“It is a wonderful old town,” Lindsay went on again.  “Even Wayland says so,—­our Greek professor, you know.”  His voice thrilled with the devotion of the hero-worshipper as he spoke the name.  “He is a Harvard man, and has seen the best of everything, and even he has felt the charm of the place; he told me so.  You will feel it, too.  It is just as if the little town and the college together had preserved in amber all that was finest in our Southern life.  And now to think you and I are to share in all its riches!”

His early consecration to such a purpose, the toil and sacrifice by which it had been achieved, came movingly before her; yet, mingled with her pride in him, something within her pleaded for the things which he rated so low.  “It used to be hard for you at home, Lindsay,” she said, softly.

“Yes, it was hard.”  His face flushed.  “I never really lived till I left there.  I was like an animal caught in a net, like a man struggling for air.  You can’t know what it is to me now to be with people who are thinking of something else than of how to make a few dollars in a miserable country store.”

“But they were good people in Bowersville, Lindsay,” she urged, with gentle loyalty.

“I am sure they were, if you say so,” he agreed.  “But at any rate we are done with it all now.”  He laid his hand over hers.  “At last I am going to take you into our own dear world.”

It was, after all, a very small world as to its actual dimensions, but to the brother it had the largeness of opportunity, and to Stella it seemed infinitely complex.  She found security at first only in following minutely the programme which Lindsay had laid out for her.  It was his own as well, and simple enough.  Study was the supreme thing; exercise came in as a necessity, pleasure only as the rarest incident.  She took all things cheerfully, after her nature, but after two or three months the color began to go from her cheeks, the elasticity from her step; nor was her class standing, though creditable, quite what her brother had expected it to be.

Wayland detained him one day in his class-room.  “Do you think your sister is quite happy here, Cowart?” he asked.

The boy thrilled, as he always did at any special evidence of interest from such a source, but he had never put this particular question to himself and had no reply at hand.

“I have never thought this absolute surrender to books the wisest thing for you,” Wayland went on; “but for your sister it is impossible.  She was formed for companionship, for happiness, not for the isolation of the scholar.  Why did you not put her into one of the girls’ schools of the State, where she would have had associations more suited to her years?” he asked, bluntly.

Lindsay could scarcely believe that he was listening to the young professor whose scholarly attainments seemed to him the sum of what was most desirable in life.  “Our girls’ colleges are very superficial,” he answered; “and even if they were not, she could get no Greek in any of them.”