The last of the three decades allotted to him by the gypsy was shorn of its first twelve months when he received his degree. As Mr. Sikes announced to the Reverend Sage at the conclusion of the commencement exercises, he had less than nine more years to live at the very outside—a gloomy statement that drew from the proud and happy minister ah unusually harsh rejoinder. “You ought to be kicked all the way home for saying such a thing as that, Joe Sikes. To-day of all days! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Why can’t you be happy like all the rest of us?” “Happy?” exploded Mr. Sikes. “Why, I’m the happiest man alive. This is the greatest day of my life.” “Well, then, for goodness’ sake, don’t spoil it for me,” complained the tall, gray pastor. Turning to the slim, pretty girl who walked beside him across the June-warmed campus, he spoke these words of comfort: “Don’t mind this old croaker, Jane dear. He is still living back in the dark ages, when they believed in witchcraft, ghosts and hobgoblins.” Mr. Sikes was not offended. His broad, seamed face, leathery with the curing of many suns, was alight with his rare but whole-hearted grin. “You left out fairies, parson,” he said, and winked at Jane over his shoulder. “The older she gets, the more I believe in ’em.” “Sometimes you can be silly enough to satisfy anybody, Uncle Joe,” said she, gayly. “Second childhood,” declared Serepta Grimes, trudging several feet behind Old Joe, who had a habit of keeping at least two paces ahead of any one with whom he walked. Mr. Sikes accepted this with serenity. “Well,” he said, “if it’s second childhood, Serepty, I hope I never get over it. But I’m all-fired glad of one thing. He’s through playing football and I won’t have to act like an idiot any more. I’m too blamed old to jump up and down and yell like an Indian every time he makes a long run. People thought I was a lunatic at that game last fall. The idea of a man sixty-nine years old—Hello, here comes his pa. Say, what’s the matter, Ollie? What are you cryin’ about?” “I’ve just been talking to the president of the University,” said Mr. Baxter, the tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks. “Well, what of it?” “He said Oliver was about the finest boy they ever had in the college.” “Is that anything to blubber about?” “You bet it is,” gulped old Oliver, smiling through his tears. “You just bet your sweet life it is.”