hs dull enough.
I sat at home with the old people in the evenings now, reading Latin
that was not in our high-school course. I had made up my mind to do a
lot of college requirement work in the summer, and to enter the freshman
class at the university without conditions in the fall. I wanted to get
away as soon as possible.

Disapprobation hurt me, I found--even that of people whom I did not
admire. As the spring came on, I grew more and more lonely, and fell
back on the telegrapher and the cigar-maker and his canaries for
companionship. I remember I took a melancholy pleasure in hanging a
May-basket for Nina Harling that spring. I bought the flowers from an
old German woman who always had more window plants than anyone else, and
spent an afternoon trimming a little workbasket. When dusk came on, and
the new moon hung in the sky, I went quietly to the Harlings' front door
with my offering, rang the bell, and then ran away as was the custom.
Through the willow hedge I could hear Nina's cries of delight, and I
felt comforted.

On those warm, soft spring evenings I often lingered downtown to walk
home with Frances, and talked to her about my plans and about the
reading I was doing. One evening she said she thought Mrs. Harling was
not seriously offended with me.

'Mama is as broad-minded as mothers ever are, I guess. But you know she
was hurt about Antonia, and she can't understand why you like to be with
Tiny and Lena better than with the girls of your own set.'

'Can you?' I asked bluntly.

Frances laughed. 'Yes, I think I can. You knew them in the country, and
you like to take sides. In some ways you're older than boys of your age.
It will be all right with mama after you pass your college examinations
and she sees you're in earnest.'

'If you were a boy,' I persisted, 'you wouldn't belong to the Owl Club,
either. You'd be just like me.'

She shook her head. 'I would and I wouldn't. I expect I know the country
girls better than you do. You always put a kind of glamour over them.
The trouble with you, Jim, is that you're romantic. Mama's going to your
Commencement. She asked me the other day if I knew what your oration is
to be about. She wants you to do well.'

I thought my oration very good. It stated with fervour a great many
things I had lately discovered. Mrs. Harling came to the Opera House to
hear the Commencement exercises, and I looked at her most of the time
while I made my speech. Her keen, intellige