Sometimes it seemed to Irving odd that Lawrence should be so slow at his books; Irving did not fail to realize that with the neighbors or with strangers, in any gathering whatsoever, Lawrence was always quick, sympathetic, interested; he himself was the one who seemed dull and immature.

It had been so with him at college; he had been merely the student of books.  Social life he had had none, and only now, with the difference between his brother and himself enforcing a clearer vision, had he become aware of some deficiency in his education.  In silence he envied Lawrence and wished that he too possessed such winning and engaging traits.

He realized the contrast with especial keenness on the afternoon when he and Lawrence began their eastward journey.  There was a party assembled at the station to see them off,—­to see Lawrence off, as Irving reflected, for never on his own previous departures had he occasioned any such demonstration.

Lawrence was presented on the platform with various farewell gifts—­a pair of knit slippers from Sally Buxton, who was the prettiest girl in the valley and who tried to slip them into his hand when no one else was looking, and blushed when Nora Carson unfeelingly called attention to her shy attempt; a pair of mittens from old Mrs. Fitch; a pocket comb and mirror from the Uptons’ hired man; a paper bag of doughnuts from Mrs. Brumby.

There were no gifts for Irving; indeed, he had never cared or thought much, one way or the other, about any of these people clustered on the platform.  Only this summer, seeing them so frequently in Mr. Beasley’s store, he had felt the first stirrings of interest in them; now for the first time he was aware of a wistfulness because they did not care for him as they did for Lawrence.

Mr. Beasley came up to him.  “So you’re off—­both of you.  Funny thing—­I guess from the looks of you two, if a stranger was to come along, he’d pick Lawrence out for the teacher and you for the schoolboy.  Lawrence looks as old as you, and handles himself more grown up, somehow.”

“He’s bigger,” Irving sighed.

“Yes, ’t ain’t only that,” drawled Mr. Beasley.  “Though ’t is a pity you’re so spindling; good thing for a teacher to be able to lay on the switch good and hard when needed.”

“I don’t believe they punish with the switch at St. Timothy’s.”

“Then I guess they don’t learn the boys much.  How you going to keep order among boys if you don’t use the switch?”

At that moment the train came whistling round the bend.  Irving caught up his bag, turned and grasped Mr. Beasley’s hand, then plunged into the crowd which had closed about his brother.  His aunt turned and flung her arms about him and kissed him; his uncle gave him a good-natured pat on the back and then stooped and said in his ear, “Irv, if you ever get into trouble,—­go to Lawrence.”

There was the merry, kindly twinkle in his eyes, the quizzical, humorous smile on his lips that made Irving know his uncle meant always, deep in his heart, to do the right thing.