Two weeks later, a May breeze rustling through the greenness of the quadrangle, brushed softly the ivy-clad brick walls, and stole, like a runaway child to its playmate, through an open window of the Theological Seminary building at Chelsea Square.  Entering so, it flapped suddenly at the white curtains as if astonished.  What was this?  Two muscular black clad arms were stretched across a table, and between them lay a brown head, inert, hopeless.  It seemed strange that on such a May day, with such a May breeze, life could look dark to anything young, yet Reginald Fairfax, at the head of the graduating class, easily first in more than one way—­in scholarship, in athletics, in versatility, and, more than all, like George Washington, “first in the hearts of his countrymen,” the most popular man of the Seminary—­this successful and well beloved young person sat wretched and restless in his room and let the breeze blow over his prostrate head and his idle, nerveless hands.  Since the night of the rescue of Billy Strong he had felt himself another and a worse man.  He sent a note to his cousin the next day.

“Dear Carty,” it read, “For mercy sake let me alone.  I know I’ve lost my chance at St. Eric’s and I know you’ll say it was my own fault.  I don’t want to hear either statement, so don’t come near me till I hunt you up, which I will do when I’m fit to talk to a white man.  I’m grateful, though you may not believe it.  Yours—­Rex.”

But the lost chance at St. Eric’s, although it was coming to weigh heavily on his buoyant spirit, was not the worst of his troubles.  The girl from Orange—­there lay the sting.  He had sent her a note as well, but there was little he was free to say without betraying Billy, the note was mostly vague expressions of regret, and Rex knew her clearheaded directness too well to hope that it would count for much.  No answer had come, and, day by day, he had grown more dejected, hoping against hope for one.

A knock—­the postman’s knock—­and Rex started and sprang to the door.  One letter, but he could hardly believe his glad eyes when he saw the address on it, for it was the handwriting which he had come to know well, had known well, seeing it once—­her handwriting.  In a moment the jagged-edged envelope, torn in a desperate hurry to get what it held, lay one side, and he was reading.

“Dear Mr. Fairfax”:  the letter ran; “For two weeks I have been very unjust to you and I want to beg your pardon.  Billy was here three days ago, and what I didn’t know and what he didn’t know we patched together, and the consequence is I want to apologize and to make up to you, if I can, for being so disagreeable.  Billy’s recollections of that night were disjointed, but he remembered a lot in spots, and I know now just what a friend you were to him and how you saved him.  I think he was horrid, but I think you were fine—­simply fine.  I can’t half say it in writing so will you please come out for over Sunday—­mother says—­and I’ll try to show you how splendid I think you were.  Will you?  Yours sincerely”—­and her name.