Shall he break all the tender ties that bind him to his Tidewater home? Shall he sunder relations with Richmond College and bring grief to the heart of his devoted friend, Dr. Ryland? Shall he take his young wife and three little children into a rugged land, remote and destitute of the comforts they have known? Such questions voiced the negative, self-regarding view, and he asked himself: "Is not this Southwest a land of great promise and educational need? May not this be the providential arena for the realization of my fond dream of mental liberation for the daughters of Virginia and the South?" This noble speculation, still working, was hid away in his soul, vague and undefined. It would grow. This was the positive and unselfish view, and he knew it. "Yes, I will go," was the final settlement of the painful controversy. Like Abraham, he would go forth all unknowing, yet believing in the guidance of a divine wisdom. No, this young man was not the football of impulse. His decisions were the outcome of long deliberate thought. This was the most vital step of his life. He heard the voice of duty, that "stern daughter of God," and obeyed. He had an imaginative power which went, not to the uses of poetry, but to the practical problems of life. It was his habit to project his thought thirty years forward, deploying before him the reasonable developments of a growing civilization. In these forecasts, imagination did him a fine service. Here was the spring of those ceaseless demands for enlargement and improvement of facilities, which later marked his work as college president. The spring of 1846 is come; the six years of work in Richmond College are closed; the farewells are spoken; and Mr. Cocke journeys toward the sunset. It is a weary overland drive of five days in a carriage from Richmond to Botetourt Springs. Lofty "Tinker" salutes the pilgrims as they move up the highway, and now the vehicle stops in front of the old hotel, whose front yard is a wilderness of weeds. Mrs. Cocke's heart sinks within her as she looks on the inhospitable desolation. Ghosts of dilapidation and decay stretch out hands of welcome in sheer, grim mockery. The anguish in the young wife's heart is momentary. With a sublime courage, equal to that of her husband's, from that awful moment she goes smilingly with him to the task of preparing for the coming session. Unwittingly, they are laying the foundations of the noble Institution which, today, is a pride and joy to the state and nation. Little do they dream that before the closing of their toil, they will see girls from thirty states parading and singing on that outlandish front yard. "I'd rather walk with God in the night Than go alone by day."