ng that he was the great man of his time, so that "The
Great Harkless" came to be one of the traditions of the university. He
remembered the wild progress they made for him up the slope that morning
at Winter Harbor, how the people baked on, and laughed, and clapped
their hands. But at the veranda edge he had noticed a little form
disappearing around a corner of the building; a young girl running away
as fast as she could.

"See there!" he said, as the tribe set him down, "You have frightened
the populace." And Tom Meredith stopped shouting long enough to answer,
"It's my little cousin, overcome with emotion. She's been counting the
hours till you came--been hearing of you from me and others for a good
while; and hasn't been able to talk or think of anything else. She's
only fifteen, and the crucial moment is too much for her--the Great
Harkless has arrived, and she has fled."

He remembered other incidents of his greatness, of the glory that now
struck him as rarely comical; he hoped he hadn't taken it too seriously
then, in the flush of his youth. Maybe, after all, he had been a,
big-headed boy, but he must have bottled up his conceit tightly enough,
or the other boys would have detected it and abhorred him. He was
inclined to believe that he had not been very much set up by the pomp
they made for him. At all events, that day at Winter Harbor had been
beautiful, full of the laughter of friends and music; for there was a
musicale at the Casino in the afternoon.

But the present hour grew on him as he leaned on the pasture bars, and
suddenly his memories sped; and the voice that was singing Schubert's
serenade across the way touched him with the urgent, personal appeal
that a present beauty always had for him. It was a soprano; and without
tremolo, yet came to his ear with a certain tremulous sweetness; it was
soft and slender, but the listener knew it could be lifted with fullness
and power if the singer would. It spoke only of the song, yet the
listener thought of the singer. Under the moon thoughts run into dreams,
and he dreamed that the owner of the voice, she who quoted "The Walrus
and the Carpenter" on Fisbee's notes, was one to laugh with you and weep
with you; yet her laughter would be tempered with sorrow, and her tears
with laughter.

When the song was ended, he struck the rail he leaned upon a sharp blow
with his open hand. There swept over him a feeling that he had stood
precisely where he stood now, on