“We had enjoyed the afternoon so much,” he said, trying to tell how it had happened.  “I thought I had never seen her so happy, so gay,—­but you know she was that always.  It was nearly sunset, and I remember how she spoke of the light as we saw it through the open spaces of the woods and as it slanted across the water.  Farther down the river the yellow jasmine was beginning to open.  A beech-tree that leaned out over the water was hung with it.  She wanted some, and I guided the boat under the branches.  I meant to get it for her myself, but she was reaching up after it almost before I knew it.  The bough that had the finest blossoms on it was just beyond her reach, and while I steadied the boat, she pulled it towards her by one of the vines hanging from it.  She must have put too much weight on it—­

“It all happened so quickly.  I called to her to be careful, but while I was saying the words the vine snapped and she fell back with such force that the boat tipped, and in a second we were both in the water.  I knew I could not swim, but I hoped that the water so near the bank would be shallow; and it was, but there was a deep hole under the roots of the tree.”

He could get no further.  Poor lad! the wonder was that he had not been drowned himself.  A negro ploughing in the field near by saw the accident and ran to his help, catching him as he was sinking for the third time.  Stella never rose after she went down; her clothing had been entangled in the roots of the beech.

Sorrow for the young life cut off so untimely was deep and universal, and sought to manifest itself in tender ministrations to the brother so cruelly bereaved.  But Lindsay shrank from all offices of sympathy, and except for seeking now and then Wayland’s silent companionship, bore his grief alone.

The college was too poor to establish the fellowship in Greek, but the adjunct professor in mathematics resigned, and young Cowart was elected to his place, with the proviso that he give two months further study to the subject in the summer school of some university.  Wayland decided which by taking him back with him to Cambridge, where he showed the boy an admirable friendship.

Lindsay applied himself to his special studies with the utmost diligence.  It was impossible, moreover, that his new surroundings should not appeal to his tastes in many directions; but in spite of his response to these larger opportunities, his friend discerned that the wound which the young man kept so carefully hidden had not, after all these weeks, begun even slightly to heal.

Late on an August night, impelled as he often was to share the solitude which Lindsay affected, he sought him at his lodgings, and not finding him, followed what he knew was a favorite walk with the boy, and came upon him half hidden under the shadows of an elm in the woods that skirted Mount Auburn.  “I thought you might be here,” he said, taking the place that Lindsay made for him on the seat.  Many words were never necessary between them.