“Yes, Mr. Bassett.  My grandfather taught in the college there.”

“I have often heard of Professor Kelton, of course.  He’s a citizen our state is proud of.  Mrs. Bassett says you’re going to college this fall—­to Wellesley, is it?  Mrs. Bassett has an idea that Marian ought to have a college education.  What do you think about it?”

He smiled kindly, and there was kindness in his deep voice.

“I think girls should go who want to go,” answered Sylvia, her hands on the pickets of the gate.

“You speak like a politician,” laughed Bassett.  “That’s exactly what I think; and I haven’t seen that Marian is dying for a college career.”

“She has plenty of time to think of it,” Sylvia replied.  “I’m ever so much older”; and this seemed to dispose of that matter.

“You are staying here some time?”

“Another week.  It seems that we’ve hardly been here a day.”

“You are fortunate in having Mrs. Owen for a friend.  She is a very unusual woman.”

“The most wonderful person I ever knew!” responded Sylvia warmly.

He still showed no haste to leave her, though he had just reached Waupegan, and was going away the next day.

“Your grandfather isn’t teaching at Madison now, I believe?”

“No; but he lectures sometimes, and he has taught me; there was never a better teacher,” she answered, smiling.

“You must have been well taught if you are ready for college so early; you are—­you say you’re older than Marian—­do you mind my asking how old you ate?”

“Nearly seventeen; seventeen in October.”

“Oh!  Then you are four years older than Marian.  But I mustn’t keep you here.  Please remember me to Mrs. Owen and tell her I’ll drop in before I go.”  He bent over the gate and put out his hand.  “Good-night, Miss Garrison!”

Sylvia had never been called Miss Garrison before, and it was not without trepidation that she heard herself so addressed.  Mr. Bassett had spoken the name gravely, and their eyes met again in lingering contact.  When the door closed upon her he walked on rapidly; but once, before the trees had obscured Mrs. Owen’s lights, he turned and glanced back.

CHAPTER VIII

SILK STOCKINGS AND BLUE OVERALLS

One night in this same June, Harwood was directed by the city editor of the “Courier” to find Mr. Edward G. Thatcher.  Two reporters had failed at it, and it was desirable to verify reports as to certain transactions by which Thatcher, in conjunction with Morton Bassett, was believed to be effecting a merger of various glass-manufacturing interests.  Thatcher had begun life as a brewer, but this would long since have been obscured by the broadening currents of fortune if it had not been for his persistent dabbling in politics.  Whenever the Republican press was at a loss for something to attack, Thatcher’s