those long winter evenings when he prepared his lessons in the glow of the old lamp. The happiest moments of her life were now nothing more than memories. She must sit at the table alone until she grew sleepy from lonesomeness, and then she herself must carry the lamp upstairs— the lamp which he had always carried for her to light the way. There would be no little watchman to bolt the door, no little protector to tiptoe into her chamber to press her to his manly bosom and print his sweet good-night upon her lips. These thoughts overwhelmed her, and she buried her face in her arms and wept more bitterly.

When such a cloud of sorrow overshadows the soul, we are often made happier by the presence of another heavy heart than by one which is light and unsympathetic with gayety.

There was a tap on the widow's door. She did not hear it until it was repeated a second time. second time. Even then she doubted it, and she lifted her head to listen and wait. It came again.

"Come in," she said, between sobs.

The door opened, and Allaine Bennett stood on the threshold, a little satchel in her hand.

"I know how sad and lonely you must be," said Allaine sweetly, "and I have come to console you, because I am much to blame for your sorrow."

The widow was more baffled by this remark than by the strange girl's appearance.

"You do not know me," continued Allaine, placing her arm about the widow's neck, "but we often have friends whom we do not know, and yet these are sometimes our closest and dearest friends."

"Who are you?" asked Alice gently.

"Allaine-Allaine Bennett. I came to your cottage a

long time ago, bringing a candy heart for your son. night I am bringing my own heart for you."

The widow smiled with joy.

"But how could you have caused my sorrow?"

To

"Promise me you will tell no one; promise me, in particular, that you will never tell your son," said Allaine.

"I promise," said Alice.

"It was I who suggested that he be presented with a free scholarship for the university," said Allaine very softly. "You darling!" exclaimed Alice, rising and taking Allaine in her arms.

"I told my father about Paul's good work at school, and it was through father that the alumni sent him away." "Ah! how you have helped him!"

"I love him," admitted Allaine, blushing.

"My Paul!" said the widow, with just a touch of alarm. "Yes, but I love you as well, and I love him as much as you do, and both of us can do more for him than either one of us alone. I shall continue to help him, and by helping him I shall help you; shall I not?"

"Yes, yes, my dear girl," said Alice more contentedly.

"But promise me again you will not tell. Never breathe my name; he must not know that I am going to help him." "I promise," repeated the widow; and Allaine kissed her. "Now let me help you with the dishes," suggested the visitor.

In an instant she had removed her hat and coat, and was clearing the table.

"Oh," remarked Alice, "I thought this was a visit." "Yes, a friendly visit-not a fashionable one. May I have an apron?"

The widow understood at once that the girl would insist on helping, and she nonreluctantly handed her a neatly folded apron from the cupboard. The dishes were soon washed and dried and placed on the shelves, and then Alice and Allaine sat down and talked to each other across the little red tablecloth; they chatted until bedtime.

"It is late," said Alice. "I shall have to walk part way home with you."

"Oh, I do not intend to leave you alone this evening," said Allaine. "I told father I was going to stay with you the first night after your son's departure. He knows about

it. I doubt if my mother will miss me, and if she does, Father can tell her where I am."

"You are a kind sweet girl," said Alice, and the tears of happiness rolled down her cheeks.

"You are sleepy. You wish to retire."

"Yes," admitted Alice.

And Allaine bolted the door and took the lamp. "You lead the way."

The widow ascended the stairs, and the girl followed her holding the lamp high in one hand and her satchel in the other. There was a cot, dressed with fresh linens, just outside the door on the first landing. The widow rolled it into her bedroom.

"Paul always slept on this," said Alice. "I hope you find it comfortable."

"I know I shall," said Allaine, placing the lamp on an antiquated but beautiful bureau.

Then she sat on the edge of the cot, removed her shoes, undressed, and stood before the widow in a simple white gown with delicate blue ribbons strung through the insertion about the neck and sleeves; Alice imagined it was an angel whom God had sent to comfort and guard her. After the girl knelt beside Paul's cot and prayed for him, she walked to the widow's bed, pressed her to her soft white bosom, and printed a good-night kiss upon her lips. Then she extinguished the lamp, and they were soon lost in sweet and peaceful slumber.

The express which was taking Paul Milton to the university was dashing along like a mad steed through the night. The youth tossed about restlessly on his pillow, which was moist with the tears shed for his mother, whom he had left alone in the little cottage at Norford.

CHAPTER VI

POVERTY AND WEALTH

The house on Walnut Street, in front of which Tom Kuhler with his two "lady friends" stood calling to Arch Coddington on the night of the big victory, was the house in which Paul Milton, the freshman, settled, when he arrived at the university. "The Alumni" had recommended the location; in fact Mr. Wallace Bennett had roomed there himself some twenty years before, when he was also a freshman. The strains of music from the attic window came from Samuel Milton's violin. It was only after he had finished serving the student-boarders, whose everlasting conversation on football kept the serpent green in his memory, that Paul retired to his room, where his tempesttossed body and mind finally became calm under the influence of melody.

This little retreat under the roof was very different from the little studio which was similarly located in the Milton cottage at Norford. The sloping roof made it impossible to stand upright in the room, except at the very center. The walls and ceiling were not papered. The plaster was soiled, and in certain places, where the rain had leaked through, it had fallen away and exposed the laths. A few pieces of raveled rag carpet covered the worst spots on the floor, which was almost equally rough and knotty throughout. There was one small window, offering a view of the street. The furniture consisted of a bed, a table, a chair and a student's lamp; nothing more.

The iron bed was now a total wreck; former students had played havoc with it. The white enamel had fallen off in flakes, and the black iron showed through. The vertical

rods at the head and at the foot were hopelessly twisted as though some wild animal, imagining itself encaged, had forced them apart to make its escape. The springs sagged like a hammock; it is probable that a former drunken freshman (perhaps Mr. Bennett himself) had danced upon them oftener than he had slept there. Only one of the four posts remained crowned with a brass knob; it is very likely that the other three knobs had been fired at some wandering cat, whose nocturnal serenades had interrupted what little natural slumber the reveler had tried to find while sober. It little resembled the neat and firm cot with its sweet linens on which Allaine Bennett slept the first night after Paul had deserted it.

The table, chair and lamp were all more or less defective and broken, but Milton soon became accustomed to them, and it was not long before he was able to work very well at his table and sleep quite soundly on his bed. Such trivial matters never disturb a genius; the boy never mentioned them in letters to his mother, because he soon forgot about them himself.

The free scholarship included little more than tuition. and laboratory expenses. He bought his own textbooks with what little money he had taken with him; he could not spend it for better furniture. His mother had offered him more, but he had refused to take it from her. In no way did he wish to make her less comfortable for the sake of his own conveniences. He even contemplated sending her some of the money he hoped to earn through the bureau of self-help. He earned his food by waiting on a table in the landlord's dining room. The rent of his room would not have amounted to much, but he paid for it by firing the furnace or shoveling snow in winter and by mowing the lawn in spring. Mr. Bennett could have made and, in fact, wanted to make life easier for Paul Milton by sending him a small allowance also from "The Alumni," but when he recalled his own experiences at the university, the word allowance became synonymous with indolence and failure, whereas the absence of it meant application and success.