"Beason,"--something in his voice now made the boy move a little nearer--"I'm sorry for your disappointment, but I wish I could make you see how much you have to live for. Get in the habit of looking at the sunsets, Beason. Take a good many long looks at the mountains and the rivers. It's not unscientific. You know,"--with a little whimsical toss of his head--"we only have so many looks to take in this world, and when we're about through we'd hate to think they'd all been into microscopes and culture ovens. And don't worry too much, Beason, about things running into your plans and knocking them over. You know what that wise old Omar had to say about it all." He paused, and then quoted, very slowly, each word seeming to stand for many things: And fear not lest Existence closing your Account, and mine, shall know the like no more; The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pour'd Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour. "And--will--pour,"--he repeated the three words. And then his head drooped, his hands fell laxly at his sides. It seemed it was not of Beason he had been thinking as he looked Fate in the face with that taunt of the old Persian poet. But he looked at him after a moment, came back to him. He saw that the boy was disappointed. The gloom with which he had come had not lifted from his face. That would not do. He was not going to fail his student like that. "Why, look here, Beason," he said in a new tone, all enthusiasm now, "maybe you'll shoot a bear. I have a presentiment, Beason, that you will, and when you're eighty-five and have your great grandchild on your knee, you'll think a great deal more about that bear than you will about the year you missed here at school. Now brace up! Hard knocks wake a fellow up. You'll come back here and do better work for your year of roughing it--take my word for it, you will." Beason had brightened. "And you think,"--he grew a little red--"that when I come back I can have my old place here with you?" The man drew in his breath, drew it in rather hard; something had taken the enthusiasm away. "I'll do my little part, Beason," he said, exceedingly quietly, "to see that you are not overlooked when you come back." The boy rose to go. "I do feel better," he said clumsily, but with heartiness. He looked around the room. "I hate to leave it. I've had some good times here, and I'm--fond of it." The man was leaning against the wall. He did not say anything at all. Then Beason held out his hand. "Good-bye," he said, "and--thank you."