To make it worse, the boy had love his father.  Nay, still loved him.  As a little fellow, after a scolding for some wayward prank, he would throw himself into Hilary’s arms and cling to him, and would never know how near he came to unmanning him.  As Austen grew up, they saw the world in different colours:  blue to Hilary was red to Austen, and white, black; essentials to one were non-essentials to the other; boys and girls, men and women, abhorred by one were boon companions to the other.

Austen made fun of the minister, and was compelled to go church twice on Sundays and to prayer-meeting on Wednesdays.  Then he went to Camden Street, to live with his grandparents in the old Vane house and attend Camden Wentworth Academy.  His letters, such as they were, were inimitable if crude, but contained not the kind of humour Hilary Vane knew.  Camden Wentworth, principal and teachers, was painted to the life; and the lad could hardly wait for vacation time to see his father, only to begin quarreling with him again.

I pass over escapades in Ripton that shocked one half of the population and convulsed the other half.  Austen went to the college which his father had attended,—­a college of splendid American traditions,—­and his career there might well have puzzled a father of far greater tolerance and catholicity.  Hilary Vane was a trustee, and journeyed more than once to talk the matter over with the president, who had been his classmate there.

“I love that boy, Hilary,” the president had said at length, when pressed for a frank opinion,—­“there isn’t a soul in the place, I believe, that doesn’t,—­undergraduates and faculty,—­but he has given me more anxious thought than any scholar I have ever had.”

“Trouble,” corrected Mr. Vane, sententiously.

“Well, yes, trouble,” answered the president, smiling, “but upon my soul, I think it is all animal spirits.”

“A euphemism for the devil,” said Hilary, grimly; “he is the animal part of us, I have been brought up to believe.”

The president was a wise man, and took another tack.

“He has a really remarkable mind, when he chooses to use it.  Every once in a while he takes your breath away—­but he has to become interested.  A few weeks ago Hays came to me direct from his lecture room to tell me about a discussion of Austen’s in constitutional law.  Hays, you know, is not easily enthused, but he declares your son has as fine a legal brain as he has come across in his experience.  But since then, I am bound to admit,” added the president, sadly, “Austen seems not to have looked at a lesson.”

“‘Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel,’” replied Hilary.

“He’ll sober down,” said the president, stretching his conviction a little, “he has two great handicaps:  he learns too easily, and he is too popular.”  The president looked out of his study window across the common, surrounded by the great elms which had been planted when Indian lads played among the stumps and the red flag of England had flown from the tall pine staff.  The green was covered now with students of a conquering race, skylarking to and fro as they looked on at a desultory baseball game.  “I verily believe,” said the president, “at a word from your son, most of them would put on their coats and follow him on any mad expedition that came into his mind.”