e year, it was quietly accepted, even if Professor
Burgess was often Dennie Saxon's escort. That was because he was such a
gentleman. Nor that with all these changes Trench had remained the same
old lazy Trench, the comfortable idol of the girls, for he was right
guard to all of them, and cared for none. And they never knew till
afterward that for all the four years he was faithful to a little
sweetheart out in the sandy Cimarron River country, to whom he took
back clean hands and a pure heart, when he went home after four years of
college life.

None of these things were noted especially, save by Dr. Lloyd Fenneben,
and he wasn't a sophomore nor a professor in love with a pretty girl; a
professor learning for the first time that sympathy has also its culture
value, as well as perfectly translated Horace, and that the growth of
a human soul means something as beautiful as the growth of a complete
conjugation on an old Greek stem from an older Greek root. Fenneben had
learned all this while he was chasing about the Kansas prairies with a
college in his vest pocket.

There were some unchanged things, however, which Fenneben only guessed
at. Victor Burleigh had never apologized to Professor Burgess for his
rude attack, unless a certain strained dignified courtesy be the mark of
a tacit apology. And Burgess could give only cold recognition to the big
fellow who had choked him into submission and had gone unpunished by the
college authorities.

Between these two Fenneben guessed there was no change. But he did not
grieve deeply. There must be a personal phase in this grudge that no
third person could handle. It might be a girl--but the face of the
returns indicated otherwise. Meanwhile the college was doing its perfect
work for Burleigh, whose strength of mind, and self-control, and growing
graciousness of manner betokened the splendid manhood that should rest
on this foundation. While the spirit of the prairie sod, the benediction
of the broad-sweeping air of heaven, and the sturdy, wholesome life
of the sons and daughters of freedom-loving, broad-spirited men and
women--all were giving to Vincent Burgess a new happiness in his work
unlike any pleasure he had ever known before.

Little Bug Buler, now four years of age, had changed least of all among
changing things about Lagonda Ledge. A sweet-faced, quaint little fellow
he was, with big appealing eyes, a baby lisp to his words, and innocent
ways. He was a sturdy, pudgy