Molly sank into the depths of the nearest chair while the Professor's pen scratched up and down monotonously. Not since the famous night of her Freshman year when she was locked in the cloisters had she been in the Professor's sanctum, and she looked about her with much curiosity. "I wish I had one just like it," she thought. "It's so peaceful and quiet, just the place to work in and write books on 'The Elizabethan Drama,' and lyric poetry, and comic operas----" There was a nice leathery smell in the atmosphere of book bindings mingled with tobacco smoke, and the only ornament she could discover, except a small bronze bust of Voltaire and a life mask of Keats, was a glazed paper weight in the very cerulean blue she herself was so fond of. It caught the fading light from the window and shone forth from the desk like a bit of blue sky. Molly was sitting in a high back leather chair, which quite hid her from Judith Blount, who presently, knocking on the door and opening it at the same moment, entered the room like a hurricane. "Cousin Edwin, may I come in? I want to ask you something----" "I can't possibly see you now, Judith. You must wait until to-morrow. I'm very busy." "Oh, pshaw!" exclaimed the girl and banged the door as she departed into the corridor. What a jarring element she was in all that peaceful stillness! The muffled noises in the Quadrangle seemed a hundred miles away. Molly rose and tiptoed to the door. "He'll be angrier than ever if he should find me here," she thought. "I'll just get out quietly and explain some other time." Her hand was already on the doorknob when the Professor wheeled around and faced her. "Why, Miss Brown," he exclaimed, "was it you all the time? I might have known my clumsy brother couldn't have been so quiet." "Please excuse me," faltered Molly. "I am sure you are very busy. I am awfully sorry to have disturbed you." "Nonsense! It's only unimportant things I won't be bothered with, like the absurd questions Judith thinks up to ask me and Dodo's gossip about the fellows at Exmoor. But I am well aware that you never waste time. I suspect you of being one of the busiest little ladies in Wellington." Molly smiled. Somehow, she liked to be called a "little lady" by this distinguished professor. "But your letter that must go by the six mail?" "That can wait until morning," he said. He had just said it was to go at six, but, of course, he had a right to change his mind. "Sit down and tell me what's the trouble. Have you had bad news from home?" "No, it's about Nance," she began, and told him the whole story. "You see," she finished, "Nance has had so few friends, and she is very fond of Andy. Because she thinks the accident was her fault, she is just grieving herself into an awful state." The Professor sat with his chin resting on his hand.