Kansas University Weekly.
233
were swelling on a lilac bush near him, and, "It is a very early spring," he said.
It was the earliest spring they had known for a long time. He couldn't remember one since that of forty-five years back which had come so soon.
Forty-five years back. The Professor sat down on the steps and leaning his head on his slender hands looked out over the valley and the stretch of hills that bounded the horizon with a vague, unusual restlessness in his wise, kindly, tolerant eyes. He was not feeling well that morning. He decided that he had been up too late over the class papers last night, for somehow, he was very tired. He refused to admit to himself that the thought of that forty-five-years-ago spring had anything to do with the sudden weariness which overcame him. It must have been the papers. Most of them had been unusually stupid. He must try to incite the students to more individual research. Then, having proved his point to himself his thoughts drifted back to that spring so many years ago.
He was a college boy then, a shy, slender, little fellow with furtive blue eyes that were always hiding behind their thick yellow lashes, a sensitive mouth and fine graceful hands which were always white and well-tended. He had entered college very young and he graduated at an exceedingly early age without making any stir one way or another in the life of the institution, without even coming to the surface. Reserved and quiet as he was he made very few friends. He knew almost no girls and he was not at all acquainted with the one to whom he had silently given his homage.
A poor, meagre little story it was, but this morning with the thrill of spring in the air brought it all back. She left college in the spring of his sophomore year,—to be married, so they said,—and that was all. What had become of her, whether she had married or not, whether she lived or died, he never knew. Only—she was his first love, and all of that pure adoration and reverence which can be given but once, all of the chivalric devotion of a boy's heart he had lain at her feet, unknown, unre-
warded, he had offered up like incense before a saint to this proud little maiden with the erect carriage of the head and the tender pure line in the curve of her lips.
He had a Botticelli angel in his study now that he kept because it had that same curve of the mouth.
Forty years ago this spring! The day before she left she had come upon some errand into the room where he was talking with one of the tutors. With the gentle, formal courtesy that even then was characteristic of him he had stepped back to give his place to her, but, catching his foot, stumbled and knocked down several books from the desk. As he glanced at her quickly he had caught a faint smile on her face. He knew now that she probably had never given it a second thought, but he suffered weeks of shame from that display of awkwardness.
It was just this kind of a day when she left the town. He happened to be at the station when the train moved off amidst chorused good-byes from a little group of her friends on the platform. He had walked back up town slowly, trying to realize that she was gone and what it meant to him not to be able to watch her in the library or wait to see her pass in the halls. Then he had fallen into an absurd reverie in which he won impossible honors and laid them all at her feet. The next day he had heard that she was to be married.
The Professor was conscious of a curious sentiment of tenderness for himself as for some long lost friend. It was someone else who had struggled through that pitiful little tragedy, someone endued with immortal youth who had loved her and still loved her. As for him, he was the husband of a busy, helpful woman, whom he loved dearly, and he was very happy. That boy might remember yet the pure, strong curve of a girl's lips but he—he was an old man!
He rose slowly and unsteadily from his seat, "The young men see visions,'' he murmured, "But the old men-the old men dream dreams.'"
And as the Professor turned to go into the house he stumbled a little, for his eyes were moist, and he could not see very clearly.
FRANCES CHAMPLAINE.