Often he champed at the bit through the slow routine of college life--the genius within him thirsting for action like a spirited horse, just in sound of the chase. After the exercises that night, the pretty faces and scent of roses filled the chapel with light and fragrance. Everything was in warm confusion, congratulations blended with tender farewells and honest promises that youth was sure to break. Glenn Andrews, with the dignity that went well with his cap and gown, was making his way out. The tenor touched him on the shoulder. “What did you think of that violin solo?” “Fine, my boy, fine! She played just before my turn, and she must have been my inspiration, for I was surprised to get the medal.” “I’m jolly glad you got it anyhow.” “Did you find out who she was?” “Esther Powel. Her grandfather is a friend of Professor Stark. He did it to give her a chance.” “Well she used it for all it was worth,” said Andrews. CHAPTER V. ESTHER was standing by the rim of a clear pool in the woods, gazing down into the water. Her big hat was weighted with cockle blooms that she had gathered in coming through the wheat. In this natural mirror she could see that a stem here was too long, another there was turned the wrong way to look well. With both hands to her head she was intent upon regulating the effect to please her eye. Turning her head first to one side, then another, she smiled at herself, impulsive, always in motion, quick as a wren. The water was so clear that one could see the last year’s leaves lying at its depths. It was deep and sloped toward the center. Inverted it would look like a mound where children are told that Indians are buried, when the one can think of no other excuse for its grave-like appearance. This pool went by the name of “Indian Well.” Esther had no thought but that she was alone, until she saw an image, a serious young face, reflected there, with soft, brown beard and hair, and deep eyes that wore a languid, meditating look. He stooped and dipped his curved hand into the surface and was raising it to his lips. Suddenly, instinctively, she bounded to his side, dashing the water from his hands before he could drink. “Don’t you know there is fever in it?” For a moment he looked at her in wonder. “The fever,” he repeated, “what do you mean?” “The germs of typhoid--I thought everybody knew that.” “But you see I am not everybody,” he answered, laughing. She looked at every feature of his face. “But didn’t you feel like it the other night?” This surprised him so that he had not made an answer when she went on: “Everybody who has died of typhoid fever around here drank water out of ‘Indian Well.’ This is where they got the germ.” “I was never here before. You are very good to warn me.” He looked at her and she seemed so sweet and beautiful as she stood there, between him and danger. Whether real or imagined, her motive was the same. “Is your home near by?”