first moon of that century the shadowy hillsmen were getting ready to swoop down.  And it was the dawn of the twentieth century of the Christian era that Burnham watched, the dawn of the one hundred and twenty-fifth year of the nation’s life—­of the one hundred and seventh year of statehood for Kentucky.  And thinking of the onward sweep of the world, of the nation, North, East, West, and South, the backward staggering of his own loved State tugged sorely at his heart.

In chapel next morning John Burnham made another little talk—­ chiefly to the young men of the Blue-grass among whom this tragedy was taking place.  No inheritance in American life was better than theirs, he told them—­no better ideals in the relations of family, State, and nation.  But the State was sick now with many ills and it was coming to trial now before the judgment of the watching world.  If it stood the crucial fire, it would be the part of all the youth before him to maintain and even better the manhood that should come through unscathed.  And if it failed, God forbid, it would be for them to heal, to mend, to upbuild, and, undaunted, push on and upward again.  And as at the opening of the session he saw again, lifted to him with peculiar intenseness, the faces of Marjorie and Gray Pendleton, and of Mavis and Jason Hawn—­only now Gray looked deeply serious and Jason sullen and defiant.  And at Mavis, Marjorie did not turn this time to smile.  Nor was there any furtive look from any one of the four to any other, when the students rose, though each pair of cousins drifted together on the way out, and in pairs went on their separate ways.

The truth was that Marjorie and Gray were none too happy over the recent turn of affairs.  Both were too fine, too generous, to hurt the feelings of others except with pain to themselves.  They knew Mavis and Jason were hurt but, hardly realizing that between the four the frank democracy of childhood was gone, they hardly knew how and how deeply.  Both were mystified, greatly disturbed, drawn more than ever by the proud withdrawal of the mountain boy and girl, and both were anxious to make amends.  More than once Gray came near riding over to Steve Hawn’s and trying once more to understand and if possible to explain and restore good feeling, but the memory of his rebuff from Mavis and the unapproachable quality in Jason made him hesitate.  Naturally with Marjorie this state of mind was worse, because of the brink of Jason’s confession for which she knew she was much to blame, and because of the closer past between them.  Once only she saw him striding the fields, and though she pulled in her horse to watch him, Jason did not know; and once he came to her when he did not know that she knew.  It was the night before the mid-year examinations and Marjorie, in spite of that fact, had gone to a dance and, because of it, was spending the night in town with a friend.  The two girls had got home a little before three in the morning, and Marjorie had put out her light and