. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 233 
 
 genius, — cost nothing. There is no painful effort, but it is 
 the spontaneous flowing of thought/" 
 
 I have known persons of rare ability who were heavy 
 company to good social men who knew well enough how to 
 draw out others of retiring habit; and, moreover, were 
 heavy to intellectual men who ought to have known them. 
 And does it never occur that we perhaps live with people too 
 superior to be seen, — as there are musical notes too high for 
 the scale of most ears ?* 
 
 A scholar does not wish to be always pumping his brains ; 
 he wants gossips.* 
 
 The third excellence is courage, the perfect will, which 
 no terrors can shake, which is attracted by frowns or threats 
 or hostile armies, nay, needs these to awake and fan its 
 reserved energies into a pure flame, and is never quite itself 
 until the hazard is extreme ; then it is serene and fertile, and 
 all its powers play well." 
 
 'Tis said courage is common, but the immense esteem in 
 which it is held proves it to be rare. Animal resistance, the 
 instinct of the male animal when cornered, is no doubt com- 
 mon; but the pure article, courage with eyes, courage with 
 conduct, self-possession at the cannon's mouth, cheerfulness 
 in lonely adherence to the right, is the endowment of ele- 
 vated characters." 
 
 They can conquer who believe they can." 
 
 Courage is directness, — the instant performing of that 
 which he ought." 
 
 Morphy played a daring game in chess : the daring was 
 only an illusion of the spectator, for the player sees his move 
 to be well fortified and safe." 
 
 True courage is never ostentatious." 
 
 There is a persuasion in the soul of man that he is here 
 for cause, that he was put down in this place by the Creator 
 to do the work for which he inspires him, that thus he is an 
 overmatch for all antagonists that could combine against 
 him." 
 
 Sacred courage indicates that a man loves an idea better 
 " 'Work and Days. •Clubs. "Courage. 
 
234 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 than all things in the world ; that he is aiming neither at pelf 
 nor comfort, but will venture all to put in act the invisible 
 thought in his mind.' 
 
 Wolf, snake and crocodile are not inharmonious in 
 Nature, but are made useful as checks, scavengers and 
 pioneers ; and we must have a scope as large as Nature's to 
 deal with beast-like men, detect what scullion function is 
 assigned them, and foresee in the secular melioration of the 
 planet how these will become unnecessary and will die out/ 
 
 If you accept your thoughts as inspirations from the 
 Supreme Intelligence, obey them when they prescribe diffi- 
 cult duties, because they come only so long as they are used ; 
 or, if your skepticism reaches to the last verge, and you have 
 no confidence in any foreign mind, then be brave, because 
 there is one good opinion which must always be of conse- 
 quence to you, namely, your own/ 
 
 Self-trust is the first secret of success, the belief that if 
 you are here the authorities of the universe put you here, 
 and for cause, or with some task strictly appointed you in 
 your constitution, and so long as you work at that you are 
 well and successful. It by no means consists in rushing pre- 
 maturely to a showy feat that shall catch the eye and satisfy 
 spectators. It is enough if you work in the right direction. t 
 
 Cannot we please ourselves with performing our work, 
 or gaining truth and power, without being praised for it V 
 
 I pronounce that young man happy who is content with 
 having acquired the skill which he had aimed at, and waits 
 willingly when the occasion of making it appreciated shall 
 arrive, knowing well that it will not loiter."*" 
 
 To awake in man and to raise the sense of worth, to edu- 
 cate his feeling and judgment so that he shall scorn himself 
 for a bad action, that is the only aim."^ 
 
 There is the like tempest in every good head in which 
 some great benefit for the world is planted.* 
 
 All the functions of human duty irritate and lash him 
 forward, bemoaning and chiding, until they are performed.* 
 
 Our instincts drove us to hive innumerable experiences, 
 
 "Courage. fSuccess. JOld Age. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY « 235 
 
 that are yet of no visible value, and which we may keep for 
 twice seven years before they shall be wanted.* 
 
 The day comes when the hidden author of our story is 
 found ; when the brave speech returns straight to the hero 
 who said it; when the admirable verse finds the poet to 
 whom it belongs ; and best of all, when the lonely thought, 
 which seemed so wise, yet half-wise, half-thought, because 
 it cast no light abroad, is suddenly matched in our mind by 
 its twin, by its sequence, or next related analogy, which 
 gives it instantly radiating power, and justifies the super- 
 stitious instinct with which we have hoarded it.* 
 
 God himself does not speak prose, but communicates 
 with us by hints, omens, inference and dark resemblances in 
 objects lying all around us.* 
 
 Every writer is a skater, and must go partly where he 
 would, and partly where the skates carry him.* 
 
 There is no choice of words for him who clearly sees the 
 truth. That provides him with the best word.* 
 
 If your subject do not appear to you the flower, of the 
 world at this moment, you have not rightly chosen it.* 
 
 In dreams we are true poets; we create the persons of 
 the drama; we give them appropriate figures, faces, cos- 
 tume; they are perfect in their organs, attitude, manners: 
 moreover, they speak after their own characters, not ours ; — 
 they speak to us, and we listen with surprise to what they 
 say.* 
 
 As the imagination is not a talent of some men but is the 
 health of every man, so also is this joy of musical expres- 
 sion. I know the pride of mathematicians and materialists, 
 but they cannot conceal from me their capital want.* 
 
 I honor the geometer, but he has before him higher 
 power and happiness than he knows.* 
 
 In proportion as a man's life comes into union with 
 truth, his thoughts approach to a parallelism with the cur- 
 rents of natural laws, so that he easily expresses his mean- 
 ing by natural symbols, or uses the ecstatic or poetic speech. 
 ... In proportion as his life departs from this simplicity, 
 
 tOld Age. *Poetry and Imagination, 
 
236 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 he uses circumlocution, — by many words hoping to suggest 
 what he cannot say.* 
 
 He whose word or deed you cannot predict, who answers 
 you without any supplication in his eye, who draws his de- 
 termination from within, and draws it instantly, — that man 
 rules/ 
 
 Whilst one man by his manners pins me to the wall, with 
 another I walk among the stars/ 
 
 A few times in my life it has happened to me to meet 
 persons of so good a nature and so good breeding that every 
 topic was open and discussed without possibility of offence, 
 — persons who could not be shocked/ 
 
 Of course those people, and no others, interest us, who 
 believe in their thought, who are absorbed, if you please to 
 say so, in their own dream/ 
 
 A determined man, by his very attitude and the tone of 
 his voice, puts a stop to defeat, and begins to conquer/ 
 
 A great man quotes bravely, and will not draw on his 
 invention when his memory serves him with a word as 
 good.* 
 
 Whoever expresses to us a just thought makes ridiculous 
 the pains of the critic who should tell him where such a 
 word had been said before/ 
 
 We are as much informed of a writer's genius by what 
 he selects as by what he originates/ 
 
 Our best thought came from others. We heard in their 
 words a deeper sense than the speakers put into them, and 
 could express ourselves in other people^s phrases to finer 
 purpose than they knew.* 
 
 And what is originaHty? It is being, being one's self, 
 and reporting accurately what we see and are.* 
 
 Every book is written with a constant secret reference to 
 a few intelligent persons whom the writer believes to exist 
 in the million.** 
 
 And the first measure of a mind is its centrality, its ca- 
 pacity of truth, and its adhesion to it.** 
 
 •Poetry and Imagination. 'Social Aims. fResources. 
 
 ^Quotation and Originality. **Progress of Culture. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 237 
 
 The foundation of culture, as of character, is at last the 
 moral sentiment.** 
 
 Great men are they who see that spiritual is stronger 
 than any material force, that thoughts rule the world.** 
 
 The great heart will no more complain of the obstruc- 
 tions that make success hard, than of the iron walls of the 
 gun which hinder the shot from scattering. It was walled 
 round with iron tube with that purpose, to give it irresistible 
 force in one direction.** 
 
 It is the ardor of the assailant that makes the vigor of 
 the defender.** 
 
 I believe that nothing great and lasting can be done ex- 
 cept by inspiration, by leaning on the secret augury.* 
 
 A rush of thoughts is the only conceivable prosperity 
 that can come to us." 
 
 What is a man good for without enthusiasm? and what 
 is enthusiasm but the daring of ruin for its object?' 
 
 "No great genius was ever without some mixture of 
 madness, nor can anything grand or superior to the voice 
 of common mortals be spoken except by the agitated soul."* 
 (Aristotle). 
 
 When the spirit chooses you for its scribe to publish 
 some commandment, it makes you odious to men and men 
 odious to you, and you shall accept that loathsomeness with 
 joy.* 
 
 There are some hints toward what is in all education a 
 chief necessity, — ^the right government, or, shall I say? the 
 right obedience to the powers of the human soul. Itself is 
 the dictator; the mind itself the awful oracle. All our 
 power, all our happiness consists in our reception of its 
 hints, which ever become clearer and grander as they are 
 obeyed.* 
 
 Self-respect is the early form in which greatness appears. 
 The man in the tavern maintains his opinion, though the 
 whole crowd takes the other side; we are at once drawn 
 to him."^" 
 
 They may well fear Fate who have any infirmity of habit 
 
 ••Progress of Culture. "Inspiration. fGreatness. 
 
238 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 or aim ; but he who rests on what he is, has a destiny above 
 destiny, and can make mouths at Fortune. "*■ 
 
 There is somewhat in the true scholar which he cannot 
 be laughed out of, nor be terrified or bought off from. Stick 
 to your own ; don't inculpate yourself in the local, social or 
 national crime, but follow the path your genius traces like 
 the galaxy of heaven for you to walk in."^ 
 
 Young men think that the manly character requires that 
 they should go to California, or to India, or into the army. 
 When they have learned that the parlor and the college and 
 the counting-room demand as much courage as the sea or 
 the camp, they will be willing to consult their own strength 
 and education in their choice of place."'' 
 
 Whilst he shares with all mankind the gift of reason and 
 the moral sentiment, there is a teaching for him from within 
 which is leading him in a new path, and, the more it is 
 trusted, separates and signalizes him, while it makes him 
 more important and necessary to society. We call this spe- 
 cialty the bias of each individual. And none of us will ever 
 accomplish anything excellent or commanding except when 
 he listens to this whisper which is heard by him alone."*" 
 
 The necessity of resting on the real, of speaking your 
 private thought and experience, few young men apprehend."'" 
 
 Indeed I think it an essential caution to young writers, 
 that they shall not in their discourse leave out the one thing 
 which the discourse was written to say. Let that belief 
 which you hold alone have free course.^ 
 
 You are rightly fond of certain books or men that you 
 have found to excite your reverence and emulation. But 
 none of these can compare with the greatness of that counsel 
 which is open to you in happy solitude. "*" 
 
 The rule of the orator begins . . . when the thought 
 which he stands for gives its own authority to him, adds to 
 him a grander personality, gives him valor, breadth and 
 new intellectual power, so that not he, but mankind, seems 
 to speak through his lips."!" 
 
 The day will come when no badge, uniform or medal 
 
 tGreatness. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 239 
 
 will be worn; when the eye, which carries in it planetary- 
 influences from all the stars, will indicate rank fast enough 
 by exerting power. ■*■ 
 
 The great man loves the conversation of the book that 
 convicts him, not that which soothes or flatters him.t 
 
 Whilst degrees of intellect interest only classes of men 
 who pursue the same studies, as chemists or astronomers, 
 mathematicians or linguists, and have no attraction for the 
 crowd, there are always men who have a more catholic 
 genius, are really great as men, and inspire universal enthu- 
 siasm. A great style of hero draws equally all classes, all the 
 extremes of society, till we say the very dogs believe in him."^ 
 
 With self-respect then there must be in the aspirant the 
 strong fellow feeling, the humanity, which makes men of all 
 classes warm to him as their leader and representative. ■'' 
 
 Don't waste life in doubts and fears ; spend yourself on 
 the work before you, well assured that the right perform- 
 ance of this hour's duties will be the best preparation for 
 the hours or ages that follow it.* 
 
 There is a profound melancholy at the base of men of 
 active and powerful talent, seldom suspected.* 
 
 All I have seen teaches me to trust the Creator for all I 
 have not seen.* 
 
 The one doctrine in which all religions agree is that new 
 light is added to the mind in proportion as it uses what 
 it has.* 
 
 Ignorant people confound reverence for the intuitions 
 with egotism.* 
 
 The moral sentiment measures itself by sacrifice. It 
 risks or ruins property, health, life itself, without hesitation, 
 for its thoughts, and all men justify the man by their praise 
 for this act.* 
 
 The revelation that is true is written on the palms of the 
 hands, the thought of our mind, the desire of our heart, 
 or nowhere.* 
 
 What but thought deepens life, and makes us better than 
 cow or cat.* 
 
 tGreatness. Jlmmortality. *Powers and Laws of Thought. 
 
240 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 To be isolated is to be sick, and in so far, dead. The life 
 of the All must stream through us to make the man and the 
 moment great.* 
 
 Every new impression on the mind is not to be derided, 
 but is to be accounted for, and, until accounted for, regis- 
 tered as an indisputable addition to our catalogue of natural 
 facts.* 
 
 Our thoughts at first possess us. Later, if we have good 
 heads, we come to possess them.* 
 
 All men know the truth, but what of that? It is rare to 
 find one who knows how to speak it.* 
 
 Every man has his theory, true, but ridiculously over- 
 stated. We are forced to treat a great part of mankind as 
 if they were a little deranged.* 
 
 Man was made for conflict, not for rest.* 
 
 The secret of power is delight in one's work.° 
 
 Him we account the fortunate man whose determination 
 to his aim is sufficiently strong to leave him no doubt.' 
 
 I think the reason why men fail in their conflicts is be- 
 cause they wear other armor than their own. Each must 
 have all, but by no means need he have it in your form.' 
 
 Follow this leading, nor ask too curiously whither. To 
 follow is thy part. And what if it lead, as men say, to an 
 excess, to partiality, to individualism? Follow it still.* 
 
 For either science and literature is a hypocricy, or it is 
 not. If it be, then resign your charter to the Legislature, 
 turn your college into barracks and warehouses, and divert 
 the funds of your founders into the stock of a rope-walk or 
 a candle-factory, a tan-yard or some other undoubted con- 
 veniency for the surrounding population. But if the intel- 
 lectual interest be, as I hold, no hypocricy, but the only 
 reality, — then it behooves us to enthrone it, obey it; and 
 give it possession of us and ours ; to give, among other pos- 
 sessions, the college into its hand, casting down every idol, 
 every pretender, every hoary lie, every dignified blunder 
 that has crept into its administration. t 
 
 ♦Powers and Laws of Thought. "Instinct and Inspiration. 
 
 tThe Celebration of Intellect. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 241 
 
 These are giddy times, and, you say, the college will be 
 deserted. No, never was it so much needed. But I say, 
 those were giddy times which went before these, and the 
 new times are the times of arraignment, times of trial and 
 times of judgment. 'T is because the college was false to its 
 trust, because the scholars did not learn and teach, because 
 they were traders and left their altars and libraries and 
 worship of truth and played the sycophant to presidents and 
 generals and members of Congress, and gave degrees and 
 literary and social honors to those whom they ought to have 
 rebuked and exposed, incurring the contempt of those whom 
 they ought to have put in fear ; then the college is suicidal ; 
 ceases to be a school; power oozes out of it just as fast as 
 truth does ; and instead of overawing the strong, and uphold- 
 ing the good, it is a hospital for decayed tutors. ■*" 
 
 Never was pure valor — and almost I might say, never 
 pure ability — shown in a bad cause."'' 
 
 Society is always taken by surprise at any new example 
 of common sense and of simple justice, as at a wonderful 
 discovery.^ 
 
 The man who knows any truth not yet discerned by 
 other men is master of all other men, so far as that truth and 
 its wide relations are concerned. ■*■ 
 
 Nay, in the class called intellectual the men are no better 
 than the uninstructed. They use their wit and learning in 
 the service of the Devil. There are bad looks and false 
 teachers and corrupt judges ; and in the institutions of edu- 
 cation a want of faith in their own cause. "^ 
 
 A certain hospitality and jealousy of genius grows up in 
 the masters of routine, and unless, by rare good fortune, the 
 professor has a generous sympathy with genius and takes 
 care to interpose a certain relief and cherishing and rever- 
 ence for the wild poet and dawning philosopher he has de- 
 tected in his classes, that will happen which has happened 
 so often, that the best scholar, he for whom colleges exist, 
 finds himself a stranger and an orphan therein. t 
 
 Sit low and wait long.t 
 
 tThe Celebration of Intellect. 
 
242 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 He has seen but half the universe who has never been 
 shown the house of Pain.* 
 
 Neither the caucus, nor the newspaper, nor the Congress, 
 nor the mob, nor the guillotine, nor fire, nor all together, can 
 avail to outlaw, cut out, burn or destroy the offence of 
 superiority in persons.* 
 
 Men of aim must lead the aimless.* 
 
 The man's associations, fortunes, love, hatred, residence, 
 rank, the books he will buy, the roads he will traverse are 
 predetermined in his organism. Men will need him, and he 
 is rich and eminent by nature. That man cannot be too late 
 or too early. Let him not hurry or hesitate. Though 
 millions are already arrived, his seat is reserved.* 
 
 There are men who may dare much and will be justified 
 in their daring, but it is because they know they are in their 
 place. As long as I am in my place, I am safe.* 
 
 What is it that makes the true knight? Loyalty to his 
 thought.* 
 
 For a soul on which elevated duties are laid will so 
 realize its special and lofty duties as not to be in danger of 
 assuming through a low generosity those which do not 
 belong to it.* 
 
 The noble mind is here to teach us that failure is a part 
 of success. Prosperity and pound-cake are for very young 
 gentlemen, whom such things content ; but a hero's, a man's 
 success is made up of failures, because he experiments and 
 ventures every day, and "the more falls he gets, moves 
 faster on ;" defeated all the time and yet to victory born.* 
 
 Give up, once for all, the hope of approbation from the 
 people in the street, if you are pursuing great ends. How 
 can they guess your designs ?* 
 
 By experiment, by original studies, by secret obedience, 
 he has made a place for himself in the world ; stands there 
 a real, substantial, unprecedented person, and when the 
 great come by, as always there are angels walking in the 
 earth, they know him at sight.* 
 
 The distinction of a royal nature is a great heart.* 
 
 tThe Tragic. ♦Aristocracy. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 243 
 
 For to every gentleman grave and dangerous duties are 
 proposed. Justice always wants champions. The world 
 waits for him as its defender, for he will find in the well- 
 dressed crowd, yes, in the civility of whole nations, vulgarity 
 of sentiment.* 
 
 You must, for wisdom, for sanity, have some access to 
 the mind and heart of the common humanity. The exclu- 
 sive excludes himself.* 
 
 It is the interest of society that good men should govern, 
 and there is always a tendency so to place them.* 
 
 Call it man of honor, or call it Man, the American who 
 would serve his country must learn the beauty and honor of 
 perseverance, he must reinforce himself by the power of 
 character, and revisit the margin of that well from which 
 his fathers drew waters of life and enthusiasm, the fountain 
 I mean of the moral sentiments, the parent fountain from 
 which this goodly Universe flows as a wave.* 
 
 Never was any man too strong for his proper work." 
 
 No force but is his force. He does not possess them, he 
 is a pipe through which their currents flow. . . . Look at 
 him; you can give no guess at what power is in him. It 
 never appears directly, but follow him and see his effects, 
 his productions." 
 
 What he chiefly brings, all he brings, is not his land or 
 his money or body's strength, but his thoughts, his way of 
 classifying and seeing things, his method." 
 
 The art of compelling belief, the art of making peoples* 
 hearts dance to his pipe! And not less, method, patience, 
 self-trust, perseverance, love, desire of knowledge, the pas- 
 sion for truth. These are the angels that take us by the 
 hand, these our immortal, invulnerable guardians." 
 
 But if you wish to avail yourself of their might, and in 
 like manner if you wish the force of the intellect, the force 
 of the will, you must take their divine direction, not they 
 yours. Obedience alone gives the right to command." 
 
 The world belongs to the energetical." 
 
 Things are saturated with the moral law. There is no 
 
 •Aristocracy. "Perpetual Forces. 
 
244 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 escape from it. Violets and grass preach it ; rain and snow, 
 wind and tides, every change, every cause in Nature is 
 nothing but a disguised missionary." 
 
 One thing is plain ; a certain personal virtue is essential 
 to freedom ; and it begins to be doubtful whether our cor- 
 ruption in this country has not gone a little over the mark 
 of safety, so that when canvassed we shall be found to be 
 made up of a majority of reckless self-seekers. The divine 
 knowledge has ebbed out of us and we do not know enough 
 to be free." 
 
 The illusion that strikes me as the masterpiece in that 
 ring of illusions which our life is, is the timidity with which 
 we assert our moral sentiment. We are made of it, the world 
 is built by it, things endure as they share it ; all beauty, all 
 health, all intelligence exist by it ; yet we shrink to speak of 
 it or to range ourselves by its side. Nay, we presume 
 strength of him or them who deny it. Cities go against it ; 
 the college goes against it." 
 
 Every new asserter of the right surprises us, like a man 
 joining the church, and we hardly dare believe he is in 
 earnest.' 
 
 The soul of God is poured into the world through the 
 thoughts of men." 
 
 He that speaks the truth executes no private function of 
 an individual will, but the world utters a sound by his lips. 
 He who doth a just action seeth therein nothing of his own, 
 but an inconceivable nobleness attaches to it, because it is a 
 dictate of the general mind.+ 
 
 Men appear from time to time who receive with more 
 purity and fulness these high communications. ■*■ 
 
 When a man is born with a profound moral sentiment, 
 preferring truth, justice and the serving of all men to any 
 honors or any gain, men readily feel the superiority. They 
 who deal with him are elevated with joy and hope; he lights 
 up the house or the landscape in which he stands. His 
 actions are poetic and miraculous in their eyes."*" 
 
 To a well-principled man existence is victory. "*■ 
 
 "Perpetual Forces. tCharacter. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 245 
 
 Duty grows everywhere, like children, like grass; we 
 need not go to Europe or to Asia to learn it.^ 
 
 Men may well come together to kindle each other to vir- 
 tuous living."'' 
 
 Victory over things is the office of man. Of course, until 
 it is accomplished, it is the war and insult of things over 
 him.* 
 
 A man is a little thing whilst he works by and for him- 
 self, but, when he gives voice to the rules of love and justice, 
 is godlike, his word is current in all countries ; and all men, 
 though his enemies, are made his friends and obey it as their 
 own.* 
 
 Nature, when she sends a new mind into the world, fills 
 it beforehand with a desire for that which she wishes it to 
 know and do.* 
 
 And jealous provision seems to have been made in his 
 constitution that you shall not invade and contaminate him 
 with the worn weeds of your language and opinions.* 
 
 Heaven often protects valuable souls charged with great 
 secrets, great ideas, by long shutting them up with their own 
 thoughts.* 
 
 There is the perpetual romance of new life, the invasion 
 of God into the old dead world, when he sends into quiet 
 houses a young soul with a thought which is not met, looking 
 for something which is not there, but which ought to be 
 there.* 
 
 Happy this child with a bias, with a thought which en- 
 trances him, leads him, now into deserts, now into cities, the 
 fool of an idea. Let him follow it in good and in evil report, 
 in good or bad company ; it will justify itself ; it will lead 
 him at last into the illustrious society of the lovers of truth.* 
 
 Is it not manifest that our academic institutions should 
 have a wider scope ; that they should not be timid and keep 
 the ruts of the last generation, but that wise men thinking 
 for themselves and heartily seeking the good of mankind, 
 and counting the cost of innovation, should dare to arouse 
 the young to a just and heroic Hfe; that the moral nature 
 
 tCharacter. JEducatlon. 
 
246 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 should be addressed in the school-room, and children should 
 be treated as the high-born candidates of truth and virtue?^ 
 
 For the luminous object wastes itself by its shining, — is 
 luminous because it is burning up.* 
 
 These monsters are the scavengers, executioners, diggers, 
 pioneers and fertilizers, destroying what is more destructive 
 than they, and making better Hfe possible." 
 
 If you love and serve men, you cannot, by any hiding or 
 stratagem, escape the remuneration." 
 
 Wondrous state of man ! never so happy as when he has 
 lost all private interests and regards, and exists only in 
 obedience and love of the Author." 
 
 We are to know that we are never without a pilot. When 
 we know not how to steer, and dare not hoist a sail, we can 
 drift. The current knows the way, though we do not. When 
 the stars and sun appear, when we have conversed with navi- 
 gators who know the coast, we may begin to put out an oar 
 and trim a sail. The ship of heaven guides itself, and will 
 not accept a wooden rudder." 
 
 What is true in thought? What is just in action? It is 
 the yielding of the private heart to the Divine mind, and all 
 personal preferences, and all requiring of wonders, are 
 profane.' 
 
 As the sentiment purifies and rises, it leaves crowds." 
 
 It is very sad to see men who think their goodness made 
 of themselves ; it is very grateful to see those who hold an 
 opinion the reverse of this." 
 
 By humility we rise, by obedience we command, by pov- 
 erty we are rich, by dying we live." 
 
 It is certain that many dark hours, many imbecilities, 
 periods of inactivity, — solstices when we make no progress, 
 but stand still, — will occur. In those hours we can find com- 
 fort in reverence of the highest power, and only in that.t 
 
 Unlovely, nay, frightful, is the solitude of the soul which 
 is without God in the world. t 
 
 It is a comfort to reflect that the gigantic evils which 
 
 {Education. "The Sovereignty of Ethics 
 
 •The Superlative. fThe Preacher. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 247 
 
 seem to us so mischievous and so incurable will at last end 
 themselves and rid the world of their presence, as all crime 
 sooner or later must. But be that event for us soon or late, 
 we are not excused from playing our short part in the best 
 manner we can, no matter how insignificant our aid may be."'" 
 
 The essential ground of a new book or a new sermon is 
 a new spirit. The author has a new thought, sees the sweep 
 of a more comprehensive tendency than others are aware 
 of ; falters never, but takes the victorious tone.*'' 
 
 He belongs to a superior society, and is born one or two 
 centuries too early for the rough and sensual population into 
 which he is thrown.* 
 
 The intellectual man lives in perpetual victory. As cer- 
 tainly as water falls in rain on the tops of mountains and 
 runs down into valleys, plains and pits, so does thought fall 
 first on the best minds, and run down, from class to class, 
 until it reaches the masses, and works revolutions.* 
 
 There is respect due to your teachers, but every age is 
 new, and has problems to solve, insoluble by the last age. 
 Men over forty are no judges of a book written in a new 
 spirit. Neither your teachers, nor the universal teachers, 
 the laws, the customs or the dogmas of nations, neither 
 saint nor sage, can compare with that counsel which is open 
 to you.* 
 
 Like them he will joyfully lose days and months, and 
 estates and credit, in the profound hope that one restoring, 
 all rewarding, immense success will arrive at last, which will 
 give him at one bound a universal dominion.* 
 
 I should wish your energy to run in works and emergen- 
 cies growing out of your personal character. Nature will 
 fast enough instruct you in the occasion and the need, and 
 will bring to each of you the crowded hour, the great oppor- 
 tunity.* 
 
 There was never anything that did not proceed from a 
 thought.* 
 
 The scholar, when he comes, will be known by an energy 
 that will animate all who see him.* 
 
 tThe Preacher. tThe Man of Letters. •The Scholar. 
 
248 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 We who should be the channel of that unweariable Power 
 which never sleeps must give our diligence no holidays.* 
 
 It seems to me that the thoughtful man needs no armor 
 but this — concentration. One thing is for him settled, that 
 he is to come at his ends. He is not there to defend himself, 
 but to deliver his message : if his voice is clear, then clearly ; 
 if husky, then huskily ; if broken, he can at least scream ; gag 
 him, he can still write it; bruise, mutilate him, cut off his 
 hands and feet, he can still crawl toward his object on his 
 stumps.* 
 
 The hero rises out of all comparison with contemporaries 
 and with ages of men, because he disesteems old age, and 
 lands, and money, and power, and will oppose all mankind 
 at the call of that private and perfect Right and Beauty in 
 which he lives.* 
 
 I like to see a man of that virtue that no obscurity or 
 disguise can conceal, who wins all souls by his way of 
 thinking.* 
 
 There is a great deal of spiritual energy in the universe, 
 but it is not palpable to us until we can make it up into man.* 
 
 Truth alone is great.* 
 
 The scholar must be ready for bad weather, poverty, 
 insult, weariness, repute of failure and many vexations. He 
 is to know that in the last resort he is not here to work, but 
 to be worked upon. He is to eat insult, drink insult, be 
 clothed and shod in insult until he has learned that this bitter 
 bread and shameful dress is also wholesome and warm, is, 
 in short, indifferent ; is of the same chemistry as praise and 
 fat living; that they also are disgrace and soreness to him 
 who has them.* 
 
 He is still to decline how many glittering opportunities, 
 and to retreat, and wait.* 
 
 Other men are lenses through which we read our own 
 minds.* 
 
 I count him a great man who inhabits a higher sphere of 
 thought, into which other men rise with labor and diffi- 
 culty.* 
 
 ♦The Scholar. JUses of Great Man. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 249 
 
 Something is wanting to science until it has been human- 
 ized.* 
 
 Nature never sends a great man into the planet without 
 confiding the secret to another soul.* 
 
 In him the freest abandonment is united with the pre- 
 cision of a geometer.** 
 
 The sciences, even the best, — mathematics and astron- 
 omy, — are like sportsmen, who seize whatever prey offers, 
 even without being able to make any use of it.** 
 
 Vice can never know itself and virtue, but virtue knows 
 both itself and vice.** 
 
 Astronomy is excellent ; but it must come up into life to 
 have its full value, and not remain there in globes and spaces." 
 
 The man co-operates ; he loves to communicate ; and that 
 which is for him to say lies as a load on his heart until it is 
 delivered. t 
 
 Act, if you like, — but you do it at your peril. ''■ 
 
 Talent alone cannot make a writer. There must be a 
 man behind the book; a personality which by birth and 
 quality is pledged to the doctrine there set forth, and which 
 exists to see and state things so, and not otherwise ; holding 
 things because they are things. If he cannot rightly express 
 himself today, the same things subsist and will open them- 
 selves tomorrow. There lies the burden on his mind, — ^the 
 burden of truth to be declared, — more or less understood; 
 and it constitutes his business and calling in the world to see 
 those facts through, and to make them known. ■*■ 
 
 The stars awaken a certain reverence, because though 
 always present, they are inaccessible."" 
 
 An action is the perfection and publication of thought." 
 
 A dream may let us deeper into the secret of nature than 
 a hundred concerted experiments."" 
 
 No man ever prayed heartily without learning some- 
 thing."" 
 
 Action is with the scholar subordinate, but it is essential. 
 Without it he is not yet man. Without it thought can never 
 
 tUses of Great Men. * •Plato. ° S wedenbor^. 
 
 tGoethe. ""Nature. 
 
250 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 ripen into truth. . . . Inaction is cowardice, but there can 
 be no scholar without the heroic mind.* 
 
 When the scholar can read God directly, the hour is too 
 precious to be wasted in other men's transcripts of their 
 readings.* 
 
 Great men do not content us. It is their solitude, not 
 their force, that makes them conspicuous." 
 
 Did he not come into being because something must be 
 done which he and no other is and does." 
 
 What is strong but goodness, and what is energetic but 
 the presence of a brave man?° 
 
 You need not speak to me, I need not go where you are, 
 that you should exert magnetism on me. Be you only whole 
 and sufficient, and I shall feel you in every part of my life 
 and fortune, and I can as easily dodge the gravitation of the 
 globe as escape your influence." 
 
 A man was born not for prosperity, but to suffer for the 
 benefit of others, like the noble rock-maple which all around 
 our villages bleeds for the service of man." 
 
 Deserve thy genius ; exalt it. The good, the illuminated, 
 sit apart from the rest, censuring their dullness and vices, as 
 if they thought that by sitting very grand in their chairs, the 
 very brokers, attorneys and congressmen would see the 
 error of their ways, and flock to them. But the good and 
 wise must learn to act, and carry salvation to the combatants 
 and demagogues in the dusty arena below. ■*" 
 
 For the path which the hero travels alone is the highway 
 of health and benefit to mankind. t 
 
 Where is he who seeing a thousand men useless and un- 
 happy, and making the whole region forlorn by their inac- 
 tion, and conscious himself of possessing the faculty they 
 want, does not hear his call to go and be their king.* 
 
 Yet only by the supernatural is a man strong ; nothing is 
 so weak as an egotist. Nothing is mightier than we, when 
 we are vehicles of a truth before which the State and the 
 individvial are alike ephemeral.* 
 
 •The American Scholar. fThe Transcendentalist. 
 
 "The Method of Nature. JThe Young American. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 251 
 
 We are fired with the hope to reform men. After many 
 experiments we find that we must begin earHer, — at school.* 
 
 But the Hghtning which explodes and fashions planets, 
 maker of planets and suns, is in him.* 
 
 We sit and rule, and, though we sleep, our dream will 
 come to pass.* 
 
 No man has a right perception of any truth who has not 
 been reacted on by it so as to be ready to be its martyr.* 
 
 One way is right to go; the hero sees it, and moves on 
 that aim, and has the world under him for root and support. 
 He is to others as the world. His approbation is honor ; his 
 dissent, infamy. The glance of his eye has the force of sun- 
 beams.* 
 
 But every jet of chaos which threatens to exterminate 
 us is convertible by intellect into wholesome force. . . . 
 The water drowns ship and sailor like a grain of dust. But 
 learn to swim, trim your bark, and the wave which drowned 
 it will be cloven by it and carry it like its own foam, a plume 
 and a power.* 
 
 Physical force has no value where there is nothing else." 
 
 One of the benefits of a college education is to show the 
 boy its little avail."*" 
 
 He that does not fill a place at home, cannot abroad. He 
 only goes there to hide his insignificance in a larger crowd. "*■ 
 
 The mark of the man of the world is absence of preten- 
 sion. He does not make a speech, he takes a low business- 
 tone, avoids all brag, is nobody, dresses plainly, promises not 
 at all, performs much, speaks in monosyllables, hugs his 
 fact.t 
 
 He who should inspire and lead his race must be de- 
 fended from traveling with the souls of other men, from 
 living, breathing, reading and writing in the daily, time- 
 worn yoke of their opinions. ■*■ 
 
 The high advantage of university life is often the mere 
 mechanical one, I may call it, of a separate chamber and 
 fire.'*' 
 
 But the wiser God says, Take the shame, the poverty and 
 
 •Fate. "Power, tCulture. 
 
252 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 the penal solitude that belong to truth-speaking. Try the 
 rough water as well as the smooth."'' 
 
 Don't be so tender at making an enemy now and then. 
 Be willing to go to Coventry sometimes, and let the populace 
 bestow on you their coldest contempts. The finished man of 
 the world must eat of every apple once. He must hold his 
 hatreds also at arm's length, and not remember spite. He 
 has neither friends nor enemies, but values men only as 
 channels of power."'" 
 
 If there is any great and good thing in store for you, it 
 will not come at the first or the second call, nor in the shape 
 of fashion, ease, and city drawing-rooms. Popularity is for 
 dolls.t 
 
 The measure of a master is his success in bringing all 
 men round to his opinion twenty years later. "^ 
 
 The age of the quadruped is to go out, the age of the 
 brain and of the heart is to come in."*" 
 
 Men are like Geneva watches with crystal faces which 
 expose the whole movement.* 
 
 Nature forever puts a premium on reality. What is 
 done for effect is seen to be done for effect ; what is done 
 for love is felt to be done for love.* 
 
 The man that stands by himself, the universe stands by 
 him also.* 
 
 Only those can help in counsel or conduct who did not 
 make a party pledge to defend this or that, but who were 
 appointed by God Almighty, before they came into the 
 world, to stand for this which they uphold.* 
 
 Forget your books and traditions, and obey your moral 
 perceptions at this hour.* 
 
 It is true that genius takes its rise out of mountains of 
 rectitude; that all beauty and power which men covet are 
 somehow born out of that Alpine district; that any extra- 
 ordinary degree of beauty in man or woman involves a 
 moral charm. . . . For such persons are nearer to the 
 secret of God than others ; are bathed by sweeter waters ; 
 they hear notices, they see visions, where others are vacant.* 
 
 tCulture. ^Behavior. *Worship. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 253 
 
 The moment of your loss of faith and acceptance of the 
 lucrative standard will be marked in the pause or solstice of 
 genius, the sequent retrogression, and the inevitable loss of 
 attraction to other minds. The vulgar are sensible of the 
 change in you, and of your descent, though they clap you on 
 the back and congratulate you on your increased common- 
 sense.* 
 
 You cannot hide any secret. If the artist succor his 
 flagging spirits by opium or wine, his work will characterize 
 itself as the effect of opium or wine.* 
 
 I look on that man as happy, who, when there is ques- 
 tion of success, looks into his work for a reply, not into the 
 market, not into opinion, not into patronage.* 
 
 He who has acquired the ability may wait securely the 
 occasion of making it felt and appreciated, and know that 
 it will not loiter. Men talk as if victory were something 
 fortunate. Work is victory. Wherever work is done, vic- 
 tory is obtained.* 
 
 Every man's task is his life-preserver. The conviction 
 that his work is dear to God and cannot be spared de- 
 fends him.* 
 
 The weight of the universe is pressed down on the 
 shoulders of each moral agent to hold him to his task. The 
 only path of escape known in all the worlds of God is per- 
 formance. You must do your work before you shall be 
 released.* 
 
 That by which a man conquers in any passage is a pro- 
 found secret to every other being in the world, and it is 
 only as he turns his back on us and on all men and draws on 
 his most private wisdom that any good can come to him." 
 
 "There are none but men of strong passions capable of 
 going to greatness."* (Mirabeau). 
 
 Passion, though a bad regulator, is a powerful spring. ° 
 
 The human heart concerns us more than the poring into 
 microscopes, and is larger than can be measured by the 
 pompous figures of the astronomer. ^ 
 
 These geologies, chemistries, astronomies, seem to make 
 
 •Worship. "Considerations by the Way. tBeauty. 
 
254 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 wise, but they leave us where they found us. The invention 
 is of use to the inventor, of questionable help to any other. 
 The formulas of science are like the papers in your pocket- 
 book, of no value to any but the owner. Science in England, 
 in America is jealous of theory, hates the name of love and 
 moral purpose. There is a revenge for this inhumanity. 
 What manner of man does science make? The boy is not 
 attracted. He says, I do not wish to be such a kind of man 
 as my professor is. The collector has dried all the plants in 
 his herbal, but he has lost weight and humor. He has got 
 all snakes and lizards in his phials, but science has done for 
 him also, and has put the man into a bottle."'' 
 
 We see faces every day which have a good type but have 
 been marred in the casting; a proof that we are all entitled 
 to beauty, should have been beautiful if our ancestors had 
 kept the laws, — as every lily and rose is well."'' 
 
 Men who make themselves felt in the world avail them- 
 selves of a certain fate in their constitution which they know 
 how to use. But they never deeply interest us unless they 
 lift a corner of the curtain, or betray, never so slightly, 
 their penetration of what is behind it.* 
 
 The idiot, the Indian, the child and unschooled farmer's 
 boy stand nearer to the light by which nature is to be read, 
 than the dissector or the antiquary.* 
 
 To believe your own thought, to believe that what is 
 true for you in your private heart is true for all men, — ^that 
 is genius.* 
 
 A man should learn to detect and watch that gleam of 
 light which flashes across his mind from within, more than 
 the lustre of the firmament of bards and sages." , 
 
 It is easy in the world to Hve after the world's opinion ; 
 it is easy in solitude to live after our own ; but the great 
 man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect 
 sweetness the independence of solitude." 
 
 To be great is to be misunderstood." 
 
 Do that which is assigned you, and you cannot hope too 
 much or dare too much." 
 
 tBeauty. ♦History. tlllusions. "Self -Reliance. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 255 
 
 A great man is always willing to be little.''' 
 
 Blame is safer than praise. I hate to be defended in a 
 newspaper. As long as all that is said is said against me, I 
 feel a certain assurance of success. But as soon as honeyed 
 words of praise are spoken for me I feel as one that lies 
 unprotected before his enemies.''' 
 
 Somewhere, not only every orator but every rilan should 
 let out all the length of all the reins ; should find or make a 
 frank and hearty expression of what force and meaning is 
 in him.* 
 
 Until he can manage to communicate himself to others 
 in his full stature and proportion, he does not yet find his 
 vocation.* 
 
 Whatever he knows and thinks, whatever in his appre- 
 hension is worth doing, that let him communicate, or men 
 will never know and honor him aright.* 
 
 What your heart thinks great, is great.* 
 
 God screens us evermore from premature ideas. Our 
 eyes are holden that we cannot see things that stare us in the 
 face, until the hour arrives when the mind is ripened ; then 
 we behold them, and the time when we saw them not is like 
 a dream.* 
 
 Let him be great and love shall follow him.* 
 
 There is no teaching until the pupil is brought into the 
 same state or principle in which you are ; a transfusion takes 
 place ; he is you and you are he ; then is a teaching, and 
 by no unfriendly chance or bad company can he ever quite 
 lose the benefit.* 
 
 The great man knew not that he was great. It took a 
 century or two for that fact to appear. What he did, he did 
 because he must ; it was the most natural thing in the world, 
 and grew out of the circumstances of the moment.* 
 
 A man passes for that he is worth. What he is en- 
 graves itself on his face, on his form, on his fortunes, in 
 letters of light. Concealment avails him nothing, boasting 
 nothing. There is confession in the glances of our eyes, in 
 our smiles, in salutations, and the grasp of hands. His sin 
 
 tCompensation. ^Spiritual Laws. 
 
256 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 bedaubs him, mars all his good impression. Men know not 
 why they do not trust him, but they do not trust him. His 
 vice glasses his eye, cuts lines of mean expression in his 
 cheek, pinches the nose, sets the mark of the beast on the 
 back of the head, and writes O fool ! fool ! on the forehead 
 of a king.* 
 
 When a man speaks the truth in the spirit of truth, 
 his eye is as clear as the heavens. When he has base 
 ends and speaks falsely, the eye is muddy and sometimes 
 asquint.* 
 
 To think is to act.* 
 
 A man who stands united with his thought conceives 
 magnificently of himself. He is conscious of a universal 
 success, even though bought by uniform particular failures.* 
 
 The condition which high friendship demands is ability 
 to do without it.* 
 
 The higher the style we demand of friendship, of course 
 the less easy to establish it with flesh and blood. We walk 
 alone in the world. Friends such as we desire are dreams 
 and fables.* 
 
 Only be admonished by what you already see, not to 
 strike leagues of friendship with cheap persons, where no 
 friendship can be.* 
 
 It never troubles the sun that some of his rays fall wide 
 and vain into ungrateful space, and only a small part on the 
 reflecting planet.* 
 
 Our culture therefore must not omit the arming of the 
 man. Let him hear in season that he is born into the state 
 of war, and that the commonwealth and his own well-being 
 require that he should not go dancing in the weeds of peace, 
 but warned, self-collected and neither defying nor dreading 
 the thunder, let him take both reputation and life in his 
 hand, and with perfect urbanity dare the gibbet and the mob 
 by the absolute truth of his speech and the rectitude of his 
 behavior.' 
 
 Heroism works in contradiction to the voice of mankind 
 and in contradiction, for a time, to the voice of the great and 
 
 ^Spiritual Laws. 'Friendship. "Heroism. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 257 
 
 good. Heroism is an obedience to a secret impulse of an 
 individual's character. Now to no other man can its wisdom 
 appear as it does to him, for every man must be supposed to 
 see a little farther on his own proper path than any one else. 
 Therefore just and wise men take umbrage at his act, until 
 after some little time be past ; then they see it to be in unison 
 with their acts." 
 
 See to it only that thyself is here, and art and nature, 
 hope and fate, friends, angels, and the Supreme Being shall 
 not be absent from the chamber where thou sittest." 
 
 To speak the truth, even with some austerity, to live with 
 some rigor of temperance, or some extremes of generosity, 
 seems to be an asceticism which common good-nature would 
 appoint to those who are at ease and in plenty, in sign that 
 they feel a brotherhood with the great multitude of suffering 
 men. And not only need we breathe and exercise the soul 
 by assuming the penalties of abstinence, of debt, of solitude, 
 of unpopularity, — ^but it behooves the wise man to look with 
 a bold eye into those rarer dangers which sometimes invade 
 men, and to familiarize himself with, disgusting forms of 
 disease, with sounds of execration, and the vision of violent 
 death?" 
 
 A thrill passes through all men at the reception of new 
 truth, or at the performance of a great action, which comes 
 out of the heart of nature."*" 
 
 If he have not found his home in God, his manners, his 
 forms of speech, the turn of his sentences, the build, shall I 
 say, of all his opinions will involuntarily confess it, let him 
 brave it out how he will. If he have found his center, the 
 Deity will shine through him, through all the disguises of 
 ignorance, of ungenial temperament, of unfavorable cir- 
 cumstance."'" 
 
 Every friend whom not thy fantastic will but the great 
 and tender heart in thee craveth shall lock thee in his em- 
 brace."*" 
 
 That which we are, we shall teach, not voluntarily but 
 involuntarily. Thoughts come into our minds by avenues 
 
 "Heroism. fThe Over-Soul. 
 
258 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 which we never left open, and thoughts go out of our minds 
 through avenues which we never voluntarily opened."*" 
 
 Nothing great was ever achieved without enthusiasm.* 
 
 We have little control over our thoughts. We are the 
 prisoners of ideas. They catch us up for moments into their 
 heaven and so fully engage us that we take no thought for 
 the morrow, gaze like children, without an effort to make 
 them our own. By and by we fall out of that rapture, be- 
 think us where we have been, what we have seen, and repeat 
 as truly as we can what we have beheld. As far as we can 
 recall these ecstasies we carry away in the ineffaceable 
 memory the result, and all men and all the ages confirm it. 
 It is called truth. But the moment we cease to report and 
 attempt to correct and contrive, it is not truth.* 
 
 All progress is an unfolding, like the vegetable bud. You 
 have first an instinct, then an opinion, then a knowledge, as 
 the plant has root, bud and fruit. Trust the instinct to the 
 end, though you can render no reason. It is vain to hurry it. 
 By trusting it to the end, it shall ripen into truth, and you 
 shall know why you believe.* 
 
 Each mind has its own method. A true man never ac- 
 quires after college rules. What you have aggregated in a 
 natural manner surprises and delights when it is produced.* 
 
 God offers to every mind its choice between truth and 
 repose. Take which you please, — ^you can never have both.* 
 
 Every man's progress is through a succession of teachers, 
 each of whom seems at the time to have a superlative influ- 
 ence, but it at last gives place to a new. Frankly let him 
 accept it all. Jesus says. Leave father, mother, house and 
 lands, and follow me. Who leaves all, receives more.* 
 
 He is isolated among his contemporaries by truth and 
 by his art, but with this consolation in his pursuits, that they 
 will draw all men sooner or later." 
 
 The spirit of the world, the great calm presence of the 
 Creator, comes not forth to the sorceries of opium or of 
 wine. The sublime vision comes to the pure and simple soul 
 in a clean and chaste body." 
 
 tThe Over-Soul. ^Circles. *Intellect. "The Poet. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 259 
 
 Man, never too often deceived, still watches for the 
 arrival of a brother who can hold him steady to a truth until 
 he has made it his own/ 
 
 I think nothing is of any value in books excepting the 
 transcendental and extraordinary. If a man is inflamed and 
 carried away by his thought, to that degree that he forgets 
 the authors and the public and heeds only this one dream 
 which holds him like an insanity, let me read his paper, and 
 you may have all the arguments and histories and criticism." 
 
 "By God it is in me and must go forth of me."" 
 
 Of what use is genius, if the organ is too convex or too 
 concave and cannot find a focal distance within the actual 
 horizon of human life.^ 
 
 The most attractive class of people are those who are 
 powerful obliquely and not by the direct stroke; men of 
 genius, but not yet accredited; one gets the cheer of their 
 light without paying too great a tax."*" 
 
 All writing comes by grace of God, and all doing and 
 having.^ 
 
 There never was a right endeavor but it succeeded."^ 
 
 Patience and Patience, we shall win at the last."*" 
 
 Never mind the ridicule, never mind the defeat ; up again, 
 old heart ! — it seems to say, — there is victory yet for all jus- 
 tice ; and the true romance which the world exists to realize 
 will be the transformation of genius into practical power."^ 
 
 Men of character like to hear of their faults ; the other 
 class do not like to hear of faults.* 
 
 Our houses ring with laughter and personal and critical 
 gossip, but it helps little. But the uncivil, unavailable man, 
 who is a problem and a threat to society, whom it cannot let 
 pass in silence but must either worship or hate, — and to 
 whom all parties feel related, both the leaders of opinion and 
 the obscure and eccentric, — he helps.* 
 
 I knew an amiable and accomplished person who under- 
 took a practical reform, yet I was never able to find in him 
 the enterprise of love he took in hand. He adopted it by 
 ear and by the understanding from the books he had been 
 
 "The Poet. tExperience. tCharacter. 
 
26o THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 reading. All his action was tentative, a piece of the city 
 carried out into the fields, and was the city still, and no new 
 fact, and could not inspire enthusiasm. Had there been 
 something latent in the man, a terrible undemonstrated 
 genius agitating and embarrassing his demeanor, we had 
 watched for its advent. It is not enough that the intellect 
 should see the evils and their remedy.* 
 
 Fear, when your friends say to you what you have done 
 well, and say it through ; but when they stand with uncertain 
 timid looks of respect and half-dislike, and must suspend 
 their judgment for years to come, you may begin to hope.* 
 
 Great men are not commonly in Fashion's halls ; they are 
 absent in the field; they are working, not triumphing.* 
 
 Without electricity the air would rot, and without this 
 violence of direction which men and women have, without a 
 spice of bigot and fanatic, no excitement, no efficiency. We 
 aim above the mark to hit the mark. Every act hath some 
 falsehood of exaggeration in it.° 
 
 No man is quite sane; each has a vein of folly in his 
 composition, a slight determination of blood to the head, to 
 make sure of holding him hard to some one point which 
 nature had taken to heart." 
 
 Not less remarkable is the over faith of each man in the 
 importance of what he has to do or say. The poet, the 
 prophet, has a higher value for what he utters than any 
 hearer, and therefore it gets spoken." 
 
 For no man can write anything who does not think that 
 what he writes is for the time the history of the world ; or 
 do anything well who does not esteem his work to be of 
 importance. My work may be of none, but I must not 
 think it of none, or I shall not do it with impunity.* 
 
 The form of government which prevails is the expres- 
 sion of what cultivation exists in the population which per- 
 mits it."^ 
 
 What the tender poetic youth dreams, and prays, and 
 paints today, but shuns the ridicule of saying aloud, shall 
 presently be the resolutions of public bodies. ■*" 
 
 tCharacter. •Manners. "Nature. fPolitics. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 261 
 
 Every project in the history of reform, no matter how 
 violent and surprising, is good when it is the dictate of a 
 man's genius and constitution, but very dull and suspicious 
 when adopted from another.* 
 
 We are students of words: we are shut up in schools, 
 and colleges, and recitation-rooms, for ten or fifteen years, 
 and come out at last with a bag of wind, a memory of words, 
 and do not know a thing.* 
 
 Men in all ways are better than they seem. They like 
 flattery for the moment, but they know the truth for their 
 own. It is a foolish cowardice which keeps us from trusting 
 them and speaking to them rude truth. They resent your 
 honesty for an instant, they will thank you for it always. 
 What is it we heartily wish of each other? Is it to be 
 pleased and flattered ? No, but to be convicted and exposed, 
 to be shamed out of our nonsense of all kinds, and made 
 men of, instead of ghosts and phantoms.* 
 
 All that a man has will he give for right relations with 
 his mates. All that he has will he give for an erect de- 
 meanor in every company and on each occasion. He aims 
 at such things as his neighbors prize, and gives his days and 
 nights, his talents and his heart, to strike a good stroke, to 
 acquit himself in all men's sight as a man.* 
 
 Nothing shall warp me from the belief that every man is 
 a lover of truth.* 
 
 There is a power over and behind us, and we are the 
 channels of its communications.* 
 
 We exclaim, "There's a traitor in the house !" but at last 
 it appears that he is the true man, and I am the traitor.* 
 
 The reward of a thing well done is to have done it.* 
 
 Every vice is only an exaggeration of a necessary and 
 virtuous function.* 
 
 It seems not unfit that the scholar should deal plainly 
 with society and tell them that he saw well enough before he 
 spoke the consequence of his speaking ; that up there in his 
 silent study, by his dim lamp, he fore-heard this Babel of 
 outcries. The nature of man he knew, the insanity that 
 
 JNew England Reformers. •Journal of 1838. 
 
262 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 comes of inaction and tradition, and knew well that when 
 their dream and routine were disturbed, like bats and owls 
 and nocturnal beasts they would howl and shriek and fly 
 at the torch-bearer. But he saw plainly that under this 
 their distressing disguise of bird-form and beast-form the 
 divine features of man were hidden, and he felt that he 
 would dare to be so much their friend as to do them this 
 violence to drag them to the day and to the healthy air and 
 water of God, that the unclean spirits that had possessed 
 them might be exorcised and depart. The taunts and cries 
 of hatred and anger, the very epithets you bestow on me, are 
 so familiar long ago in my reading that they sound to me 
 ridiculously old and stale. The same thing has happened so 
 many times over (that is, with the appearance of every orig- 
 inal observer) that, if people were not very ignorant of 
 literary history, they would be struck with the exact coin- 
 cidence. I, whilst I see this, that you must have been 
 shocked and must cry out at what I have said, I see too that 
 we cannot be easily reconciled, for I have a great deal more 
 to say that will shock you out of all patience.* 
 
 There is no terror like that of being known. The world 
 lies in night of sin. It hears not the cock crowing; it sees 
 not the grey streak in the East. At the first entering ray of 
 light, society is shaken with fear and anger from side to 
 side. Who opened that shutter? they cry. Woe to him! 
 They belie it, they call it darkness that comes in, affirming 
 that they were in light before. Before the man who has 
 spoken to them the dread word they tremble and flee. They 
 flee to new topics, to their learning, to the solid institutions 
 about them, to their great men, to their windows, and look- 
 out on the road and passengers, to their very furniture, and 
 meats, and drinks, — anywhere, anyhow, to escape the ap- 
 parition. The wild horse has heard the whisper of the 
 tamer : the maniac has caught the glance of the keeper. They 
 try to forget the memory of the speaker ; to put him down 
 into the same obscure place he occupied in their minds 
 before he spake to them. It is all in vain. They even 
 
 ♦Journal of 1838. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 263 
 
 flatter themselves that they have killed and buried the 
 enemy, when they have magisterially denied and denounced 
 him. But vain, vain, all vain. It was but the first mutter 
 of the distant storm they heard, — it was the first cry of the 
 Revolution, — it was the touch, the palpitation that goes 
 before the earthquake.* 
 
 Do something; it matters little or not at all whether it 
 be in the way of what you call your profession or not, so it 
 be in the plane or coincidence with the axis of your char- 
 acter. The reaction is always proportional to the action, 
 and it is the reaction that we want. Strike the hardest blow 
 you can, and you can always do this by work which is agree- 
 able to your nature. This is economy. t 
 
 Gather yourself into a ball to be thrown at the mark."^ 
 I do not care what you write, but only that you should 
 show yourself a man by writing.^ 
 
 •Journal of 1838. t Journal of 1839. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE THESIS 
 
 The temporary quarters, in which Paul Milton held the 
 position of proctor, were just across the street from the 
 property on which the old dormitory had stood and on which 
 the new one was to be erected. Milton's window — the only 
 one in his alcove — overlooked this property. He had often 
 sat there during the fall term, watching the laborers tear 
 down the old walls. The destruction of one of the corner 
 rooms — the one in which he had tutored Arch Coddington, 
 and the one from which Coddington had taken him directly 
 to May Stanley's establishment — filled him with joy. 
 
 The demolition of the old fraternity house was com- 
 pleted at the beginning of the New Year. Before the Christ- 
 mas vacation, the pavements and street had been littered 
 with old brick, stone, window frames and plaster. When 
 Milton returned, all this debris was cleared away and re- 
 placed by orderly piles of new brick and beautiful white 
 stone. The old foundation had been dug up and hauled 
 away; and the new one was already begun. 
 
 All these things had deep significance. It pleased him 
 to draw up analogies between the work which was going on 
 across the street and the work which was under way in 
 his own mind. He too had destroyed a worthless building 
 and was erecting a new one : for he had at once begun an- 
 other thesis, which had humane interests and fraternity for 
 its main theme and foundation. The building before him 
 was nothing more than the materialization of his own 
 thought, which continually advanced and enlarged just as 
 the walls rose each day higher and higher. Each white 
 stone, which the laborers placed on those walls, represented 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 265 
 
 a word ; each row of stones, a sentence in the construction 
 of his dissertation. 
 
 Strangely enough the university was erecting a new re- 
 search laboratory on the site next to the fraternity property, 
 but Milton took no interest in its progress. 
 
 The first of May was just a few months off. On that 
 day his new thesis must be completed and published. Re- 
 search no longer fascinated Milton. He sacrificed all other 
 interests and concentrated all his time and thought on this 
 new work. 
 
 He had found a kind of research, which was religious 
 rather than scientific. He had become a Christian. He was 
 no longer a heathen — a worshipper of geometrical config- 
 urations and thread models; he had become a Christian. 
 Unlike the other members of the faculty, who continued 
 their idolatrous observations on fossils, molecules, microbes, 
 ions, worms and meteors, he turned his attention to God 
 and God's children, to the human heart and the human soul. 
 
 It is true that he might still be called a maniac, but his 
 mania was no longer a monomania like geometry ; his mania 
 had broadened and deepened and was no longer a thing 
 which isolated him from his fellow-men; it was something 
 which brought him closer to them. His mania was humanity 
 — fraternity. 
 
 It was indeed the idea of true fraternity that had taken 
 possession of Paul Milton's mind and refused to let any 
 other ideas enter. Just as geometry had once left no room 
 for humanity, so now did humanity hold sway and pre- 
 dominance. And yet he realized that his geometry had 
 helped him and that his music also had played its part, 
 although he had forsaken them both. The geometry had 
 equipped him with a sense of exactness; the music had 
 taught him abandonment. These very qualities were needed 
 in his future work. For what is human life but a combina- 
 tion of problems and songs? problems which disturb yet 
 inspire us to work, songs which soothe and lull us to re- 
 pose? Science and Art each have a place in the universe. 
 
266 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 but not until they are humanized, not until they are Chris- 
 tianized. 
 
 Milton continued to conduct his classes, although he had 
 lost much of his old enthusiasm which he had had in them. 
 The effort, which he was now making to stimulate interest 
 in their students among other teachers, was gradually smoth- 
 ering the interest which he once had in his own. However 
 there was no guilty conscience to whisper in his ear that he 
 was neglecting his duties; for if Leech could abandon his 
 teaching in order to pursue the researches which in no way 
 benefited his students but served merely to advance him- 
 self and the university unduly, then surely he, Milton, could 
 also abandon his teaching to work unselfishly for the bet- 
 terment of both the teacher and the taught. Therefore, with 
 De Soto's approval, he had adopted Leech's policy, and was 
 never again known to report "ten exclusions" at a faculty 
 meeting. De Soto felt that he had won a victory — a new 
 convert to his doctrine: Not that I love teaching less but 
 that I love research more. 
 
 De Soto often asked Milton how his thesis was pro- 
 gressing. 
 
 "Admirably," answered the boy. 
 
 The professor felt no alarm or anxiety because his dis- 
 ciple no longer called upon him for assistance. He knew 
 conclusively that the boy was a mathematical genius, who, 
 by this time, probably understood the manuscript as thor- 
 oughly as he himself. 
 
 Milton continued to attend De Soto's lectures in Higher 
 Geometry and a few other graduate courses, but he had lost 
 all interest in them. While taking notes, he jotted down 
 inspirations which came to him during the lecture — inspira- 
 tions for his new thesis — inspirations which meant far more 
 to him and would mean far more to every one else than the 
 dry expositions in geometry, which the professors for the 
 most part might just as well have addressed to empty 
 benches. 
 
 Milton now knew definitely that his presence irritated 
 Harold Hollis, and he made no further effort to approach 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 267 
 
 him. One thing he could not and would not do was to 
 annoy or pain the boy whom he loved. He felt that Hollis 
 had suffered enough as it was; he would not increase that 
 suffering by forcing himself upon the youth when his com- 
 pany was not desired. Even though the boy had bolted the 
 door against him, Milton continued to work and sleep at his 
 side, knowing that when the partition would break, — as it 
 must eventually, — the two brothers would be united in their 
 work for one common cause. 
 
 Hollis' attitude toward Milton became the attitude of the 
 entire fraternity. Such is the nature of the spirit of frater- 
 nity as it exists in the clubs at our universities and colleges, 
 nay, in all secret clans. It is far removed from true frater- 
 nity. It is a spirit which destroys individuality — the indi- 
 viduality of God, which should be found in every man. It 
 robs a man of his personal likes and virtues, and forces him 
 to adopt the dislikes and opinions of that body of which he 
 has become a dependent and an inseparable member. My 
 brother's enemies shall be my enemies also. What he hates 
 I will likewise hate. Superficially I shall appear undis- 
 turbed and act like a gentleman of honor, but deep down in 
 my heart, hidden from public view, there shall be found the 
 same rancor which lies in the heart of my brother, to whose 
 bosom I am riveted and whom I am pledged to defend, how- 
 ever unjust and mean his thoughts and actions may be: for 
 such is the commandment of our idol — the Greek letters 
 with which we pin our hearts together. 
 
 It was this false spirit of fraternity which Milton would 
 attack openly in his "thesis" — this idolatrous form of fra- 
 ternity which could not survive but which must eventually 
 destroy itself to make way for the genuine brotherhood of 
 Christianity — that brotherhood which forgives sin but does 
 not conceal it. They employed secrecy to conceal their 
 rancor ; Milton would employ it to destroy that rancor. He 
 would work in their midst without their knowing it, not 
 behind a bolted door, but openly, yet silently and alone — 
 alone save for the presence of that Supreme Power which 
 works for good and good only. 
 
268 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 And after the message is delivered, let them call him a 
 spy if they care to. He had gone there not by his own free 
 will but by the will of that Power which had also led him 
 elsewhere and awakened in him a deep fraternal love for 
 those who despised him and whose conduct "even disgusted 
 and repelled him. He would not attempt to establish with 
 them the same friendship which existed among themselves. 
 By doing so, he might be considered all the more a spy. He 
 did not wish to learn the secrets of that friendship by 
 mingling with them ; Providence had already revealed those 
 secrets and revealed them without the boy's volition. 
 
 There was no God-given power behind Leech's work; 
 there was nothing but alcohol and nicotine to drive him on. 
 Such external forces are not needed by those who work for 
 humane interests ; such forces destroy humane interests. It 
 is only when man's aims are selfish and material that he must 
 resort to unnatural and injurious sources of energy, which 
 stifle his love for humanity. 
 
 Milton was merely a channel for the Higher Power. 
 Page after page seemed to flow spontaneously from his pen. 
 At the time, the words he wrote had Httle meaning to him — 
 or at least no depth of meaning. But when he would read 
 and reread them, they seemed to become more and more 
 illuminant, more like the words of another. He himself 
 cculd not justly claim the authorship. There was more than 
 he had originally recorded. There were thoughts which 
 appeared even dangerous to him, but which he had to retain 
 however much it pained him to do so. He dared not alter 
 , them. How could any one alter truth ? 
 
 When the manuscript of his "thesis" was complete, 
 Milton sent it to a publisher in a neighboring town, who 
 promised to have it ready in book-form by the first of May. 
 He did not return to his mother's cottage at Norford during 
 the Easter vacation, but remained at the university to correct 
 the galleys and page-proofs from the printer, and also to be 
 near by in order that he might communicate with him in 
 person. He wrote a letter to Alice explaining everything. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 269 
 
 How she yearned to tell Allaine of the great reform to 
 which she had led her son ! But she had promised Paul to 
 remain silent, just as she had promised Allaine; she alone 
 knew the secret which each was trying to hold from the 
 other. Allaine, as usual, did not call at the cottage during 
 vacation. Consequently, she did not discover that Paul had 
 not returned, and therefore never suspected that he was 
 actually going to agitate the reform and thus accomplish the 
 task in which she had hoped and prayed he would succeed 
 before leaving the university — the task which she had never 
 failed to believe would save her. 
 
 Allaine's engagement had been formally announced. Mr. 
 and Mrs. Bennett seemed happier than ever. They now felt 
 certain that Harold Hollis was as truly theirs as though he 
 had been born unto them. Harold did not visit Willow 
 Lodge during Easter. He continued, however, to write long 
 and encouraging letters to Allaine, stating that the constant 
 thought of her had taken his mind off his studies and that 
 there was danger of his suspension from the university if 
 he did not make up his back work. Rather than have such a 
 disgrace brought upon Allaine, he preferred to suffer not 
 being with her at Eastertide, and remain at the university 
 over the holidays. The students would all leave town then, 
 he wrote, and the fellows could not interfere with his work 
 on the books and lessons which he had neglected on her 
 account. Mr. and Mrs. Bennett applauded this great sacri- 
 fice which Harold was making, and both of them began 
 to plan very energetically for the preparation of their 
 daughter's wedding in June. Absence makes the heart grow 
 fonder, was what Mr. Bennett told his wife, adding that 
 Allaine's heart would be overflowing by the time June ar- 
 rived, she not having seen Harold for almost a year. 
 
 Indeed, if Allaine's anxiety to see Harold had been half 
 so great as her father's, what a wonderful meeting and 
 wedding there might have been ! But we know how she was 
 suffering. We know the silent grief that was tearing and 
 crushing her heart. How it pained her to see the carpenters 
 coming to Willow Lodge to take measurements for the con- 
 
270 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 struction of those immense pavilions, which were to be 
 erected on the lawn to accommodate the multitude invited 
 to her wedding! Thousands of yards of smilax! Several 
 hundred palms ! Orchids ! Orange blossoms ! A veil and a 
 shower bouquet ! What thoughts could be more cruel than 
 these ? 
 
 There was but one other person who knew the deep sor- 
 row which was concealed under all of Allaine's forced and 
 superficial happiness. And how she might have alleviated 
 the girl's sorrow by relating the other secret which she had 
 also promised to keep! If AUaine but knew what Paul was 
 doing, how it would help dispel her grief ! If she could go to 
 her father and say, with certainty, that Paul Milton was 
 performing that task for which he had been sent to the 
 university! If she could only proclaim, with truth, that the 
 man she really loved was not a failure, then she might 
 awaken her father from the blissful dream in which he had 
 been completely submerged by Mr. Richard Hollis and his 
 son. She might even succeed in canceling the ... If ! If ! 
 How much she, Allaine, had done for Paul! How little 
 he was doing for her ! Why doesn't he try to save me ? 
 Why doesn't he come to my rescue ? Paul ! Paul ! 
 
 But Paul was happy, extremely happy — happy at his 
 desk, reading the proof-sheets of his "thesis." Yet there 
 was a boy in the room next to him who was even more mis- 
 erable than Allaine Bennett. Hollis had written her the 
 truth : he did remain at the university locked up in his room. 
 How lonely he was! How he pined for company, for the 
 company of some noble soul, for the company of the man 
 on the other side of the partition ! How he craved to enter 
 that door which was always wide open, always waiting like 
 an outstretched arm to receive him ! 
 
 It was the first day in the month of May, refulgent and 
 refreshing. It seemed to Milton that the sun had never 
 shone more gloriously in a bluer sky; the birds had never 
 sung more happily; the flowers had never looked brighter; 
 the bushes had never swayed more gracefully ; the bees had 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 271 
 
 never stumbled along more contentedly through the fragrant 
 clover. Nature was at her best. God was smiling, and his 
 smile was illuminating, ameliorating and felicitating all that 
 he had created. 
 
 Milton appeared bright and early at the university 
 library. It seemed that the wind had carried him there on 
 wings; so happy and light was his heart. He expected to 
 see several other candidates depositing their theses ; he might 
 have seen them had he gone there at the closing hour that 
 night. But at this early hour he stood alone. He handed his 
 book to the man at the desk. The librarian scrutinized it, 
 looking for library marks and labels. 
 
 "Is this one of our books ?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," answered Milton. "I am presenting it to the 
 university. It is customary — is it not? — for graduates of 
 the institution to present the library with copies of their 
 works." 
 
 "Yes," said the librarian. 
 
 "This is my first publication," said Milton. 
 
 "What is the nature of it?" 
 
 "It is my thesis." 
 
 The librarian looked up ; a thesis is never printed before 
 it is accepted. 
 
 "Are you a candidate for a degree ?" 
 
 "I am a candidate for truth," answered Paul. 
 
 "What department?" 
 
 "The department for the promotion of human love and 
 brotherhood." 
 
 The librarian looked up again. 
 
 "Under whose guidance have you prepared this work?" 
 asked the librarian, expecting to hear the familiar name of 
 some research professor in the university. 
 
 "Under the guidance of God," was the reply. 
 
 And then Paul Milton walked out into the sunshine 
 among the birds and among the flowers. When he returned 
 to his room he seized his violin — his long- forgotten violia. 
 It trembled ecstatically in his arms, and sang to him as it 
 had never sung before. 
 
272 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 An hour later the president of the university was sitting 
 in his private office reading Milton's "thesis." He twitched 
 about nervously in his chair, and at the end of each chapter 
 he got up and paced the floor. By noon he had perused the 
 entire book, lightly perhaps, but he saw and understood only 
 too well the theme on which it was constructed. Then he 
 went to the telephone, and called up his Richelieu — Pro- 
 fessor Ambroise De Soto. 
 
 The following morning the janitor brought a note to the 
 proctor's room. After reading it, Milton sat at his desk, 
 wrote a few lines on a sheet of paper, appended his signa- 
 ture, folded the paper and placed it in his pocket. Then he 
 took De Soto's manuscript from the desk drawer, wrapped 
 it up, placed it under his arm and hurried off to the pro- 
 fessor's office. 
 
 When he arrived there, he knocked on the door, but re- 
 ceived no answer. Milton tried the door and found it open. 
 The geometer was meditating at the window. He had evi- 
 dently encountered something which had given him more 
 food for thought than either his research or the "ten exclu- 
 sions." 
 
 "Good morning," said Milton. "I believe you wanted to 
 see me." 
 
 The great scientist came to with a start. 
 
 "Good morning — ^good morning — just sit down, please." 
 
 "It is a glorious day," said Milton. 
 
 But the geometer had something more important to talk 
 about than the weather. 
 
 "Of course you understand the object of this interview," 
 he began. 
 
 "I suppose it concerns my thesis." 
 
 "Yes, since you prefer to call it such," said the geometer, 
 with just a slight shade of sarcasm. Then he changed the 
 tone of his voice, and added : "My dear young man, why, 
 oh why, did you publish this book before consulting me ?" 
 
 "Had I consulted you first, it would never have been 
 published," explained Milton. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 273 
 
 "And your career would then have been saved," added 
 De Soto. 
 
 "What career?" asked Paul. 
 
 "Your career as a mathematician. It was I who found 
 you ; I who discovered you. You had remarkable talent and 
 genius. I have praised you before every professor on the 
 faculty. I had predicted to them that you would be one of 
 the foremost geometers of the future. Your power of inves- 
 tigation was so unique, so rare. What fame and glory you 
 would have won for the university with your researches ! 
 And here you have derided and condemned the very thing 
 for which Nature has so excellently equipped you. And it 
 all falls back on me — me who have helped you and done so 
 much for you by procuring you a free scholarship and a free 
 room at the dormitory. This is my reward. You have not 
 only ruined your own career; you have also injured mine. 
 You have denounced the great work over which I have 
 labored for three years. I shall not be able to mention your 
 name in the preface, but even without it being there, I feel 
 that this book of yours will depreciate the value of my great 
 investigations." 
 
 Great tears stood in the eyes of the little man. 
 
 "Ah ! it is not only my work which will suffer," he con- 
 tinued. "You have attacked, in an almost insane manner, 
 the first and real purpose of every great university. You 
 were not yourself when you wrote this book ; I am inclined 
 to think you were out of your mind. No sane person would 
 attack the doctrine which the President of our great institu- 
 tion upholds — the doctrine that our main purpose is the 
 advancement of science and art. We are trying to gather all 
 the leading scientists into our fold; we are planning to be- 
 come the foremost research institution in America. Re- 
 search is our motto — our empire. And here one of our own 
 faculty rises from obscurity and denounces it. Of course 
 we ourselves will not take you seriously, but your book will 
 harm us when it falls into the hands of the ignorant and 
 silly parents of our undergraduates. They will certainly 
 see these things in the wrong proportion, in the wrong light. 
 
274 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 If you had only brought it to me before publishing it! I 
 could have prevented all — the harm which it is going to do 
 you, the harm which it is going to do me, and the harm 
 which it is going to do the university." 
 
 There was considerable sorrow and pity in the tone of 
 De Soto's voice. 
 
 "My boy !" he cried. "Every one in the university will 
 pity you. You should never have done it. You undertook 
 more than you were able to do. You have had a little 
 experience in Mathematical Research, but you know noth- 
 ing of Research along other lines ; you know nothing of the 
 great achievements which our faculty are making in Chem- 
 istry, Eugenics, Dietetics, Astronomy, Biology and Medi- 
 cine. You do not see deeply enough into these things ; you 
 do not see their true value. You do not see how much good 
 they are doing for the world at large. You do not realize 
 how far-reaching the results of our researches are. You 
 have undertaken to criticise that which is far beyond you. 
 My boy, I fear you have displayed great stupidity and 
 ignorance." 
 
 The moment had arrived when Paul Milton could remain 
 silent no longer. He rose to his feet and stood squarely in 
 front of the great geometer. He would not allow his "good 
 and great purpose" to be referred to as stupid and ignorant. 
 
 "Perhaps I am stupid," he began firmly. "Perhaps I am 
 ignorant of the extensive work which is being done by the 
 professors in other departments. Perhaps I do not realize 
 the great good our faculty is doing for the world at large. 
 But I do know the conditions that exist among our under- 
 graduates, and I do know that your wonderful researches 
 are not reaching and improving them. They are being neg- 
 lected for the sake of research — for a thing which in no way 
 benefits them. There is a great need for investigation and 
 discovery right here among our students. Why should we 
 go searching for fame in test tubes, in bell jars, in foreign 
 countries, in prehistoric ages, on other planets, as long as 
 these humane duties are staring us in the face in our very 
 classrooms? Why not direct our activities toward making 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 275 
 
 our Alma Mater a cleaner and a more honorable commu- 
 nity? Here is a field of true public service — a field in which 
 few of us care to investigate — a field in which the majority 
 of us prefer to close our eyes. Why don't we use love to 
 try to prevent the causes of injury and disease which flourish 
 in our midst instead of using science to invent medicines and 
 fads for temporary remedies ? Why don't we take an active 
 interest in teaching and in our students instead of an interest 
 in research and roaches? You sent me to Doctor Leech to 
 learn how things should be done; he told me to pass my 
 students and say nothing. That, he claims, is the universal 
 policy among your teachers. Teachers ! they do not deserve 
 the name. And what is your own opinion in regard to 
 teaching? It consists of throwing a measureful of corn to a 
 flock of geese. Geese ! that is the extent of your considera- 
 tion for your students. You consider them as a flock of 
 geese, not as a class of men. You make no effort to ascer- 
 tain their individual needs and attention. You let them do 
 just as they please. You allow them to neglect the very 
 studies which should serve to sharpen their minds and enable 
 them to reason. They do not know the difference between 
 right and wrong, between virtue and vice. You ignore their 
 moral and their intellectual education as long as their inter- 
 est in athletics and other extra-curriculum activities brings 
 the university into the public eye. Your aims are too selfish 
 to even think of their welfare. Your own future and 
 the future of the university — that is the sum total of your 
 interests. What difference does it matter if our students 
 are sinking as long as the reputation of our university is 
 growing — a reputation founded on research and football. 
 This is your notion of fame, is it? this frenzied effort to 
 expand, to dash forward, to flare up no matter what the 
 expense? Who is more insane? You or I? Who is the 
 madder of the two? You say I have ruined my career. If 
 so, I have done it to save the careers of my brothers. What 
 is all your mathematical research worth compared with the 
 uprightness of a hundred students? Is this dry, fantastic, 
 impractical geometry which you call my career — is this 
 
276 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 worth more to the world than the careers of a hundred 
 American boys? If I had a dozen such mathematical 
 careers before me, I should abandon them one and all to 
 save the boys I love. You do not realize how much immor- 
 ality flourishes about you, or perhaps you do, but you do not 
 care to admit it. If you had seen and heard what I have, 
 your lips would not remain closed to the parents of our 
 undergraduates unless you are a man of no heart, which I 
 believe you are. I have every reason to believe it. You are 
 not interested in your students because you do not love 
 them ; you actually try to avoid them. If they held the place 
 in your heart that they hold in mine, you would have given 
 up this selfish career of yours long ago. You do not know 
 what it means to love your fellow-men. You have never 
 experienced the anguish of seeing your loved ones torn and 
 mangled with beastly brutality. You have never felt the 
 pain and the sympathy which I have felt upon learning that 
 the brother I so loved was disfigured, withered, poisoned, 
 polluted, ruined by a disease which might have been so 
 easily prevented. Your heart has never bled for one whom 
 you love with all your soul and body. Your Hfe's blood has 
 never known the warmth of true fraternal devotion. It is 
 cold; it is frozen in your veins and arteries. It has never 
 been thawed by human affection. I may be stupid and 
 ignorant in regard to the great benefits of research, but I am 
 at least a Christian. I no longer sit at my desk and worship 
 idols. I do not kneel to the university which you are trying 
 to place on a pedestal. My interest lies in the souls of her 
 students. You have forsaken them. To you, love is an illu- 
 sion, and Christianity is a farce. You have forsaken the 
 brotherhood of man. You have forsaken God Himself for 
 your idolized research. I shall no longer assist you in it. I 
 have solved all the problems in your manuscript, but I have 
 burned all the solutions. I have tossed them among the 
 flames and have allowed their light to show me how worth- 
 less they were. Here is your manuscript ; I am through 
 with it. I do not wish to see it again. Neither do I care to 
 have a degree conferred upon me, not when it is the reward 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 277 
 
 of such work as this. I would far rather do a useful Chris- 
 tian task which goes unrewarded. Nor shall I remain 
 longer in an institution which places its interest in vases, 
 bugs, octic curves, horses' skeletons and guinea pigs above 
 its interest in the welfare of its students, who are to become 
 the future citizens of America. Here, Sir, is my resigna- 
 tion." 
 
 It seemed the boy had uttered this entire discourse with- 
 out taking a single breath. The geometer had not inter- 
 rupted him once during the long arraignment. De Soto 
 indeed appeared to grow smaller and smaller in the presence 
 of the inflamed youth before him, and by the time Milton 
 had finished speaking, he was curiously drawn in like a 
 spider trying to escape the notice of him who has destroyed 
 its web. 
 
 After Milton left the office, De Soto gradually assumed 
 his natural dimensions and form. He quickly seized the 
 manuscript which had been left on his desk, for he feared 
 the boy might return and tear it to shreds. He nervously 
 broke the twine and removed the wrapping to look at the 
 precious work which was so dear to him and which had 
 been separated from him so long in the camp of the enemy. 
 Several sheets of paper, of the same size and quality as his 
 own manuscript, fluttered to the floor, displaying systems of 
 circles and other curves beautifully drawn in brilliant col- 
 ored inks — carmine, green, orange, purple — like a flock of 
 birds of paradise escaping from a cage. The geometer hur- 
 riedly looked through all the sheets which remained in the 
 package. He found them covered with similar designs and 
 recognized the solutions to several of the problems which 
 had suggested themselves in his work. 
 
 A sudden fear seized him. He began to tremble. He at 
 once realized that Paul Milton had burned the precious 
 manuscript instead of his own thesis, which was now on the 
 desk before him, complete and perfect. De Soto knew that 
 the boy would never have done such a thing intentionally, 
 and he decided not to agitate him by informing him of his 
 error; he believed the boy had already suffered too much. 
 
278 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 And yet the geometer looked upon it as a miracle rather 
 than an error. He began to perceive, more and more con- 
 clusively, that the youth, who seldom had anything to say 
 heretofore, was not himself when he gave voice to that 
 sermon on human love, which was still ringing in the 
 scientist's ears. The boy was merely a medium, a channel, 
 an avenue which had conducted an almost mysterious power 
 — a power to which that youth was servant. It was that 
 power, and not the boy, that had destroyed the scientist's 
 manuscript — destroyed it without the boy's knowledge of it. 
 
 The scientist fell to thinking. What was this power? 
 What is this power in the presence of which his own re- 
 search seemed so defenceless — in the presence of which it 
 had to bow and be unknowingly destroyed and reduced to 
 dust and ashes? Call this power what you will, it is a 
 power which works for the salvation of men's souls. It is 
 a power which places humane interests above all others, a 
 power before which all other interests seem artificial, idol- 
 atrous and unessential. The geometer began to wonder 
 what good he or his work had ever done for the world of 
 humanity — ah! not only he, but his colleagues as well, who 
 were shut up in their laboratories and offices isolated from 
 their fellow-men and preferring the company of germs and 
 geometry. His whole past loomed up before him. What 
 little interest he had taken in his undergraduates ! How he 
 had ignored them and allowed them to ruin their own 
 careers! He began to think not only of the evil he might 
 have helped to prevent, but also of the good he might have 
 done by living and walking among them, by loving them, 
 and by enlightening them morally as well as intellectually 
 as did the greatest Teacher who ever trod this earth. 
 
 De Soto became a nervous wreck ; his nights were sleep- 
 less. A week after his interview with Paul Milton, the 
 geometer was placed in a sanitarium to recover from the 
 "strain of overwork" — as the university publications printed 
 it. There was a conflict raging in his soul — a conflict be- 
 tween Science and Religion, and he believed the latter was 
 gradually conquering the former. He was slowly but cer- 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 279 
 
 tainly beginning to believe in that power which had been 
 transmitted to him through Paul Milton, of whatever nature 
 that power might be and by whatever name we choose to call 
 it. It is generally referred to as God. 
 
 A few weeks later the college papers announced the 
 changes, appointments and promotions for the coming year 
 in the various departments of the university. In the depart- 
 ment of mathematics it was stated that Paul Milton had vol- 
 untarily resigned. (But nobody cared to believe it; they 
 preferred to think of him as having been ousted.) Doctor 
 Leech had been promoted to assistant professorship, but 
 Doctor Leech was stretched out on the floor of his room, 
 not rolling in ecstasy over the fact that he was without wife 
 and children, or that he had won out over those who were 
 blessed with them ; but motionless and silent. He had passed 
 away in a fit of drunkenness ; his brick-red hair was floating 
 on a pool of blood, and the fingers of his long white hand 
 were fastened with a death-grip about the neck of a whiskey 
 bottle. Professor Ambroise De Soto had already left the 
 university on his summer vacation, which he would spend 
 out west to recover from that "strain of overwork which 
 his remarkable researches of the past three years had 
 brought upon his system." 
 
 Paul Milton's "thesis" was on sale at all the bookstores 
 in town. Every one in the university had read it or was 
 reading it. It was the topic of conversation everywhere ; his 
 name was on the lips of every student and every member of 
 the faculty. His book was ridiculed, condemned, praised 
 and ignored. 
 
 Every writer and artist should learn to enjoy and appre- 
 ciate ridicule whether directed at him or at his work. Many 
 of us are prone to take both ourselves and our work too 
 seriously, and we should indeed feel grateful for the amuse- 
 ment furnished by the caricatures and the burlesques which 
 flow from the pen of the public jester. These contributions 
 are intended neither for praise nor for censure, and the man 
 
28o THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 who takes them earnestly is a greater fool than he who in- 
 vents them. 
 
 A word or two might also be said in regard to serious 
 praise or censure. The critic who praises our work need 
 not sign his name to his critique, for praise neither harms 
 nor helps us, and therefore he who praises might just as 
 well remain unknown. A condemnatory article, however, 
 should never appear without a signature — a real one, not a 
 nom de plume. If our critic has not enough courage to 
 censure us openly, we shall not even pay him the respect of 
 reading what he has to say. Let him append his name that 
 we might first consider the character of the man before we 
 give weight to his opinions. If he is honorable, we should 
 learn and try to correct the faults which he finds with our 
 work. But so many critics know so little about the subject 
 they attempt to criticise, and they decide that the easiest 
 way to talk about something they do not understand is to 
 deny its existence. Hence they frequently write : "The con- 
 ditions which the writer has exaggerated do not even exist." 
 
 Neither high praise nor low condemnation are indicative 
 of serious thought. It is only when our work is seemingly 
 ignored that it has penetrated deeply into the mind of our 
 silent critic. Time is the only element which solves great 
 problems correctly. To say, at a glance, that a theory is 
 right or wrong is to say nothing at all. When the critic 
 speaks neither pro nor con, but hesitates and prefers to post- 
 pone his judgment, then we may justly feel that we have 
 introduced a great principle. 
 
 It is only the man who doubts the merit of his own work 
 who flies to the newspapers and periodicals to learn what 
 others think of it; but when a man is satisfied with that 
 which has been produced through himself as a medium, he 
 is indifferent to criticism of either form, and considers it 
 merely as a source of information for plagiarists whose 
 minds are too immature to form opinions of their own. The 
 embryonic artist likes praise and hates censure; the devel- 
 oping artist ignores praise and loves censure, because the 
 latter shows him the very defects he is striving to remove 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 281 
 
 or rectify; but the mature and born artist is neither dis- 
 turbed nor pleased by other persons' opinions of his work, 
 be those opinions good or bad. 
 
 Paul Milton seemed to feel no responsibility for the 
 ideas set forth in his "thesis." Neither the praise nor the 
 censure seemed to reach his eye or ear. He heard only 
 those who remained silent, only those who seemingly ignored 
 his work; and their inaudible approval was as sweet to his 
 ears as the songs of the birds and the voice of his own 
 violin. 
 
 He received but one personal communication in regard 
 to his work. One day the door bell rang, and the janitor 
 found a sturdy little fellow, four or five years old, standing 
 on the steps. He was dressed in a soldier's uniform of 
 bright red decorated with large brass buttons. He carried 
 a tin helmet on his head, a toy sword in his right hand, and 
 a sealed envelope in his left. 
 
 "This is for Mr. Milton," said the little chap, as he held 
 out the letter. "Are you him ?" 
 
 The negro laughed. 
 
 "No," answered he ; "I ain't him, but I sees to it that he 
 gets it." 
 
 The janitor took the note to the proctor's room. Milton 
 opened it and read: 
 
 Dear Mr. Milton — 
 
 I have read your book twice. It's great. The night you 
 come to our joint you woke me up part way. Now you 
 have woke me up altogether. I'm going out of the business. 
 I closed down the house. I think I have ruined enough 
 students already. I don't know what's going to become of 
 me, but I guess God will take care of that. I can hope and 
 that's all. Mother died last month. Me and Tom Kuhler 
 Junior are living alone in our shanty. Be sure to notice 
 Tom's uniform and sword. I bought the whole outfit with 
 the two-dollar bill you give me that night. I bought it at 
 the department store that thro wed me out of my job when 
 Tom was on the way. I saved that two-dollar bill until 
 
282 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 now. But when I read your book I bought this uniform 
 right away with the money. I'm going to make a fighter 
 out of Tom and send him to his Dad's university when he's 
 big enough. Not a football fighter but one like you. One 
 to help keep the students what they ought to be. I ain't 
 particular about his making his Dad's frat. I'd rather he'd 
 stay away from that bunch unless they turn over a new leaf 
 and become the Christian Brotherhood you talk about in 
 that book you have wrote. 
 
 Your friend, 
 
 May Stanley. 
 
 Milton could scarcely believe what he had read. To 
 think that he had written a thesis which every one could 
 understand — a thesis which had reached the hands and the 
 heart of even this poor, abused, illiterate woman of the 
 streets. He wanted to hug the little messenger who deliv- 
 ered that letter. 
 
 "Where is the little soldier who brought this?" asked 
 Milton of the janitor, who was making up his bed. 
 
 "He's went away ; he didn't wait for no answer. Sir." 
 
 Just then there was considerable cheering on the street. 
 Milton ran to the window. The students of the university 
 had assembled in a body to march to the "New" Stadium 
 to see the first "big" baseball game of the season. The 
 little soldier in his bright red uniform and helmet was lead- 
 ing the procession, brandishing his toy sword in tempo with 
 the music of a brass band. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 THE FAREWELL 
 
 It was commencement time again. The alumni were on 
 their way from all parts of the country, returning to the 
 university to celebrate the reunion of their classes. If the 
 reader will figure it out, he will observe that it was the year 
 for Paul Milton's Triennial and for Tom Kuhler's Sexennial. 
 
 It was the first big reunion of Milton's class since gradu- 
 ation, but he did not care to participate in it : for they were 
 all strangers to him — all but Arch Coddington, and Arch 
 could hardly be called a friend. Coddington, the only man 
 in his class whom Milton really knew, was the cause of Paul 
 Milton's present sorrow. Yes; Paul Milton was sad in 
 spite of all his happiness. 
 
 The greater we love persons or places the more ardently 
 do we yearn to improve and purify them, and sometimes we 
 fight so strenuously, so fearlessly, ah! even so inconsider- 
 ately in their defense that we wound them in the conflict. 
 There are many students who stand up to shout and sing 
 their love and praise of their Alma Mater in a manner which 
 seems to thrill her and make her forgetful of all the injuries, 
 insults, lies, tricks, disgraces and sins which they have left 
 behind them as dark spots on her soul ; but there are a few 
 less hypocritical ones who have become so genuinely at- 
 tached to her that they would rather wound her by bringing 
 these dark spots to the surface and then wash them away 
 with their own silent tears caused by the pain, which they 
 (being a true and closer part of her) also feel. 
 
 Paul Milton was one of these few. He had loved his 
 Alma Mater so deeply and reverently that he sacrificed him- 
 self and everything to fight for her, and she was wounded 
 
284 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 in the battle. It would take some time for that wound to 
 heal, but when she recovered, she would be firmer and 
 purer than before. He stayed at her bedside to console her 
 until other sons, with smiling faces and brilliant costumes, 
 would return to relieve the pain. He remained at the uni- 
 versity until the Sunday preceding Commencement, know- 
 ing that the reunion classes would come to town the follow- 
 ing Monday morning. 
 
 When Milton arose early that Sunday, he went to the 
 window of his alcove and gazed in admiration upon the New 
 Fraternity building on the other side of the street. Its 
 walls, which had risen high into the fresh clean air, were 
 being bathed in the pure sunlight of that wonderful June 
 morning. The white stones glistened like precious gems 
 against the rich azure of a cloudless sky. The old dormitory, 
 and all the unpleasant memories connected with it, had 
 vanished forever. It was by the wish of the students them- 
 selves that it had been smitten to the ground, and in its 
 stead stood this beautiful new temple whose shining roof 
 was there, not to conceal the sins and diseases of a secret 
 clan of reckless pleasure-seekers, but to shelter a demo- 
 cratic confederation of noble, clean, honorable boys and men 
 — a union of both undergraduates and faculty who desired 
 to learn and to teach the wealth, the health, the strength, the 
 truth and the beauty of the moral sentiment and intellect. 
 And God Himself was embracing it in his strong, warm 
 arms — embracing His temple, which both His mental and 
 His physical laborers had erected to symbolize and protect 
 a Christian Brotherhood. 
 
 The walls of the research laboratory on the adjoining lot 
 had not risen to so great a height. Its construction had been 
 delayed and postponed for the work on this more important 
 and more necessary addition to the university campus. It 
 pleased Milton to see that the New Fraternity building tow- 
 ered above the grayer walls of the laboratory — that brother- 
 hood had triumphed over research. He saw in this the 
 future fulfillment of his prophecy, and it made his leave- 
 taking happier and easier. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 285 
 
 He had sent his trunk to the station the day before, and 
 left a note on his desk, giving the janitor an address to which 
 his mail might be forwarded. He had only his violin to 
 carry with him to the train — his only traveling companion, 
 as it were. Before he left the house, he longed to say 
 good-bye to some human being — some one in whose hand- 
 clasp there would be as much sincerity and love as in his 
 own. He had once received such a clasp the first time he 
 met Harold Hollis in Miss Jones' attic. He knew that clasp 
 might easily be repeated now, were it not for the meager, 
 fragile, senseless partition which had sprung up between the 
 two boys like a blade of poison grass. 
 
 Hollis was indeed asleep in the room next to him. He 
 was staying over for the commencement baseball game. The 
 door to his room was closed, as usual, but Milton stood in 
 front of it a long time, before he left the temporary quarters 
 which had brought them so near together despite the fact 
 that it was the cause of their separation. He placed his 
 hand on the knob and was about to open the door and press 
 Hollis to his bosom ; but to obey is to command — for there 
 came to his mind those words : "Don't look at me or speak 
 to me again." So he merely whispered his farewell — whis- 
 pered it softly, silently, tearfully. Then he rushed out into 
 the street, and never turned his head to look back on that 
 house which had cloistered the boy whom he was leaving 
 forever. 
 
 On his way to the depot he had to pass the chapel of the 
 university. The president was preaching the baccalaureate 
 sermon. His text was reform, and his message to the under- 
 graduates, who sat before him in their caps and gowns, was 
 very similar to Milton's message from "The Alumni," which 
 he had underlined in Emerson. The candidates for higher 
 degrees were also seated before the head of the university, 
 but one of them was missing, although he had submitted 
 two theses — one of which had been read by almost every 
 student in the congregation ; the other was secretly pre- 
 served, locked and treasured in a drawer of Professor De 
 Soto's desk. 
 
286 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 The campus was deserted. It seemed every one was 
 attending the services in God's temple, listening to the 
 preacher's effort to inspire the graduating class with the 
 spirit of reform. As Milton passed the entrance, the huge 
 pipe organ began to roar majestically, and the entire congre- 
 gation joined in singing a hymn. He stepped into the lonely 
 vestibule, took his violin from its case, and accompanied the 
 song with all his heart and soul, drinking in every word, as 
 it seemed to pound so powerfully and yet so hopelessly 
 against the massive doors which separated him and his 
 sweet, simple, appealing music from that splendor and dis- 
 play which rendered his own efforts inaudible and invisible 
 to the large congregation. 
 
 Press on, press on! ye sons of light, 
 Untiring in your holy fight, 
 Still treading each temptation down, 
 And battling for a brighter crown. 
 
 Press on, press on! still look in faith 
 To Him who con-q'reth sin and death: 
 Then shall ye hear His word, ''Well done." 
 True to the last, press on, press on! 
 
 After the close of the last verse, he placed his violin in 
 the case, brushed aside a tear, and hurried off to make his 
 train. 
 
 In the meanwhile Harold Hollis had arisen. He was 
 alone in the house. All the other junior members of his 
 fraternity had left town, and, strangely enough, the influ- 
 ence of their shallow exclusiveness and clannish snobbery 
 had departed with them. Consequently, Hollis began to 
 think and act for himself. He had read Paul Milton's 
 "thesis" not as an individual but as a member of a secret 
 clan, and naturally he scorned the criticism which had been 
 directed against them. But when he stood alone and saw 
 the sunlit walls of the New Fraternity house rising so im- 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 287 
 
 pressively into God*s heaven, he realized for the first time 
 that this building was nothing more than the materialization 
 of the thoughts and ideas which Paul Milton had expressed 
 in his book, and in the adherence to which Hollis, from that 
 moment on, saw his own salvation. 
 
 He unbolted and flung open the door in the partition 
 between the two rooms, and rushed into the alcove to apol- 
 ogize to the author and claim him and embrace him as his 
 noblest friend and brother. But it was too late : the express 
 was carrying him farther and farther away from the univer- 
 sity, never to return, and bringing him nearer and nearer to 
 a mother's bosom — a bosom on which Harold Hollis could 
 never again rest his head. The only trace and remembrance 
 of Milton which HoUis could find was the note he had left 
 for the janitor. 
 
 Hollis read that note and learned for the first time that 
 Paul Milton and Allaine Bennett lived in the same town, in 
 fact, on the same street of that town even within a few 
 squares of each other. Hollis returned to his own room, sat 
 down at his desk before Allaine's picture, and began to write 
 a long letter, although he could see very indistinctly; for 
 the hot tears, which filled his smarting eyes, not only blurred 
 his vision but fell upon the paper as well. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 REUNION 
 
 On Monday morning the Alumni began to arrive at the 
 university, register at their respective headquarters, and don 
 the costumes which had been designed to distinguish the 
 various classes. The campus was a scene of animation and 
 brilliancy. The graduates, strolling across the green in their 
 multicolor suits, gave it the appearance of a gigantic flower 
 bed planted unsymmetrically with numerous stalks, bearing 
 blossoms of every possible description, which moved about 
 from time to time constantly interchanging their positions 
 like the colors in a kaleidoscope. 
 
 Here stood a group of jolly tars attired in dazzling blue 
 and white. Beside them, under the spreading elms, sat sev- 
 eral Chinamen in vivid red and yellow, smoking their quaint 
 long-stemmed pipes, A chorus of clowns in pink bloomers 
 and peaked hats, trimmed with green tassels and rosettes, 
 were performing circus "stunts" on the steps of the old 
 vine-clad chapel. A battalion of soldiers, in tin helmets and 
 bright red uniforms, were drilling under the memorial gate- 
 way and singing the glees of former days. A gang of con- 
 victs were displaying their stripes behind the black iron 
 fence at the gymnasium. An automobile, loaded with Turks 
 in purple turbans and gilded scimiters, rolled slowly through 
 the crowded streets. 
 
 It was Arch Coddington's class who were dressed as 
 clowns, and it was Tom Kuhler's class who were dressed as 
 soldiers. 
 
 The graduates re-visited all the dear old haunts of their 
 college days — ^the haunts which were again brightened by 
 the jolly costumes and the happy faces of yore. The senior 
 
\ 
 
 THE NEW FRATERNITY 289 
 
 fence, the tavern, the lunch counter, the shore, the vaude- 
 ville — each in turn became the rendezvous where old 
 acquaintances were once again renewed and enjoyed. One 
 haunt, however, was deserted. That night a soldier and a 
 clown were walking arm in arm. They turned in a dark 
 side street and stopped before a certain house, which had 
 formerly been the scene of lawless pleasure. But the house 
 was now dark and silent. The familiar twang of the old 
 piano had ceased. But in the little shanty on the other side 
 of the street they could hear the thin sad voice of a mother 
 singing her boy to sleep. The fool and the warrior retraced 
 their steps and joined the carousing merrymakers. 
 
 The revelries continued until late in the evening, and 
 were again renewed the next morning, when more alumni 
 appeared in fresher suits to brighten up those which had 
 already undergone the wear and tear of the first happy day 
 of reunion time. 
 
 Everybody seemed to be exuberantly happy. Paul Mil- 
 ton's thesis, it seemed, was forgotten. The sensation which 
 it had produced was seemingly washed away by this great 
 wave of gayety which had swept over the entire university 
 filling every nook and corner with gladness. But gay and 
 happy as all appeared on the surface, there were, neverthe- 
 less, some minds in which the ideas of his book had firmly 
 and secretly taken root. Even all this excitement and 
 ecstasy did not suffice to eradicate the impression which 
 those big truths had made upon certain individuals. What 
 does it matter if most of our seed of thought falls on hard, 
 barren, uncultivated soil where it is crushed and destroyed 
 underfoot, so long as one or two grains of it sink deeply 
 enough into fertile crevices, hidden from public view, where 
 they can sprout under protection and finally bloom to repro- 
 duce and perpetuate the same idea which was stored in all 
 the others ? All great changes take place slowly and imper- 
 ceptibly. The influence of new conceptions cannot be de- 
 tected in a day or in a year. Sometimes an entire decade 
 must elapse before a noticeable amelioration appears. But 
 although the good is slowly received and acknowledged. 
 
290 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 nevertheless those seeds which are hidden underground 
 begin to germinate at once. There are hundreds of imme- 
 diate good results of our service which we shall never hear 
 or see, and these, perhaps, are more beneficial to humanity 
 than those which are advertised and flashed so boastfully 
 before the public eye. 
 
 Harold Hollis, as we already know, stayed over for the 
 commencement baseball game, which was to be played that 
 Tuesday afternoon. On the morning before the game he 
 was walking along the street and suddenly ran across Arch 
 Coddington arrayed in his pink and green bloomers. Cod- 
 dington rushed forward excitedly to meet HolHs, and, in 
 drawing his hand from the pocket in his costume, he acci- 
 dently scratched it on the "frat" pin which he had used to 
 remedy the tear his bloomers had received in a skirmish the 
 preceding night. Hollis did not seize the hand which had 
 been thrust forward, and Coddington dropped it without 
 noticing that the scratch had drawn blood. 
 
 "Good God!" exclaimed Coddington, when he saw 
 Hollis' face more closely. "What's happened to you ?" 
 
 "I'm poisoned," answered Hollis. 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "Syphilis," said Hollis, trying hard to smile. 
 
 "Hard luck, old man, but you'll get over it." 
 
 "The doctor doesn't think so," added the unfortunate 
 victim, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. "It takes 
 years and years to get it out of the system, but I've got such 
 a rank dose of it that my physician doubts a permanent 
 cure." 
 
 "I know a specialist that can fix you up all right," sug- 
 gested Coddington. 
 
 "Thanks for the advice, Arch, but it's too late. I wish 
 you had referred me to that specialist when I first entered 
 college. Difficult as it is to cure, it is very easily prevented." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "By listening to the counsel of a friend — a true friend." 
 
 "Wasn't I a true friend ?" asked Coddington. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 291 
 
 "Scarcely; you played your part in bringing this 
 upon me." 
 
 "I !" 
 
 "Yes," said Hollis; "of course it is due mainly to my 
 own weakness — my lack of character. I allowed you and 
 others to influence me, although my mother advised me 
 strongly enough, before she died, to keep the straight path." 
 His voice wavered when he mentioned his mother. "But 
 even after I lost her, I acquired a new friend here at the 
 university who was trying to keep me away from this. He 
 never spoke of it directly, but I could read it in his mind. 
 I ignored him and his advice just because you wrote to me 
 that he was a goody-goody, just because he didn't belong to 
 our order, just because you considered him our inferior. 
 God! how could any one be inferior to me in this present 
 condition ; I'm rotten through and through. I used to be a 
 decent sort of fellow." Hollis sobbed quite audibly, and 
 then added in a firmer tone: "It's our damned exclusive- 
 ness and secrecy that's brought me to this. We are going 
 to do away with that when we move into our new building. 
 Have you seen it?" 
 
 "Yes," said Coddington. 
 
 "It is the cleanest and most upright building on the 
 campus. Few of the graduates, who have returned today, 
 understand the true significance of that structure." 
 
 "What significance?" 
 
 "It is the material symbol for the thought expressed in 
 Paul Milton's book. Have you read it?" 
 
 "I know nothing about it." 
 
 "Well, you will some day. It made a sensational splash 
 when it first struck the university. Then it disappeared 
 under the surface of this ocean of color which has flooded 
 the town and campus, but it is going to come up again some 
 of these days. It has sunk down into the depths now, and 
 the deeper it goes the longer it will remain out of sight. We 
 don't hear or see much of it, but it's down there stirring up 
 the muddy water of the deep, ready to bring more corrup- 
 tion up with it." 
 
292 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 "I shall have to read it." 
 
 "I wish you had read it before I knew you. I might 
 have had a different and a brighter future." 
 
 "What are you going to do next year ?" asked Arch. 
 
 "I am coming back to the university." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "Work. I am going to do all I can to keep that book 
 alive. I am going to do all I can to keep the other fellows 
 at their studies and away from the *fun' which has written 
 its consequences all over my face. I won't be a very pleas- 
 ant article for them to look at, but, at the same time, my 
 appearance will justify my sermons; it will be a gentle 
 reminder to the boys and will show them the risk they are 
 running. I am going to try to save as many of them from 
 this fate as I can. That's the spirit of The New Fraternity. 
 It's a little different from the spirit of the old, which was to 
 lure them into the *fun' as you did me." 
 
 "But you and I are still friends — still brothers, aren't 
 we?" 
 
 "Yes," said Hollis, "brothers in the newer sense." 
 
 "Then let's have a grip on it," said Coddington, thrusting 
 out his hand. 
 
 "I can't do it, Arch. You've got an open scratch there, 
 and I don't want to infect you." 
 
 The two boys walked away — in opposite directions. 
 
 The sailors, the Chinamen, the Turks, the clowns, the 
 soldiers, the convicts and all the returning classes were as- 
 sembling before their headquarters to march to the campus. 
 The various colors had now collected and arranged them- 
 selves in lines on the grass, like rows of flowers such as we 
 see in the public parks. After a given signal, each variety 
 left the campus through the memorial gate and joined the 
 procession headed by a brass band. 
 
 The streets and sidewalks were black with people, eagerly 
 reviewing the parade and cheering each class and section as 
 it passed them on its way to the baseball diamond. One of 
 those sections received more applause and cheers than any 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 293 
 
 other. It was the army of soldiers in red uniforms and tin 
 helmets. They were by far the most spectacular costumes 
 in the entire pageant. That army was headed by a span of 
 four beautiful white horses hitched to a brass chariot, which 
 reflected the sunlight so brilliantly that the driver seemed to 
 be enveloped in a cloud of fire. The driver was Tom 
 Kuhler, who looked more mighty and handsome than ever. 
 On the edge of the chariot sat a small child, dressed like his 
 father in a little red uniform and a small tin helmet ; it was 
 the "class boy." The group was deserving of all the aj>- 
 plause it received. The people had not forgotten the sensa- 
 tional football victory of six years ago, and they lifted their 
 hats and shouted their praise and admiration for the great- 
 est living graduate of the university. 
 
 There was only one person among the spectators who 
 did not participate in the storm of applause which welcomed 
 the returning hero. It was a woman standing on the street 
 corner. Her dress was shabby, and her thin, pale face was 
 broken and sad. Her hollow eyes were fixed upon Tom 
 Kuhler, but he would not have recognized them even if they 
 had succeeded in attracting his attention. A small boy was 
 clinging to her skirts. By a queer coincidence he was dressed 
 almost identically like the little soldier on the edge of the 
 chariot, and the faces of both boys bore a striking resem- 
 blance to the face of the driver; but no one in that vast 
 cheering multitude seemed to notice it. And the chariot 
 rolled on, and the woman's eyes followed the charioteer until 
 his shining helmet vanished in the distance. Then she took 
 the child's hand and crept wearily to her forsaken shanty. 
 
 On Wednesday morning the more dignified caps and 
 gowns of the undergraduates replaced the torn and soiled 
 costumes of the alumni, and a somewhat more solemn proces- 
 sion crossed the campus and entered the chapel of the uni- 
 versity, where many happy parents were assembled to see 
 their sons receive diplomas from the president. Several 
 honorary degrees were also conferred — two of them upon 
 men who had undertaken and accomplished great social re- 
 
294 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 forms in other cities ; purple velvet hoods were hung about 
 the shoulders of these recipients. 
 
 Paul Milton's "thesis" had been scarcely heard of out- 
 side the university. The Alumni Weekly, by means of which 
 a notice of the book might have been circulated among the 
 graduates in all parts of the country, declined to advertise 
 it. He had, however, sent a copy to his mother at once, and 
 she showed it to Allaine the moment she called at the cot- 
 tage. It was through Allaine that the book was written up 
 in the Norford papers and placed on sale at the Norford 
 bookshops. It was not long before every one in the little 
 town was reading it. Now the name of Paul Milton was 
 heard more frequently in the fashionable circles of Norford 
 than that of Harold Hollis. 
 
 No one in all Norford received Paul Milton's book more 
 enthusiastically than Mr. Wallace Bennett. The fact that 
 he had long ago given up all hope for Paul Milton as a 
 reformer made him even more appreciative. And he began 
 to ponder deeply over what he might do to reward the boy 
 for the task he had accomplished ; he felt that money was a 
 very inadequate recompense — he wanted to give something 
 which was dearer to both of them. He thought over the 
 situation so deeply that his interest in AUaine's wedding 
 began to lessen considerably. 
 
 Allaine of course was happy, at least happier than she 
 had been. She was glad that her father's interest in Paul 
 Milton had again been aroused ; but if it had only been 
 before Harold Hollis had won the first place in his mind and 
 heart ! But the fact that she had helped the boy she loved — 
 helped him to agitate the reform which her father had de- 
 sired — cheered her considerably. She was, in fact, trying 
 very hard to imagine that Harold Hollis was none other 
 than Paul Milton himself ; that the name Hollis on the wed- 
 ding cards was merely an assumed name for Milton; that 
 the wedding, after all, was going to turn out exactly as she 
 had desired it, and that she was really marrying the only boy 
 she ever loved. 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 295 
 
 On that commencement morning when the great pipe 
 organ was pouring forth its song of praise from a hundred 
 golden throats, and when the president of the university 
 was placing the purple velvet hoods of honor over the heads 
 of the great social reformers — on that same morning Alice 
 Milton and her son Paul were in the little garden behind the 
 cottage at Norford. The birds were chanting a Te Deum 
 in the trees above them. Paul sat on the grass reading a 
 book; Alice, who had just finished making a garland of 
 purple morning-glories, threw it about her boy's neck, and 
 then clasped him to her bosom. 
 
 "I only hope you are as happy as I," she murmured. 
 
 "I am very happy," said Paul. 
 
 "Happy even without a reward?" asked the mother. 
 
 He pointed to a sentence on the page before him. (He 
 had been re-reading Emerson's essay on New England Re- 
 formers.) The widow read the double-underlined passage: 
 
 The reward of a thing well done is to have done it. 
 
 "But I had so hoped for your sake there should have 
 been something more," added the mother. 
 
 At that moment the postman passed the gate and threw 
 a package into the garden. Paul caught it and opened it. It 
 contained a photograph of Allaine Bennett and a letter. 
 The writing of the letter was blurred in many places, but 
 was still legible: 
 
 Dear Milton: — 
 
 The enclosed photograph is one which you have already 
 seen. I showed it to you one night when you — unconsciously 
 perhaps — were trying to make a more upright man of me. 
 I found you outside my door when I was about to visit my 
 landlady's chamber. You prevented that visit temporarily, 
 and I believe you might have severed all my future relations 
 with her had it not been for the letter which I had received 
 from Arch Coddington, in which he described you as a 
 goody-goody whom I should not allow to keep me away 
 from my *fun.' I took his advice instead of that which you 
 were voicing through your very silence when we were sit- 
 
296 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 ting before the woodfire (and when you remarked later that 
 the girl on the enclosed photo looked like a girl of consider- 
 able influence) . 
 
 The lie which our landlady, Miss Jones, invented to con- 
 ceal my dishonorable relation with her and to which I un- 
 hesitatingly submitted has since caused me many a sleepless 
 night. I often believe that my present punishment is the 
 outcome of that lie, by which I allowed my own mother to 
 be lowered to the level of this woman's sister. I shall never 
 again cease to follow the sound advice she gave me before 
 her death, and which I have temporarily but compensatingly 
 violated. Yet I am not entirely to blame ; for after her death 
 I had only my father to advise me. My father, who has 
 done everything possible for me, is, nevertheless, rather 
 loose morally. His own behavior after my mother's death 
 and his talks to me, on certain subjects, weakened my resist- 
 ance when Miss Jones began to display her affection for me 
 after I moved into her house. You know the result of all this 
 as well as I do, and, as I have said before, you might well 
 have prevented it had it not been that Coddington and I 
 were such close friends and members of the same frat. 
 
 I met this girl the preceding summer. She exerted a 
 remarkable influence over me as long as I remained in her 
 presence, but her photograph alone was not enough to keep 
 me straight; I had hoped it might be. However, when I 
 saw her again the following summer, I forgot all about Miss 
 Jones, and this girl's influence again returned — the influence 
 to make me lead an upright life and to win her by doing so. 
 But when I came back to college in the fall and left the girl, 
 I left her influence also, and I resumed my calls on the land- 
 lady; and because I was no longer living in Miss Jones' 
 house, I used to visit you the same evening to help me with 
 the preparation of my tests in Calculus. This of course was 
 only a bluff, on my part, to avoid suspicion on yours. I was 
 capable enough of preparing myself for those tests without 
 your assistance. 
 
 Then Miss Jones left town. That was a noble talk you 
 gave her the night before her departure. It was right that 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 297 
 
 she should leave the community. I must admit, however, 
 that I was lost without her. My relations with the landlady 
 had, of course, awakened a desire in me which the purifying 
 influence of this girl's company would have soon overcome. 
 But without her, my power to resist was weak, and I yielded 
 to the everlasting coaxing of my fellow friends and began 
 to patronize a house of ill-fame. 
 
 No matter how low we are dragged by these debasing 
 pleasures, it seems that the good in us can never be com- 
 pletely smothered, and it waits patiently to be awakened by 
 the first beam of sunlight which enters our souls. There must 
 be moments in the life of the lewdest man in existence when 
 he craves for the love of a pure and noble woman. The 
 following summer the good in me again triumphed over the 
 evil. I spent my entire vacation with this girl at her parents' 
 home in the mountains. I never again expect to live happier 
 days than those. Her presence again dispelled every evil 
 thought from my mind. It elevated me wonderfully to be 
 near her. My soul seemed as high as the mountains them- 
 selves. Her presence was as purifying as the mountain air. 
 At the end of the summer I proposed to her; she accepted 
 me. By doing so, I believed she had forever driven every 
 vice out of my life. But when I returned to the college and 
 again joined the company of my easy-going, conscience- 
 lacking friends, I became more untrue to this girl than 
 ever, even though I was engaged to her. And in a very 
 short time I was hopelessly swamped in degradation, which 
 has now poisoned and polluted every drop of blood in my 
 body. 
 
 Our wedding was scheduled for this present June. I 
 was ashamed to appear before her during the Christmas and 
 Easter vacations; you knew my condition at that time. I 
 wrote letters to her, offering excuses for my absence — ex- 
 cuses which involved the truth, but not the whole truth. I 
 knew all the while that I could never marry her, and yet I 
 could not decide to give her up. I often had a pleasant but 
 momentary belief that I might be suddenly cured as if by 
 miracle, but now the doctors have given me up, or at least 
 
298 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 given me the impression that my case had little or no chance 
 for a permanent recovery. 
 
 The date set for our wedding is only a few days off, but 
 I have not yet informed the family that I cannot marry and 
 run the risk of infecting her with disease. If only I had 
 gone there at Christmas time and told them all. At that 
 time our engagement had not yet been publicly announced. 
 But I still entertained the hope of being cured in spite of 
 my physician's discouraging opinions, and the longer I post- 
 poned canceling the engagement the more hopeful I became 
 and the more unwilling to give her up. It is not an easy 
 thing to say good-bye forever to one we love so dearly. I 
 once thought of having the wedding postponed, but that 
 would have aroused suspicion and would have spoiled the 
 slight chance to which I still clung. I was everlastingly de- 
 bating these questions in my mind. No one will ever know 
 how I suffered both mentally and physically. But I have 
 surrendered at last. The girl must know all, but I am 
 ashamed to tell her myself. I love her too much to breathe 
 these things in her presence or even send them to her on 
 paper. 
 
 I once told you not to look at me or speak to me again. 
 I am going to ask you to obey that command of mine, for I 
 do not deserve your recognition. Do not answer this letter, 
 but for my sake and for God's sake do immediately the 
 favor I ask in it. The morning you left college I went into 
 your room to apologize to you, but I saw at once that that 
 pleasure was denied me : you had already departed. I found 
 the note you had left for the janitor, and I learned for the 
 first time that your home, too, was in Norford. That infor- 
 mation solved the problem which has driven me almost mad. 
 The girl's name and address are written on the back of the 
 photograph together with a note of introduction which I 
 have signed. I am going to request you to call at her home, 
 return the picture, and explain all to her. Tell her openly 
 of my condition. Tell her I have proved myself unworthy 
 of her. It is my wish — my sincere wish — that you might 
 some day win her in my stead. Indeed, I know of no one 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 299 
 
 more deserving of her than you, and nothing would give me 
 a more perfect assurance of her future safety and happiness 
 than the union of your hearts. If you do not communicate 
 this message at once, I shall never rest. 
 
 I know you will not lack the courage to do this, for you 
 have already displayed that courage in your "thesis," which 
 I have read and re-read several times. It had the same 
 influence over me as this girl ; your book has replaced her 
 presence. If I had only had it sooner, it would have saved 
 me. When I return to the university in the fall, I shall do 
 all I can to keep it alive and to spread its influence. I shall 
 indeed continue the great reform which you have already 
 begun. I feel that my work for this cause is the only work 
 which will enable me to forget my disappointment and 
 misery ; and who knows but that by helping to save the souls 
 of others I might myself receive God's forgiveness and sal- 
 vation! This, I believe, is the old gospel of Christianity — 
 the same doctrine of THE NEW FRATERNITY. 
 
 Your loving brother, 
 
 Harold Hollis. 
 
 It would be impossible to find language to express the 
 effect which this letter had upon Paul Milton. Words could 
 not describe the supreme and sublime joy which thrilled him 
 when he learned from Harold Hollis himself that he had at 
 last won the true fraternity of the boy he had loved so 
 deeply, and that this boy was going to continue and extend 
 the good work which the "thesis" had begun. To Paul that 
 letter was something more than the promise of a human 
 being; it was a promise which God Himself conveyed to 
 him, and Harold Hollis was the medium through which that 
 promise came. 
 
 It would be equally difficult to describe the joy which 
 Alice Milton experienced when she saw the photograph of 
 AUaine Bennett in her son's hand. But she dared not let 
 him become aware of that joy, because she must remain true 
 to her promise to Allaine — her promise never to tell Paul 
 how much the girl loved him. That was a secret which 
 
300 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 Allaine alone had the exclusive right and extreme happiness 
 to reveal. 
 
 "When shall I call at Willow Lodge?" asked Paul, as he 
 glanced at the address on the back of the photograph. 
 
 "The letter urges you to do so at once," said the widow. 
 "You must not wait any longer ; the Norf ord papers are full 
 of the plans for the wedding." 
 
 "But, Mother dear, think of it! think of it! He has 
 requested me to tell this girl that he wants me to fill his 
 place!" 
 
 "Yes, exactly," said Alice absent-mindedly. 
 
 "Mother!" exclaimed Paul, "you speak as though you 
 wish me to do it!" 
 
 "The poor boy says he will never rest unless you do," 
 added the widow more thoughtfully. 
 
 "But I am not brave enough to ask for the hand of a 
 strange girl. She will think I am a lunatic. And think what 
 all Norf ord would say ! Mother, I haven't the courage. I 
 can't do it. I won't do it." 
 
 "Perhaps the girl will do it for you," suggested the 
 widow, smiling. 
 
 "She doesn't know me either," said Paul. 
 
 The widow pretended to reflect for a moment or two. 
 
 "Oh," she said, all of a sudden, "I believe it's the same 
 little girl who invited you to her party when you went to 
 school together. I still have that invitation. Wait a second, 
 I shall get it, and we shall compare the name with the one 
 on the back of the photograph." Alice Milton skipped into 
 the cottage like a little child. 
 
 Paul's eyes were fixed on the picture before him. He 
 gazed at those knowing, welcoming eyes of hers, long and 
 steadily and with a wonderful admiration. And as he did 
 so, he was conscious of a change coming over him — or rather 
 an exchange: for it seemed he was experiencing the attrac- 
 tion toward Allaine which HoUis had felt, just as Hollis had 
 become imbued with The New Fraternity. After all, was it 
 not the thought of Allaine in Hollis that had roused so deep 
 an affection for the boy ? Was not this very affection merely 
 
THE NEW FRATERNITY 301 
 
 the 'bud of a bigger creative love which was now beginning 
 to swell and waiting anxiously to open? Paul fell back on 
 the grass, clasping the picture to his heart. As he did so, he 
 spied a pair of happy birds in the branches above him. 
 
 "The reward! The reward!" he murmured, lifting the 
 picture to his Hps. 
 
 His mother returned with the invitation addressed in 
 Allaine's childish writing to Master Paul Milton. She also 
 brought a small cardboard box with her. 
 
 "Yes, it is the same name ; compare them," she said, as 
 she handed him the engraved invitation. 
 
 "So she invited me to come to see her a long time ago," 
 mused Paul, as he saw his name, which her little hand had 
 written on the envelope. 
 
 "Yes, and you did not go, but she brought you this the 
 next day." 
 
 "What?" asked Paul. 
 
 The widow handed him the little box. He opened it 
 and found a little heart-shaped cake covered with a faded- 
 pink icing, on which the name Allaine was embossed in white 
 sugar. A tiny bite had been taken from it. 
 
 "Did a mouse do that ?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes; you were the little mouse — the little schoolboy 
 who tasted this heart a long time ago ; but you were too busy 
 then — too busy building a schoolhouse on the top of your 
 sand pile — ^too busy to take all of it. And can you guess 
 what you said after you tasted this heart?" 
 
 "No; what was it?" 
 
 "I wrote it on the lid of the box," said the widow. 
 
 Paul looked at the lid, and read : 
 
 "I shall get the rest of it some time again." 
 
 And that afternoon he took the picture, the letter, the 
 invitation and the cake, and strolled over to Willow Lodge, 
 where all was in readiness for the great wedding. 
 
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