nd the present."

"I'm ready to go," replied my father. "I thought I'd enjoy visiting the
old place and seeing old neighbors, but I haven't. It's all too
melancholy. I'm ready to go back to the LaCrosse Valley and stay there
what little time I've got left to me."

That night, at the Seminary, I met the Alumni and spoke to them on some
subject connected with the early history of the school, and in doing so
I obtained once again a perception of the barrier which had risen
between my classmates and myself. They were not only serious, they were
piteously solemn. No one laughed, no one took a light and airy view of
life. Once or twice I tried to jest or ventured a humorous remark, but
these attempts to lighten the gloom were met with chilling silence. No
one whispered or smiled or turned aside. It was like a prayer meeting in
the face of famine.

Part of this was due no doubt to their habit of listening to sermons,
but some of it arose I am sure from a feeling of poignant regret similar
to that which burdened my own heart. As usual in such reunions the
absent ones were named and the faces of the dead recalled. In all our
songs the rustling of withered leaves could be heard. All felt the
pitiless march of time and I respected them for their perception of
life's essential enigma.

After the "Services" were finished, several of the women came up to me
and introduced themselves. One handsome gray-haired woman said: "I am
Rosa Clinton," and it shocked me to be unable to find in her the girl I
once knew. Another matron whom I recognized at once, retained something
inescapably girlish in both face and voice. It hurt me to detect in her
withered lips the quaint twist which had once been so charming to
me--but then she undoubtedly discovered in me equally distressing
reminders of decay.

Not all my philosophy could prevent me from falling into profound
melancholy. I went back to my hotel thinking of these men and women as
they were when, as a youth of twenty, I trod with them the worn plank
walks beneath the magical murmuring maple trees. The bitter facts of
their lives gave rise to question. What was it all about? What was the
value of their efforts or my own? Has the life of man any more
significance than that of an insect?

Just before leaving for the train next day we called on Osmond Button,
who clung to my father with piteous intensity. "Stay another day," he
pleaded, but father would not listen to any postponement.

T