Only two days since he had heard the taunting "Dance, freshy!" of the seniors, and felt the mighty rush of the freshman hosts; since the "rah, rah, rah, Landers!" had shook the old amphitheatre and the dozens of welcoming hands had greeted him; and then--the darkness--the hesitating leave-taking of the building, and the lingering walk across the deserted campus toward his room--the walk he knew so well he would take no more. A brief time of waiting--a blank--and then the bitter, thumping ride across two States toward his home, when he could only think, and think, and try to adjust himself--and fail; and at last the end. And again, at the little station, when he felt the touch of his mother's hand, and heard her choking "Guy, my boy--" that spoke so much of love and of trust; when he heard his own voice answering cheerily, with a firmness which surprised him even then, speaking that which all through the long ride he had known he must speak--but could not: "It's all right, mother; don't worry; I'll not leave you again!"--it all came back to him now, and he lived it over again and again. The big, black tassel danced tantalizingly in front of him. Yes, he had said that he would never leave again. He dully repeated the words now to himself: "never again." It was so fitting; quite in accordance with the rest of the black pageant. His dream of life, his new-felt ambitions--all were dead, dead, like his father before him, where the black plume nodded. They passed up through the little town and the shop-keepers came out to look. Some were in their shirt sleeves; the butcher had his white apron tucked up around his belt. They gathered together in twos and groups, nodding toward the procession, their lips moving as in pantomime. One man walked out to the crossing, counting aloud as the teams went by. "One, two, three, four, five, six--" he intoned. To him it was all a thing to amuse, like a circus parade,--interesting in proportion to its length. Landers looked almost curiously at the stolid shopmen. It required no flush of inspiration to tell him that but a few years of this life were necessary to make him as impassive as they. He who had sworn to make the world move would be contentedly sitting on an empty goods box, diligently numbering a passing procession! The biting humor of the thought appealed to him. He smiled grimly to himself. VI Once more on an early evening, a man turned out from a weather-stained prairie farm-house, through the frosted grass, arriving presently at the dusty public road. As before, he walked slowly along between the tall cottonwoods; but not, as on a memorable former occasion, because it would be for the last time. He was tired, tired with that absolute abandon of youth that sees no hope in the future, and has no philosophy to support it. Only thirty odd days since he went that way before! That many years would not add more to his life in the future.