A wave of sadness swept the strong man's face. “I've asked Burgess to come up at three. I must find out what material is sent here for my shaping. It is a president's business to shape well, and I must do my best, God help me!” A shadow darkened Lloyd Fenneben's face, and his black eyes held a strange light. He stared vacantly at the landscape until he suddenly noted the slender wavering pillar of smoke beyond the Walnut. “There are no houses in those glens and hidden places,” he thought. “I wonder what fire is under that smoke on a day like this. It is a far cry from the top of this ridge to the bottom of that half-tamed region down there. One may see into three counties here, but it is rough traveling across the river by day, and worse by night.” The bell above the south turret chimed the hour of three as Vincent Burgess entered the study. “Take this seat by the window,” Dr. Fenneben said with a genial smile and a handclasp worth remembering. “You can see an Empire from this point, if you care to look out.” Vincent Burgess sat at ease in any presence. He had the face of a scholar, and the manners of a gentleman. But he gave no sign that he cared to view the empire that lay beyond the window. “We are to be co-workers for some time, Burgess. May I ask you why you chose to come to Kansas?” Fenneben came straight to the purpose of the interview. This keen-eyed, business-like man seemed to Burgess very unlike old Dr. Wream, whom everybody at Harvard loved and anybody could deceive. But to the direct question he answered directly and concisely. “I came to study types, to acquire geographical breadth, to have seclusion, that I may pursue more profound research.” There was a play of light in Dr. Fenneben's eyes. “You must judge for yourself of the value of Sunrise and Lagonda Ledge for seclusion. But we make a specialty of geographical breadth out here. As to types, they assay fairly well to the ton, these Jayhawkers do.” “What are Jayhawkers, Doctor?” Burgess queried. “Yonder is one specimen,” Fenneben answered, pointing toward the window. Vincent Burgess, looking out, saw Vic Burleigh leaping up the broad steps from the level campus, a giant fellow, fully six feet tall. The swing of strength, void of grace, was in his motion. His face was gypsy-brown under a crop of sunburned auburn hair. A stiff new derby hat was set bashfully on a head set unabashed on broad shoulders. The store-mark of the ready-made was on his clothing, and it was clear that he was less accustomed to cut stone steps than to springing prairie sod. Clearly he was a real product of the soil. “Why, that is the young bumpkin I came in with this morning. I thought I was striding alongside an elephant in bulk and wild horse in speed,” Burgess said with a smile.