Both said that Will had decided to leave college and engage in some sort of business. He had left, but to say that _he_ decided to leave was as far from the truth as right from wrong. The faculty decided, Will left. He was not all to blame, and nothing dishonourable had been done, but his frank explanations did not assuage in the slightest degree the grief of his parents. The disgrace in their eyes was an indelible stain, and a gloom that was deep and black had reigned in the parsonage since the day of his arrival. Outside, tongues were wagging at a furious rate. The sons and daughters of the clergy seem to be the special prey of gossips. They are supposed to be impervious to temptation, something better than the ordinary human. We forget that the same God made them that made the children of the butcher and the baker. Late that afternoon, after Barbara had sent the last little urchin homeward, she stood at a window looking out over the fields at the autumn foliage of the woods beyond. She had been there but a moment when Will Flint came down the road and turned into the path that led to the schoolhouse. When he saw her he stopped. Barbara did not know whether she was pleased or not to see him. It was time to go, however, so she put on her things, went out and locked the door, and started down the path. "Hope you won't be vexed, Miss Wallace, because I came," said Will, "but I've been so confoundedly lonesome to-day that I--" "I am not vexed," she said, quickly. His manner and frankness pleased her, and dispelled the doubt that was in her mind a moment before. "I'm glad," he said as they turned and walked toward home. "The boys that I knew," he continued, "have gone away to work, or school. That is why I'm lonesome I suppose, and then the place seems different." "But it's not," replied Barbara, and a smile played about her lips. He was only a big boy, after all. "Everything seems to be smaller and shabbier." "Things," said Barbara, "grow old like men and women." "Yes, I know, but--I can't seem to say things the way I want to. I've been in the woods all day tramping and thinking; it's done me a lot of good, but--I guess I won't talk about myself any longer." "But I am interested," said Barbara, earnestly, and then added, quickly, "in anybody who is perplexed." "Thank you, but at present I'm nobody. I have yet to earn the right to be anybody, much less somebody." "Very well, if you insist we will drop Mr. Flint." "I wish that we could drop him out of sight for good," said Will, bitterly. "What a wicked thought." "If my thoughts--" Will checked himself suddenly and then asked: "Can't we find something else to talk about? I have it, the new woman's club, have you been invited to join?" "The _new_ woman's club?" said Barbara, feigning surprise. "I had not heard of it." "You're making fun of me." "Indeed, it is you who are trying to joke at our expense."