MY LADY OF THE CONSTELLATIONS

Sylvia was reading in her grandfather’s library when the bell tinkled.  Professor Kelton had few callers, and as there was never any certainty that the maid-of-all-work would trouble herself to answer, Sylvia put down her book and went to the door.  Very likely it was a student or a member of the faculty, and as her grandfather was not at home Sylvia was quite sure that the interruption would be the briefest.

The Kelton cottage stood just off the campus, and was separated from it by a narrow street that curved round the college and stole, after many twists and turns, into town.  This thoroughfare was called “Buckeye Lane,” or more commonly the “Lane.”  The college had been planted literally in the wilderness by its founders, at a time when Montgomery, for all its dignity as the seat of the county court, was the most colorless of Hoosier hamlets, save only as the prevailing mud colored everything.  Buckeye Lane was originally a cow-path, in the good old times when every reputable villager kept a red cow and pastured it in the woodlot that subsequently became Madison Athletic Field.  In those days the Madison faculty, and their wives and daughters, seeking social diversion among the hospitable townfolk, picked their way down the Lane by lantern light.  An ignorant municipal council had later, when natural gas threatened to boom the town into cityhood, changed Buckeye Lane to University Avenue, but the community refused to countenance any such impious trifling with tradition.  And besides, Madison prided herself then as now on being a college that taught the humanities in all soberness, according to ideals brought out of New England by its founders.  The proposed change caused an historic clash between town and gown in which the gown triumphed.  University forsooth!

Professor Kelton’s house was guarded on all sides by trees and shrubbery, and a tall privet hedge shut it off from the Lane.  He tended with his own hands a flower garden whose roses were the despair of all the women of the community.  The clapboards of the simple story-and-a-half cottage had faded to a dull gray, but the little plot of ground in which the house stood was cultivated with scrupulous care.  The lawn was always fresh and crisp, the borders of privet were neatly trimmed and the flower beds disposed effectively.  A woman would have seen at once that this was a man’s work; it was all a little too regular, suggesting engineering methods rather than polite gardening.

Once you had stepped inside the cottage the absence of the feminine touch was even more strikingly apparent.  Book shelves crowded to the door,—­open shelves, that had the effect of pressing at once upon the visitor the most formidable of dingy volumes, signifying that such things were of moment to the master of the house.  There was no parlor, for the room that had originally been used as such was