For several days the college life went on quietly and the boys were becoming somewhat accustomed to their new surroundings.  There had been a “sweater rush” between the two lower classes, in which Hawley had been entrusted with the precious sweater, and, surrounded by his classmates, successfully defended it against the onslaught of the sophomores.  The struggle had been severe but in good part, and the worst results had been some torn clothing and bruised faces.  The freshmen wore upon their arms a strip of white cloth to enable them to distinguish their own comrades, and great was their elation when after the time limit had expired, it was discovered that the coveted sweater was unharmed.  The strength of Hawley had been as the strength of ten and his praises were in every mouth.

Into this struggle Will Phelps had thrown himself with all his might, and when he joyfully emerged from the struggling mass of humanity gathered about Hawley his rejoicing was great and his cheers for the class were among the loudest.

On the border of the crowd he had perceived Peter John, but his classmate displayed no evidence of the recent struggle and Will was about to question him, when Peter John himself said, “Come over to my room to-night, Will.”

“All right.”  Will Phelps had promised readily, and then the matter departed from his mind as he rushed about among his classmates.

That evening he suddenly glanced up from the book he was studying and said to his room-mate:  “Foster, I agreed to go over to Peter John’s room to-night.  Want to go?”

“Can’t say that I’m pining for it.  What does he want?”

“I don’t know.  He seemed to be very much in earnest about it, though.”

“Is it much nearer from here to his room than it is from his room to ours?  If he wanted to see you so much, why didn’t he come over here?”

“That isn’t Peter John’s way,” laughed Will.  “I promised to go, so I think I’ll run over for a minute.  I’ll be back pretty soon.”

“If you need me let me know,” called Foster as Will departed, and he then at once resumed his task.

Will Phelps ran across the campus to Leland Hall, and as he turned in at the dimly lighted hall the contrast between his own surroundings and those in which he now found himself was for the moment almost painful.  The stone step at the entrance had been worn away by the passing of boyish feet over it for more than a century.  For a moment there flashed into his mind the thought of the eager lives that there had been trained and long since had passed over into the land beyond.  Will himself was the fourth generation in direct descent in his own family to enter Winthrop, and as he now passed slowly up the rough, narrow, and worn stairway, he found himself thinking of his own father and grandfather and great-grandfather, all of whom doubtless had many a time been in the very same hallway where he himself then was.  Even then from far down the street came the sounds of song and laughter of some passing body of students and the faint sound he could hear was for the moment almost like the echo of long past days.  The very hall seemed to echo also with the footfalls of students who had long since completed their course and passed on.  He was surrounded by a cloud of witnesses.