It ought perhaps to be explained at the outset how it happened that Aunt Nannie, whose time was spent in erecting monuments to Southern heroes, had sent one of her sons to the headquarters of those who had slain them. It had come about through the seductions of a young lady named Edith Winthrop, whose father was building a railroad through half a dozen of the Southern states. He had brought a private-train party upon an inspection trip, and the Major and Harley, happening to be at the capital, had met them at a luncheon given by the Governor. Everybody knows, of course, that the Winthrops live in Boston; and everybody in Boston knows of Mrs. Isabel Winthrop, that charming matron whose home has been as the axle of the Hub for the past twenty years. At Cambridge it was at first a scandal, and later a tradition, how the lovely lady was strolling in the “Yard” one spring evening, and a group of Seniors broke into the merry chorus of a popular musical-comedy air— “Isabella, Isabella, Is a queen of good society! Isabella, Isabella, Is the dandy queen of Spain!” And now Harley had come to Cambridge to lay siege to the princess of this line. They had invited him to tea, where he had felt himself an obscure and humiliated Freshman. In his pride he had gone away, vowing that he would not return until he had made the “Dickey,” and made it without any social aid from the lady of his adoration. But, alas, Harley had found this a task of undreamed-of difficulty. There were so many Edith Winthrops in Boston, New York, Philadelphia and other centers of good breeding; and there were so many obscure Freshmen trying to make the “Dickey” in order to shine before them! “You can’t imagine how it is, Sylvia,” he said. “They don’t know us here—we’re nobodies. I’ve met all the Southern men who amount to anything, but it’s Eastern men who run the worth-while clubs. And it’s almost impossible to meet them—I’d be ashamed to tell you how I’ve had to toady.” “Harley!” exclaimed the girl. “I’ll tell you the facts,” he answered—“you’ll have to face them—just as I did.” “But how could you stay?” He laughed. “I stayed,” he said, “because I wanted Edith.” He paused, then continued: “First I thought I’d try football; but you see I haven’t weight enough—I only made the Freshman ‘scrub.’ I joined the Shooting Club—and I certainly can shoot, you know; but that hasn’t seemed to help very much. I went in for the Banjo Club, and I’ve worked my fingers off, and I expect to make the Board, but I don’t think that will be enough. You see, ability really doesn’t count at all.” “That’s what Frank said,” remarked Sylvia, sympathetically. “What is it that counts? Learning?” “Rot—no!” exclaimed Harley. “Then what is it?”