"Professor Hastings has come to see you, Karl," she said, as they entered the library; and as he rose she laid her hand very gently upon his arm, a touch which seemed more like an unconscious little movement of affection than an assistance. "Good for Hastings!" said Karl, with genuine heartiness. "And have a good many thought waves from me come to you this summer?" he asked, shaking Karl's hand with a warmth which conveyed the things he left unsaid. "Yes, they've come," Karl replied. "Oh, we knew our friends were with us,"--a little hastily. "But we've had a pretty good summer--haven't we, Ernestine?" turning his face to her. "In many ways it has been a delightful summer,"--her voice now had that blending of defiance and appeal, and as she looked at her husband and smiled it flashed through Professor Hastings' mind--"He knew she did that!" "You see,"--after they were seated--"I was really very uneducated. Isn't it surprising, Hastings, how much some of us don't know? Now what do you know about the history of art? Could you pass a sophomore examination in it? Well, I couldn't until Ernestine began coaching me up this summer. Now I'm quite fit to appear before women's clubs as a lecturer on art. Literature, too, I'm getting on with; I'm getting acquainted with all the Swedes and the Irishmen and the Poles who ever put pen to paper." "Karl," she protested--"Swedes and Irishmen and Poles!" "Isn't that what they are?" he demanded, innocently. "Well they're not exactly a lot of immigrants." "Yes they are; immigrants into the domain of my--shall I say intellectuality?" They laughed a little, and there was a moment's pause. "Tell me about school," he said, abruptly, his voice all changed. Professor Hastings felt the censorship of Ernestine's eyes upon him as he talked; they travelled with a frightened eagerness from the face of the man who spoke to him who listened. He could see them deepen as they touched dangerous ground, and he wondered how she could go on living with that intensity of feeling. "Beason is back," he said, in telling of the returnings and the changes. "Beason!"--Dr. Hubers' voice rang out charged with a significance the older man could not understand. "You say Beason is back?"--the voice then was as if something had broken. "Yes, it was unexpected. He had thought he would be West this year, but things turned out better than he had expected." "Yes, he told me--in April, that he would be West this year." As he sank back, his face in repose, Professor Hastings saw something of what the summer had done. Ernestine's eyes were upon him, a little reproachful, and beseeching. But before he could think of anything redeeming to say two other university men had been admitted.