The business which had taken Kenneth to Boston was finished sooner than he expected, and he started for Millville the day after Connie left it. He had made a speech on one of the subjects under discussion, and the older members of the faculty had applauded and pronounced him an honor to the profession. And he had heard their praises and made his speech like one in a dream, wondering how he could have put two sentences together connectedly, and why Connie’s name had not been mixed in with what he said. She was constantly in his thoughts from the time he bade her good-bye and looked into her clear blue eyes, where a shadow of trouble was still brooding, though not so dark as it had been. She was happier since her talk with him by the ledge, and he was more unhappy. What she had told him troubled him continually, filling his brain with conjectures as to the bar there was between them. Away from her, his mind was in a greater turmoil than when with her, and all the way to Boston and after his arrival he was thinking of her, and that she _must_ tell him on his return what it was. He was not usually nervous, but he was fast becoming so, and during his speech he felt his heart beating so loudly that it seemed to him that those who sat nearest must hear it, and with every heart beat there was a thought of Connie, who, it seemed to him, was stretching out her hands and calling to him. But for this he would have stayed in Boston the second night and gone home in the morning, but so morbid and nervous had he grown with a fancy that he was wanted, that he decided to take a late train, which left him in Millville at midnight. As there was no carriage at that hour, he walked rapidly up the hill till he came near the villa. There was a light in the nursery, and as he passed the house he heard through the open window the baby’s cry and Kitty’s voice soothing it, while mingled with hers was another voice which he recognized as Hal’s. “Baby has colic, I dare say,” he thought, and his first impulse was to offer his services. Then he changed his mind as the crying ceased, and went on home, where his mother let him in, marvelling to see him at that hour, and full of the news that Connie had gone. “Gone! Where? and why?” Kenneth exclaimed, feeling that his nervousness in Boston meant something. His mother told him all she knew, adding: “She looked queer and appeared queer; I don’t think she really wanted to go. I believe she’ll be back before long.” There was comfort in this, and after hearing that Harry had come the night before and didn’t seem very well, he bade his mother good-night and went to his room, where the first thing he saw was Connie’s note upon his table. It did not take long to read it, and after it was read he felt for a moment as if he were dying and tried to call for help. But no sound came from his lips, which prickled, as did his whole body.