The weeks sped on fleet wings. He was deep in his work. He perceived that what, a year before, had appeared but a remote chance of winning the coveted scholarship had now resolved itself into a certain possibility; even more, he considered, with a sense of pride--a probability. The campus saw little of him, the town scarcely a glimpse, save occasionally of a Saturday evening when he walked to the post-office for his mail. On such evenings he usually stopped at Florence's home on his way to his rooms. The conversation between them at these times was confined almost wholly to his work. All his efforts were concentrated upon the accomplishment of the task he had set before himself. For the Christmas vacation he went home. "Father's coming in June," he told Florence on his return. "Said he'd be here big as life and twice as natural--going to bring a cousin of mine--Susie Henderson--you've heard me speak of her." "Oh...." "What is it?" He was startled by her exclamation. She laughed--"I didn't mean to frighten you," she said--"but I pricked myself with this pin"--and she flung upon the table the trinket with which she had been toying. On his way to his rooms that night he reviewed, casually, his college course; he built air-castles for the days ahead. There would be a year in Athens--perhaps two. Should he and Florence marry before--or after? They had not planned definitely. Of a sudden the idea that they had not smote him forcefully. They had really been living only from day to day; it was wrong; quite wrong, he decided. A settlement should be made at once--at once. He was quite determined. In his room, bent over the books upon the table, he forgot forthwith the resolution he had made. The next day he recalled it--and the next. Spring came. His winning was now a certainty. The _U. of M. Daily_ accepted his success as assured and dismissed the matter at once with all the cocksureness of collegiate journalism. Now, the hard work done, he could loaf. Loaf! The prospect appalled him. Loaf? He had forgotten how! But Florence should teach him all over again, he mused, and smiled. He went to his dressing-table and picked up her portrait given him two years before. Across the margin at the bottom he read:--"To Jack, from Florence." After a moment he put the photograph down and searched among the others that littered the table. A little look of puzzlement came into his eyes. He turned to the front window and gazed out across the maples, their leaves silvered by the moonlight. He stood there some moments watching the face of the night. Then he turned back to his books, doggedly. "What's the use?" he muttered, sinking into the chair before his study table. V