"Yes," said Beason, "a whole year. My father has had some hard luck and can't keep me here. I'd try to get work in Chicago, and stay on, but I not only have to make my own way, but I must help my mother and sister. Next year another deal my father's in will probably straighten things out, and then I suppose I can come back." The man very slowly nodded his head. "I see," he said, his voice coming from 'way off somewhere, "I see." "It's tough!" exclaimed Beason bitterly--"pretty tough!" Dr. Hubers had turned his chair away from Beason, and with closed eyes was facing the light from without. There was a long pause. Beason waited patiently, supposing the man to be thinking what to say about so great a difficulty. "As I understand it," he said, turning around at last, "it's like this. You are to give up your work at the university for a year--just one short little year--and do something else; something not so much in your line, perhaps, but something which will be helping those you care for--making it easier for some one else. It's to be your privilege, as I understand it, to fill a man's place. That's about it, isn't it?" "But that's not the point! I thought,"--in an injured, almost tearful voice--"that you would understand." "Oh, I do. I see the other point. You hate to stop work for,"--he cleared his throat--"for a year." "A year," said Beason dismally, "is such a long time to lose." The man had nothing to say to that. His head sank a little. He seemed to be thinking. Finally he came out of his reverie; seemed to come from a long way off. "And where are you going, my boy?" he asked kindly. "What are you going to do?" "I'm going clear out West," said Beason gloomily. "Father has something for me with a company in the Northwest." "Out there!"--an eager voice rang out, a voice which rested on a smothered sob. "Great heavens, man, you're going out there? Out there to the mountains and the forests? Out there where you can see the sun come up and go down, can see--can see--" but his voice trailed off to a strange silence. "I never cared much for scenery," said Beason bluntly, "and I care a lot for--all this I'm leaving." "We don't really leave a thing," said the man--his voice was low and tired--"when we're coming back to it. The only real leave-takings are the final ones." Beason shifted in his chair. Some of these things were not just what he had expected.