sn't seem himself to-day. Perhaps we had better
send him to Doctor Heathergill. It wouldn't do for him to fall ill just
when he's starting to college."

The General studied the toddy as though it held the secrets of a seer's
crystal. "Your very good health, my dear." He raised the glass and about
his gray eyes came the star-point wrinkles of an amused smile, "I
noticed that Stuart didn't ride over to see the little Williams girl
to-night. Wasn't that unusual?"

Mrs. Farquaharson nodded her head. "He must have been feeling positively
ill," she declared. "Nothing less could have kept him away."

But the father, who had never before shown evidence of a hard heart,
permitted his quizzical twinkle to broaden into a frank grin, "With
every confidence in Dr. Heathergill, I doubt his ability to aid our
declining son."

"Then you think--?"

"Precisely so. The little girl from the North has undertaken a portion
of the boy's education which is as painful to him as it is essential."

"He's been perfectly lovely to her," defended the mother indignantly.
"It's a shame if she's hurt him."

The General's face grew grave.

"It's a God's blessing, I think." He spoke thoughtfully now. "Stuart is
a sentimentalist. He lives largely on dreams and poetry and ideals."

"Surely, General--" Sometimes in the moment of serious connubial debate
Mrs. Farquaharson gave her husband his title. "Surely you wouldn't have
him otherwise. The traditions of his father and grandfathers were the
milk on which he fed at my breast."

"By which I set great store, but a child must be weaned. Stuart is
living in an age of shifting boundaries in ideas and life.

"I should hate to see him lower his youthful standards, but I should
like to see him less in the clouds. I should like to see him leaven the
lump with a sense of humor. To be self-consciously dedicated to noble
things and yet unable to smile at one's ego is to be censorious, and to
be censorious is to be offensive."

"But he's just a child yet," argued Stuart's mother. "For all his height
and strength he's hardly more than a boy after all."

"Quite true, yet to-night he's tossing in his bed and breathing like a
furnace because his heart is broken for all time. It's all very well to
swear:

"To love one maiden only, cleave to her
And worship her by years of noble deeds,

but for him that day is still far off. Meanwhile he's got to have his
baptism of fire. It's a mighty