Up in the library a week later Professor Burgess came in while Dennie Saxon was putting the books in order. Burgess was often to be found where Dennie was, but Burgess himself had not noted it, and nobody else knew it, except Trench. Trench was a lazy fellow, who always lived in the middle of his pasture, where the feeding was good. That gave him time to study mankind as it worried about the outer edges. “Don't you get tired sometimes, Miss Dennie?” the Professor asked. He was not happy himself for many reasons, and two of them were Elinor and Vic, who separately, and differently, seemed to wear out his energy. Dennie Saxon never wore on anybody's nerves. “Yes, I do, often,” Dennie answered. “Why do you do this?” he queried. “To get my college education.” Dennie smiled, hopefully. “I like the nice things and nice ways of life. So I'm working for them.” “Elinor has all these without working for them,” Vincent thought. Then for no reason at all his mind leaped to Dennie's father and his own vow on the stormy night in October. “What would you do if your father were taken from you, Miss Dennie?” he asked. “I've always had to depend on myself somewhat. I would keep on, I suppose.” Dennie looked up bravely. Her father was her joy and her shame. Well, what had Burgess expected? That she would depend on him? He was in love with Elinor Wream. Why should he feel disappointed? And why should his eye follow the soft little ripples of her sunny hair, giving a pretty outline to her face and neck. “Could you really take care of yourself? He was talking at random. “I might do like that woman out at Pigeon Place.” Burgess did n't catch the pathos in Dennie's tone. He was only a man. “How's that?” he asked. “Oh, live alone and keep a big dog, and sell chickens. That's what Mrs. Marian does. By the way, she looks just a little bit like you.” “Thank you!” “She was at the game on Thanksgiving Day, strange to say, for she seldom leaves home. Did you see a pretty white-haired woman, right south of where we were?” “Is that how I look? No, I didn't see her. I was n't at the game.” “You weren't? Why not? You missed a wonderful thing.” And Burgess told her the whole story from his viewpoint, of course. What he was too proud to mention to Dr. Fenneben or Elinor he spoke of freely to Dennie, and he felt as if the weight of the limestone ledge was lifted from him with the telling. “Don't you think the young ruffian was pretty hard on me?” he asked. “No, I don't,” Dennie said, frankly. “I think you were pretty hard on him.” A sudden resolve seized Burgess. He came around to Dennie's side of the table. “Miss Dennie, I want to tell you something, unimportant in itself, but better shared than kept. On the night of our picnic in October your father, who was not quite himself--” “Yes, I understand,” Dennie said, with downcast eyes.