In the police court, where his companions were fined, the next morning, he was discharged for want of evidence against him; but the university authorities did not take the same view as the civil authorities.  He was suspended, and for the time he passed out of Westover’s sight and knowledge.

He expected to find him at Lion’s Head, where he went to pass the month of August—­in painting those pictures of the mountain which had in some sort, almost in spite of him, become his specialty.  But Mrs. Durgin employed the first free moments after their meeting in explaining that Jeff had got a chance to work his way to London on a cattle-steamer, and had been abroad the whole summer.  He had written home that the voyage had been glorious, with plenty to eat and little to do; and he had made favor with the captain for his return by the same vessel in September.  By other letters it seemed that he had spent the time mostly in England; but he had crossed over into France for a fortnight, and had spent a week in Paris.  His mother read some passages from his letters aloud to show Westover how Jeff was keeping his eyes open.  His accounts of his travel were a mixture of crude sensations in the presence of famous scenes and objects of interest, hard-headed observation of the facts of life, narrow-minded misconception of conditions, and wholly intelligent and adequate study of the art of inn-keeping in city and country.

Mrs. Durgin seemed to feel that there was some excuse due for the relative quantity of the last.  “He knows that’s what I’d care for the most; and Jeff a’n’t one to forget his mother.”  As if the word reminded her, she added, after a moment:  “We sha’n’t any of us soon forget what you done for Jeff—­that time.”

“I didn’t do anything for him, Mrs. Durgin; I couldn’t,” Westover protested.

“You done what you could, and I know that you saw the thing in the right light, or you wouldn’t ‘a’ tried to do anything.  Jeff told me every word about it.  I know he was with a pretty harum-scarum crowd.  But it was a lesson to him; and I wa’n’t goin’ to have him come back here, right away, and have folks talkin’ about what they couldn’t understand, after the way the paper had it.”

“Did it get into the papers?”

“Mm.”  Mrs. Durgin nodded.  “And some dirty, sneakin’ thing, here, wrote a letter to the paper and told a passel o’ lies about Jeff and all of us; and the paper printed Jeff’s picture with it; I don’t know how they got a hold of it.  So when he got that chance to go, I just said, ‘Go.’  You’ll see he’ll keep all straight enough after this, Mr. Westover.”

“Old woman read you any of Jeff’s letters?” Whit-well asked, when his chance for private conference with Westover came.  “What was the rights of that scrape he got into?”

Westover explained as favorably to Jeff as he could; the worst of the affair was the bad company he was in.

“Well, where there’s smoke there’s some fire.  Cou’t discharged him and college suspended him.  That’s about where it is?  I guess he’ll keep out o’ harm’s way next time.  Read you what he said about them scenes of the Revolution in Paris?”