seemed to be engaging his fancy.  The old Victorian and pre-Victorian blague word “petticoat” had been revived in Fred’s vocabulary, and in others, as “skirt.”  The lightsome sprig was hourly to be seen, even when university rulings forbade, dilly-dallying giddily along the campus paths or the town sidewalks with some new and pretty Skirt.  And when Ramsey tried to fluster him about such a matter Fred would profess his ardent love for the new lady in shouts and impromptu song.  Nothing could be done to him, and Ramsey, utterly unable to defend his own sensibilities in like manner, had always to retire in bafflement.  Sometimes he would ponder upon the question thus suggested:  Why couldn’t he do this sort of thing, since Fred could?  But he never discovered a satisfying answer.

Ramsey’s watchfulness was so careful (lest he make some impulsive admission in regard to the botanical laboratory, for instance) that Mr. Mitchell’s curiosity gradually became almost quiescent; but there arrived a day in February when it was piqued into the liveliest activity.  It was Sunday, and Fred, dressing with a fastidiousness ever his daily habit, noticed that Ramsey was exhibiting an unusual perplexity about neckties.

“Keep the black one on,” Fred said, volunteering the suggestion, as Ramsey muttered fiercely at a mirror.  “It’s in better taste for church, anyhow.  You’re going to church, aren’t you?”

“Yes.  Are you?”

“No.  I’ve got a luncheon engagement.”

“Well, you could go to church first, couldn’t you?  You better; you’ve got a lot of church absences against you.”

“Then one more won’t hurt.  No church in mine this morning, thanks!  G’by, ole sox; see you at the ‘frat house’ for dinner.”

He went forth, whistling syncopations, and began a brisk trudge into the open country.  There was a professor’s daughter who also was not going to church that morning; and she lived a little more than three miles beyond the outskirts of the town.  Unfortunately, as the weather was threatening, all others of her family abandoned the idea of church that day, and Fred found her before a cozy fire, but surrounded by parents, little brothers, and big sisters.  The professor was talkative; Fred’s mind might have been greatly improved, but with a window in range he preferred a melancholy contemplation of the snow, which had begun to fall in quantity.  The professor talked until luncheon, throughout luncheon, and was well under way to fill the whole afternoon with talk, when Fred, repenting all the errors of his life, got up to go.

Heartily urged to remain, for there was now something just under a blizzard developing, he said No; he had a great deal of “cirriculum work” to get done before the morrow, and passed from the sound of the professor’s hospitable voice and into the storm.  He had a tedious struggle against the wind and thickening snow, but finally came in sight of the town, not long before dark.  Here the road led down into a depression, and, lifting his head as he began the slight ascent on the other side, Fred was aware of two figures outlined upon the low ridge before him.  They were dimmed by the driving snow and their backs were toward him, but he recognized them with perfect assurance.  They were Dora Yocum and Ramsey Milholland.