He tried to see a way. He tried to reach out to something which should help him. Standing there amid the wreck of his life, he tried to think, even while the ruins were still falling about him, of some plan of reconstruction. It was like rebuilding a great city destroyed by fire; the brave heart begins before the smoke has cleared away. But that task is a simple one. The city destroyed by fire may be rebuilded as before. But with him the master builder was gone. Out of those poor, scarred, ungeneraled forces which remained, could he hope to bring anything to which the world would care to give place? He could see no way yet. All was chaos. And just then there came a knock at the door. He paid no heed at first. What right had the world to come knocking at his door? What could he do for any one now? The knock was repeated. But he would not go. If it were some student, what could he do for him? He could only say: "I can do nothing for you. Go to some one else." And should it be one of his fellow professors, come to counsel with him, he could only say to him: "I have dropped out. Go on without me. I wish you good luck." That message he had thought to give!--and now-- Again the knock, timidly this time, fearing a too great persistency, but reluctant to go away. He would go in just a minute now. There would not come another knock. Well, let him go. When all the powers of fate had gathered round to mock and jeer was it too much to ask that there be no other spectators? Was not a man entitled to one hour alone among the ruins of his life? He who would gain entrance was starting, very slowly, to walk away. He listened to him take a few steps, and then suddenly rose and hurried to the door. He was not used to turning away his students unanswered. It was Beason who turned eagerly around at sound of the opening door. Beason--of all people--that boy who never in the world would understand! He was accustomed to reading faces quickly and even through his dark glasses his worried eyes read that Beason was in trouble, moved by something from the path in which he was wont to go. "I'm sorry to interrupt you," stammered the boy, as he motioned him to a chair. "Oh--that's all right; I wasn't doing anything, very important. Just--finishing up something," he added, glad, when he heard his own voice, that it was only Beason. "I'm in trouble," blurted out Beason, "and I--I wanted to see you." The man was sitting close to a table, and he rested his elbow upon it, and shaded his eyes with his hand. "Trouble?" his voice was kind, though a little unsteady. "Why, what's the trouble?" "I've got to stop school! I've got to give up my work for a whole year!" The hand still shaded his darkened eyes. His mouth was twitching a little. "A year, Beason?" he said--any one else would have been struck with the note in it--"You say--a year?"