Under the inspiration of this conversation, I pulled Martin out of the house and took him to the public library, where we asked for a bundle of preparatory school and college catalogues. These we whispered over and patiently studied until noon. We found that, by unusual labor, it would be possible for Martin to get his preparation, his college degree, and his professional training within nine years! As a further proof of our optimism, we decided that Martin should enter Yale when he was fitted! We found from the catalogue of the preparatory school that Martin had decided upon, that the term opened within two days. When I advised Martin to write a letter to the principal and await a reply, he stormed at me: “And probably it would be a week before I heard from him. That would put me behind the classes--and you would be gone, too. If they aren’t overcrowded, why, I’ll not wait to write; but just take my fifty dollars and go. They can only say no.” His decision made, Martin began to show me what a decided nature he possessed. He drew the fifty dollars out of the bank. He bought some necessary clothes out of the money. The next day he gave notice to the contractor that he would carry bricks no more. Then he outlined his scheme to uncle and aunt. My Aunt Millie stormed. “This education business is getting on my nerves. First it’s one and then another of you.” Turning on me she said, “Nice way of treating us: coming to take a good paying boarder from us--and we need the money so, too!” But Martin interjected, “Look here, I did it all myself. Blame me for it!” But my aunt would not be consoled. “And I’d been planning so for the wedding, too!” she exclaimed. As I chanced to be going on a trip to the Seminary at the time, I told Martin that I could be his companion as far as he had to go. “But you’ve got to go to the North End with me and help me explain matters to Nora. You’ve got a smoother tongue than I have and she’ll listen to you.” So Martin and I started out on our dismal mission. Nora lived on the top floor in one of the tenements. She was a stout, fair-faced woman of twenty-seven with a way of casting her head sidewise when she spoke to me, as if she had trouble with her sight. She stood gazing at us, at that unexpected hour, from behind the ironing-board. The odor of burning cloth reached my nostrils, as she stood wondering. She had burnt the shirtwaist and no amount of frantic rubbing with soap could take the scar out. She dismissed us to the parlor while she put on a more presentable dress. Martin said not a word to me; but he pointed dumbly to his photograph in a place of honor on the mantel. Nora came into the room exclaiming: “Why, Martin, didn’t you let me know? What’s the matter?” Martin started to speak; but could not. He nodded to me.