The young man did not look like an agent; he carried no telltale insignia.  He was tall and straight and decidedly blond, and he smiled pleasantly as he fanned himself with his straw hat.  Where his brown hair parted there was a cowlick that flung an untamable bang upon his forehead, giving him a combative look that his smile belied.  He was a trifle too old for a senior, Sylvia reflected, soberly studying his lean, smooth-shaven face, but not nearly old enough to be a professor; and except the pastor of the church which she attended, and the physician who had been called to see her in her childish ailments, all men in her world were either students or teachers.  The town men were strange beings, whom Professor Kelton darkly called Philistines, and their ways and interests were beyond her comprehension.

“If you will wait I think I may be able to find him.  He may have gone to the library or to the observatory, or for a walk.  Won’t you please come in?”

Her gravity amused the young man, who did not think it so serious a matter to gain an interview with a retired professor in a small college.  They debated, with much formality on both sides, whether Sylvia should seek her grandfather or merely direct the visitor to places where he would be likely to find him; but as the stranger had never seen Professor Kelton, they concluded that it would be wiser for Sylvia to do the seeking.

She ushered the visitor into the library, where it was cooler than on the doorstep, and turned toward the campus.  It is to be noted that Sylvia moves with the buoyant ease of youth.  She crosses the Lane and is on her own ground now as she follows the familiar walks that link the college buildings together.  The students who pass her grin cheerfully and tug at their caps; several, from a distance, wave a hand at her.  One young gentleman, leaning from the upper window of the chemical laboratory, calls, “Hello, Sylvia,” and jerks his head out of sight.  Sylvia’s chin lifts a trifle, disdainful of the impudence of sophomores.  She has recognized the culprit’s voice, and will deal with him later in her own fashion.

Sylvia is olive-skinned and dark of eye.  And they are interesting eyes—­those of Sylvia, luminous and eager—­and not fully taken in at a glance.  They call us back for further parley by reason of their grave and steady gaze.  There is something appealing in her that takes hold of the heart, and we remember her after she has passed us by.  We shall not pretend that her features are perfect, but their trifling irregularities contribute to an impression of individuality and character.  Her mouth, for example, is a bit large, but it speaks for good humor.  Even at fifteen, her lips suggest firmness and decision.  Her forehead is high and broad, and her head is well set on straight shoulders.  Her dark hair is combed back smoothly and braided and the braid is doubled and tied with a red ribbon.  The same color flashes in a flowing bow at her throat.  These notes will serve to identify Sylvia as she crosses the campus of this honorable seat of learning on a June afternoon.