old would give up their crowns in exchange for the swift young feet on the threshold—­no wonder the boy could not understand.  Through that gate dashed presently a pair of proud, high-headed black horses—­“star-gazers,” as the Kentuckians call them—­with a rhythmic beat of high-lifted feet, and the boy’s eyes narrowed as the carriage behind them swept by him, for in it were Colonel Pendleton and Gray, with eager face and flashing eyes.  There was a welcoming shout when Gray leaped out, and a crowd of students rushed toward him and surrounded him.  One of them took off his hat, lifted both hands above his head, and then they all barked out a series of barbaric yells with a long shout of Gray’s full name at the end, while the Blue-grass lad stood among them, flushed and embarrassed but not at all displeased.  Again Jason’s brow knitted with wonder, for he could not know what a young god in that sternly democratic college Gray Pendleton, aristocrat though he was, had made himself, and he shrank deeper still into his loneliness and turned wistful eyes again to the gate.  Somebody had halted in front of him, and he looked up to see the same lad of whom he had just asked a question.

“And that young feller,” said the boy in the same mimicking tone, “is another president—­of the sophomore class and the captain of the football team.”

Lightning-like and belligerent, Jason sprang to his feet.  “Air you pokin’ fun at me?” he asked thickly and clenching his fists.

Genuinely amazed, the other lad stared at him a moment, smiled, and held out his hand.

“I reckon I was, but you’re all right.  Shake!”

And within Jason, won by the frank eyes and winning smile, the tumult died quickly, and he shook—­gravely.

“My name’s Burns—­Jack Burns.”

“Mine’s Hawn—­Jason Hawn.”

The other turned away with a wave of his hand.

“See you again.”

“Shore,” said Jason, and then his breast heaved and his heart seemed to stop quite still.  Another pair of proud horses shot between the stone pillars, and in the carriage behind them was Marjorie.  The boy dropped to his seat, dropped his chin in both hands as though to keep his face hidden, but as the sound of her coming loudened he simply could not help lifting his head.  Erect, happy, smiling, the girl was looking straight past him, and he felt like one of the yellow grains of dust about her horses’ feet.  And then within him a high, shrill little yell rose above the laughter and vocal hum going on around him—­there was John Burnham coming up the walk, the school-master, John Burnham—­and Jason sprang to meet him.  Immediately Burnham’s searching eyes fell upon him, and he stopped—­smiling, measuring, surprised.  Could this keen-faced, keen-eyed, sinewy, tall lad be the faithful little chap who had trudged sturdily at his heels so many days in the mountains?

“Well, well, well,” he said; “why, I wouldn’t have known you.  You got here in time, didn’t you?”