Finally, however, the dean came down from the platform and we stood. Then we began a very slow walk around the side aisles, down past the platform to pass before the dean and receive our degrees. Slowly, ever too slowly, I drew near, and then, a whispered “Priddy” from the Dean and the sheepskin was in my hand. Immediately I changed the position of the tassel of my cap for I had, that moment, officially shifted myself from the undergraduate rôle of the college and entered the long, historic ranks of the alumni. When I got back to my seat, my neighbor, who had expressed the fear that something would occur, whispered with relief: “I’m not a religious fellow, Priddy, but I do feel like singing the doxology, now that I’ve got this!” He pointed to his diploma. _Chapter XL. In which the Account Comes to a Conclusion in the Life of a Relative. Martin Quotes Spanish and Has the Last Word._ After we had been established in a parish for some time, I suggested to my wife that probably the best Christmas present I could give my Uncle Stanwood and Aunt Millie would be to make them a personal visit after all my years of absence and recite to them all the facts of my education, my marriage, and describe to them the two interesting members of my family. So I arrived at Uncle Stanwood’s house the week before Christmas with the intention of spending a week with him. I had been asked to preach the Christmas sermon by Mr. Woodward, the minister, who had started me off to the seminary. My uncle was still living in a mill tenement. “So you’ve got an education after all!” he commented, putting a loving hand on my shoulder. “Education has made a difference in you altogether. You are much different. Sit down and tell me all about it.” As for my Aunt Millie, she said, “What did you marry an American for? Can she cook?” Just then the door opened and in slouched the tallest man I ever saw; slouched past us without a word and threw himself moodily into a chair at the end of the supper table. His face had been carved--roughly carved--out of mahogany; it was gaunt, sun-beaten and lined with fret marks. He laid big, scarred hands on his plate. His shoulders drooped and yet were massive in strength. His eyes were like distant lights well back under the shadow of his bulging brows. A look of disgust seemed to have lingered on his thin, curled lips since his birth. He was my cousin Martin who had arrived from England two years before. When he rose up to reach out one of his great hands to me, there was a curious, unaccountable antagonism in his tone when he said, “Oh, this’s him, eh? He’s the lucky dog, is he?” During the recital of my educational experiences which followed, I noticed that my most interested listener was Martin. When I came to those parts which had to do with self-support, he was alert in every muscle. His eyes blazed at me, devouring every word that I said.