d
little Bug, who had declared once that "Don Fonnybone was dood for
twoubleness."

"I can't take this to Fenneben," he mused, as he read Joshua Wream's
letter for the tenth time. "Nor can I go to Saxon. He's never sure of
himself and when he's drunk, he reverses himself and turns against
his best friends. And who am I to turn to a man like Bond Saxon for my
confidences?"

"What about Elinor?" came a voice from somewhere. "The woman you would
make your wife should be the one to whose loving sympathy you could turn
at any of life's angles, else that were no real marriage."

"Elinor, of all people in the world, the very last. She shall never
know, never!" So he answered the inward questioner.

Dimly then rose up before him the picture of Victor Burleigh on the
rainy May night when he stood beside little Bug Buler's bed--Victor
Burleigh, with his white, sorrowful face, and burning brown eyes,
telling in a voice like music the reason why he must renounce athletic
honors in Sunrise.

Burgess had been unconsciously exultant over the boy's confession. It
would put the confessor out of reach of any claim to Elinor's friendship
when the truth was known about his poverty and his professional playing.
And yet he had followed Bond Saxon's lead the more willingly that night
that he was hating himself for rejoicing with himself.

On this December night, with Elinor once more in Lagonda Ledge, Victor
Burleigh must come again to trouble him. What a price that boy must
have paid for his honesty! But he paid it, aye, he paid it! And then
the rains put out the game and nobody knew except Burleigh and himself.
Burgess almost resented the kindness of Fate to the heroic boy. But all
this solved no problems for Vincent Burgess, except the realization
that here was one fellow who had a soul of courage. Could he confide in
Burleigh? Not in a thousand years!

In utter loneliness, Vincent Burgess put out his light and stared at the
window. The street lamps glowed in lonely fashion, for it was very late,
and nobody was abroad. Up on the limestone ridge, the Sunrise beacon
shone bravely. Down in town beside the campus gate--he could just
catch a glimpse of one steady beam. It was the faithful old lamp in the
hallway of the Saxon House, and beyond that unwavering light was Dennie.

"Dennie! Why have I not thought of her? The only one in the world whom I
can fully trust. That ought to be a man's sweetheart, I suppose, but she
is not mine. S