while the chicken was being dismembered.  His top-shaped head hung a little to one side, the thin hair was parted precisely over his high forehead and brushed in little ripples.  He was soft spoken and apologetic in manner and took up as little room as possible.  His meekness amused Mr. Wheeler, who liked to ply him with food and never failed to ask him gravely “what part of the chicken he would prefer,” in order to hear him murmur, “A little of the white meat, if you please,” while he drew his elbows close, as if he were adroitly sliding over a dangerous place.  In the afternoon Brother Weldon usually put on a fresh lawn necktie and a hard, glistening straw hat which left a red streak across his forehead, tucked his Bible under his arm, and went out to make calls.  If he went far, Ralph took him in the automobile.

Claude disliked this young man from the moment he first met him, and could scarcely answer him civilly.  Mrs. Wheeler, always absent-minded, and now absorbed in her cherishing care of the visitor, did not notice Claude’s scornful silences until Mahailey, whom such things never escaped, whispered to her over the stove one day:  “Mr. Claude, he don’t like the preacher.  He just ain’t got no use fur him, but don’t you let on.”

As a result of Brother Weldon’s sojourn at the farm, Claude was sent to the Temple College.  Claude had come to believe that the things and people he most disliked were the ones that were to shape his destiny.

When the second week of September came round, he threw a few clothes and books into his trunk and said good-bye to his mother and Mahailey.  Ralph took him into Frankfort to catch the train for Lincoln.  After settling himself in the dirty day-coach, Claude fell to meditating upon his prospects.  There was a Pullman car on the train, but to take a Pullman for a daylight journey was one of the things a Wheeler did not do.

Claude knew that he was going back to the wrong school, that he was wasting both time and money.  He sneered at himself for his lack of spirit.  If he had to do with strangers, he told himself, he could take up his case and fight for it.  He could not assert himself against his father or mother, but he could be bold enough with the rest of the world.  Yet, if this were true, why did he continue to live with the tiresome Chapins?  The Chapin household consisted of a brother and sister.  Edward Chapin was a man of twenty-six, with an old, wasted face,—­and he was still going to school, studying for the ministry.  His sister Annabelle kept house for him; that is to say, she did whatever housework was done.  The brother supported himself and his sister by getting odd jobs from churches and religious societies; he “supplied” the pulpit when a minister was ill, did secretarial work for the college and the Young Men’s Christian Association.  Claude’s weekly payment for room and board, though a small sum, was very necessary to their comfort.