Existence was wearing a particularly dismal aspect on that afternoon when Edgar had met Polly Oliver in the Berkeley woods.  He felt “nagged,” injured, blue, out of sorts with fate.  He had not done anything very bad, he said to himself; at least, nothing half so bad as lots of other fellows, and yet everybody frowned on him.  His father had, in his opinion, been unnecessarily severe; while his mother and sister had wept over him (by letter) as if he were a thief and a forger, instead of a fellow who was simply having a “little fling.”  He was annoyed at the conduct of Scott Burton,—­“king of snobs and prigs,” he named him,—­who had taken it upon himself to inform Philip Noble of his (Edgar’s) own personal affairs; and he was enraged at being preached at by that said younger brother.

But of late everything had taken an upward turn, and by way of variety, existence turned a smiling face toward him.  He had passed his examinations, most unexpectedly to himself, with a respectable percentage to spare.  There was a time when he would have been ashamed of this meagre result.  He was now, just a little, but the feeling was somewhat submerged in his gratitude at having “squeaked through” at all.

A certain inspired Professor Hope, who wondered what effect encouragement would have on a fellow who did n’t deserve any, but might possibly need it, came up to him after recitations, one day, and said:—­

“Noble, I want to congratulate you on your papers in history and physics.  They show signal ability.  There is a plentiful lack of study evinced, but no want of grasp or power.  You have talents that ought to put you among the first three men in the University, sir.  I do not know whether you care to take the trouble to win such a place (it is a good deal of trouble), but you can win it if you like.  That’s all I have to say, Noble.  Good-morning!”

This unlooked-for speech fell like balm on Edgar’s wounded self-respect, and made him hold his head higher for a week; and, naturally, while his head occupied this elevated position, he was obliged to live up to it.  He also felt obliged to make an effort, rather reluctantly, to maintain some decent standing in the classes of Professor Hope, even if he shirked in all the rest.

And now life, on the whole, save for one carking care that perched on his shoulder by day and sat on his eyelids at night, was very pleasant; though he could not flatter himself that he was absolutely a free agent.

After all ordinary engagements of concerts, theatres, lectures, or what not, he entered the house undisturbed, and noiselessly sought his couch.  But one night, when he ventured to stay out till after midnight, just as he was stealing in softly, Mrs. Oliver’s gentle voice came from the head of the stairs, saying, “Good-night, Edgar, the lamp is lighted in your room!”

Edgar closed his door and sat down disconsolately on the bed, cane in hand, hat on the back of his head.  The fire had burned, to a few glowing coals; his slippers lay on the hearth, and his Christmas “easy jacket” hung over the back of his great armchair; his books lay open under the student-lamp, and there were two vases of fresh flowers in the room:  that was Polly’s doing.