t, when other offers came,
he told her how hard it was to decide and how black everything looked
for the University. The Government was pulling at the fund, and the lady
who was building the monument was going to sell her precious things to
get money.

The last time Craig leaned on the fence and whistled to her, he had been
very unhappy. Since then Bonita had not seen him. She was afraid that
he, too, had gone, after all, as the horses and grooms had gone, without
even a good-bye. She felt that if he had finally decided to give it up,
the smoke must fade away above the top of the chimney and the voices
cease altogether.

But to-day, when the clouds were breaking and the clear blue of
summer-time looked down between them, the chimney-smoke was blacker than
ever and across by the lake fence some young people were pulling
mushrooms and laughing. Bonita looked over toward the buildings. Then
she cropped grass again, for only a gurgling meadow-lark broke the line
of the fence-rail.

Suddenly she heard Craig's low whistle. He had come out from the
Wood-shop and put his elbows on the fence, his pipe sending up clear,
white smoke. Stopping now and then for a blade of grass, to show that
she was not too eager, the brood-mare walked slowly up to him. He was
not happy, as she had expected to find him. His brow was puckered and
his lips shut tightly on the stem of his pipe. Bonita put her nose over
the fence. The instructor took his pipe from his mouth and rubbed her
cheek slowly with the back of his knuckles.

"Well, old girl," he said, "I'm afraid you and I won't have many more
talks over this fence."

The brood-mare looked at him with questioning eyes.

"I plead guilty," he went on, "I oughtn't to have kept the secret from
you, I know. The minute I got the letter I should have come out to tell
you about it, but it was raining; honestly, it was."

He gave her a lump of sugar by way of conciliation.

"You see, I couldn't resist this one," he continued, while the sugar
crunched under her teeth; "it's a big honor and three thousand a year,
and I've got to do something; now, haven't I?"

His tone was doubtful, as though he were hardly sure of her opinion. The
meadow-lark which he had disturbed was releasing the joy of its full
throat under a shaft of sunlight further down the fence. The air hung
over them, sweet with the fragrance of the freshened pasture, charged
with the mysterious power of a Santa Clara Spring. No man,