He struck off by the road,—­it could scarcely be called a street, since it ran across raw prairie land where the buffalo-peas were in blossom.  Claude walked slower than was his custom, his straw hat pushed back on his head and the blaze of the sun full in his face.  His body felt light in the scented wind, and he listened drowsily to the larks, singing on dried weeds and sunflower stalks.  At this season their song is almost painful to hear, it is so sweet.  He sometimes thought of this walk long afterward; it was memorable to him, though he could not say why.

On reaching the University, he went directly to the Department of European History, where he was to leave his thesis on a long table, with a pile of others.  He rather dreaded this, and was glad when, just as he entered, the Professor came out from his private office and took the bound manuscript into his own hands, nodding cordially.

“Your thesis?  Oh yes, Jeanne d’Arc.  The Proces.  I had forgotten.  Interesting material, isn’t it?” He opened the cover and ran over the pages.  “I suppose you acquitted her on the evidence?”

Claude blushed.  “Yes, sir.”

“Well, now you might read what Michelet has to say about her.  There’s an old translation in the Library.  Did you enjoy working on it?”

“I did, very much.”  Claude wished to heaven he could think of something to say.

“You’ve got a good deal out of your course, altogether, haven’t you?  I’ll be interested to see what you do next year.  Your work has been very satisfactory to me.”  The Professor went back into his study, and Claude was pleased to see that he carried the manuscript with him and did not leave it on the table with the others.

XII

Between haying and harvest that summer Ralph and Mr. Wheeler drove to Denver in the big car, leaving Claude and Dan to cultivate the corn.  When they returned Mr. Wheeler announced that he had a secret.  After several days of reticence, during which he shut himself up in the sitting-room writing letters, and passed mysterious words and winks with Ralph at table, he disclosed a project which swept away all Claude’s plans and purposes.

On the return trip from Denver Mr. Wheeler had made a detour down into Yucca county, Colorado, to visit an old friend who was in difficulties.  Tom Wested was a Maine man, from Wheeler’s own neighbourhood.  Several years ago he had lost his wife.  Now his health had broken down, and the Denver doctors said he must retire from business and get into a low altitude.  He wanted to go back to Maine and live among his own people, but was too much discouraged and frightened about his condition even to undertake the sale of his ranch and live stock.  Mr. Wheeler had been able to help his friend, and at the same time did a good stroke of business for himself.  He owned a farm in Maine, his share of his father’s estate, which for years he had rented for little more than