The day before had been the match game. Frances, though some vague, half-delicious instinct of fear and distrust had made her keep from the old friendly footing with Lawson, had grown wildly enthusiastic at each day's practice. At three o'clock of that afternoon she had been driving out towards the ground. An orange and blue rosette was pinned in the breast of her smart brown jacket, and an orange and blue pennant lay at her feet in the trap. Carriage after carriage was winding up the road already in the enclosure. The wind was soft, the sunshine of Indian Summer brooding over the land; the blue haze of the mountains, intensified, hung about their slopes and peaks. Here and there the late leaves still clung, blackberry and sumach flaunted their scarlet in the fence corners, and on the bit of rock-fence bordering a field the poison oak and ivy flecked the dull hue with red and bronze. Far below, where the land dipped to the valley, the country shimmered in the sunlight. Inside the grounds, Frances pulled up close beside the ropes. The grand stand had scarce an occupant, but all the enclosure outside the ropes about the arena was filled with carriages, the young women calling from one to the other. The University men were crowded close on the other sides of the ropes, calling, hurrahing, yelling, or, more sociably inclined, lounging around the barriers and talking to the young women in the carriages. One of them came up to Frances and imperturbably possessed himself of the seat by her side. It was far more fun in his code, to be sitting by a pretty young woman, than to be crowded with the fellows over there. They were envying him he knew, and he leaned back in enjoyment of his unlooked-for position. Frances was giving him scant heed. The reins were thrown across the dash-board, trusting Starlight's scant sagacity. In the whip-stand was thrust the stick of her pennant. It fluttered in the soft air, the first unfurled, and the boys beyond the barriers cheered it lustily. It was not destined to stay there. Before the game was half over, Frances, standing on her feet, was waving it wildly above her head. The home team was playing magnificently. The visiting eleven had beaten them the year before: they were not doing so now. The field was wild. Call after call, college yell, keen irony, a cheer for this play, a jeer for that, urged on the University men. The visitors held stolidly to their work. The boys beyond the barriers were doing everything to rattle them, but the game went close. The home team made one score, the visitors had nothing, the field went wild with cheering; the visitors scored, there was silence. Once more the home team made a point; the umpire snapped his watch, called time; there was a pandemonium of yells.