The courses in mathematics Catherwood did not fear; nor those in shop work; not the one in elocution, to be sure, for that was a snap; nor yet the two in political economy; indeed, those were rather fun. But history! Ugh! The assistant professor turned in at the gate of his house next door, and as he vanished the scowl fled from Catherwood's brow and his face lighted. He would drop in on the assistant professor within the week and call. Admirable! He wondered if the date might be anywhere reasonably near the birthday of one of his children. A box of sweets might work wonders; a china headed doll greater wonders. He marveled that the idea had never before occurred to him. And, too, he considered, there was the president. The president! Ah, _that_ would be different. There were no little tads in the president's family. Then he quickly recalled having read in the '_Varsity News_ of the day before that the president was in the east and would not return until the thirteenth. Three days after! Futile--absolutely futile! And Catherwood scowled again and stared out the window, idly twisting his trunk-check watch fob. He saw the assistant professor's wife on the walk below with the little Mary. It was the psychological moment and Catherwood recognized it. Snatching his hat from the book rack he plunged down the stairs. He pulled himself together at the door and stepped, unconcernedly, out upon the porch. "Good-morning, Mrs. Lowe," he called quite gaily. "Ah, and there's little Mary--sweet child. Come here, Mary, won't you?" He squatted in the snow at the gate and held out his hands to her. She ran to him with a little cry of delight. The mother's face was radiant. "Oh, good-morning, Mr. Catherwood," she called. He smiled and nodded. On the instant he made a vague calculation of the value of Mrs. Lowe's good-will. He flung his arms around the child and lifted her clear of the walk to her great delight as attested by the cries of glee that escaped her. Mrs. Lowe stopped at the gate. "Such a dear child," Catherwood gurgled, holding the tot close to him. "Do you think so?" the mother murmured. "So strong and so well," Catherwood added, weighing little Mary in his strong hands. "Yes, she _is_ heavy," Mrs. Lowe said. Then the child cried in her pretty _patois_: "Pleese frow Mary up an' catch her." "Oh, ho," Catherwood exclaimed gaily, "so _that_ is what Mary wants, is it? Well then, here goes." "Careful, Mary daughter," the mother cautioned, smiling. Catherwood never before had felt his strength as keenly as he did that moment. It had for him, then, a definite, precise meaning; even a value; yes, an incalculable value. "Frow up Mary 'n' catch her like farver do," the child urged. He tossed her into the air. "There!" he said as she left his arms. His hands--broad fine hands--were outspread to catch her.