“Then, if you wish to have him go to college, by all means let him go to Harvard, I should say.  It’s our great university and our oldest.  I’m not a college man myself; but, if I were, I should wish to have been a Harvard man.  If Jeff has any nonsense in him, it will take it out; and I don’t believe there’s anything in Harvard, as Harvard, to make him worse.”

“That’s what we both think,” said Jackson.

“I’ve heard,” Westover continued, and he rose and stood while he spoke, “that Harvard’s like the world.  A man gets on there on the same terms that he gets on in the world.  He has to be a man, and he’d better be a gentleman.”

Mrs. Durgin still looked serious.  “Have you come back to Boston for good now?  Do you expect to be there right along?”

“I’ve taken a studio there.  Yes, I expect to be in Boston now.  I’ve taken to teaching, and I fancy I can make a living.  If Jeff comes to Cambridge, and I can be of any use—­”

“We should be ever so much obliged to you,” said his mother, with an air of great relief.

“Not at all.  I shall be very glad.  Your mountain air is drugging me, Mrs. Durgin.  I shall have to say good-night, or I shall tumble asleep before I get upstairs.  Oh, I can find the way, I guess; this part of the house seems the same.”  He got away from them, and with the lamp that Jackson gave him found his way to his room.  A few moments later some one knocked at his door, and a boy stood there with a pitcher.  “Some ice-water, Mr. Westover?”

“Why, is that you, Franky?  I’m glad to see you again.  How are you?”

“I’m pretty well,” said the boy, shyly.  He was a very handsome little fellow of distinctly dignified presence, and Westover was aware at once that here was not a subject for patronage.  “Is there anything else you want, Mr. Westover?  Matches, or soap, or anything?” He put the pitcher down and gave a keen glance round the room.

“No, everything seems to be here, Frank,” said Westover.

“Well, good-night,” said the boy, and he slipped out, quietly closing the door after him.

Westover pushed up his window and looked at Lion’s Head in the moonlight.  It slumbered as if with the sleep of centuries-austere, august.  The moon-rays seemed to break and splinter on the outline of the lion-shape, and left all the mighty mass black below.

In the old porch under his window Westover heard whispering.  Then, “You behave yourself, Jeff Durgin!” came in a voice which could be no other than Cynthia Whitwell’s, and Jeff Durgin’s laugh followed.