It is probably a dizzying thing to be snatched into the seventh heaven.  Johnny McLean standing, scarlet, stunned, his eyes glued on the iron fence between him and the president, knew nothing except a whirling of his brain and an earnest prayer that he might not make a fool of himself.  With that, even as the thunder of voices began, he felt himself lifted, swung to men’s shoulders, carried forward.  And there he sat in his foolish Buster Brown costume, with his broken arm in its sling, with the white patch on his forehead, above his roaring classmates.  There he sat perspiring and ashamed, and faced the head of the University, who, it must be said, appeared not to miss the humor of the situation, for he laughed consumedly.  And still they cheered and still his name rang again and again.  Johnny, hot and squirming under the merry presidential eye, wondered if they were going to cheer all night.  And suddenly everything—­class-mates, president, roaring voices—­died away.  There was just one thing on earth.  In the doorway, in the group behind the president, a girl stood with her head against the wall and cried as if her heart would break.  Cried frankly, openly, mopping away tears with a whole-hearted pocket-handkerchief, and cried more to mop away.  As if there were no afternoon tea, no mob of Yale men in the streets, no world full of people who might, if they pleased, see those tears and understand.  The girl.  Herself.  Crying.  In a flash, by the light of the happiness that was overwhelming, he found this other happiness.  He understood.  The mad idea which had come back and back to him out there in the West, which he had put down firmly, the idea that she had cared too much and not too little on that Tap Day four years ago—­that idea was true.  She did care.  She cared still.  He knew it without a doubt.  He sat on the men’s shoulders in his ridiculous clothes, and the heavens opened.  Then the tumult and the shouting died and they let the hero down, and to the rapid succession of strong emotions came as a relief another emotion—­enthusiasm.  They were cheering the president, on the point of bursting themselves into fragments to do it, it seemed.  There were two hundred men behind the class banner, and each one was converting what was convertible of his being into noise.  Johnny McLean turned to with a will and thundered into the volume of tone which sounded over and over the two short syllables of a name which to a Yale man’s idea fits a cheer better than most.  The president stood quiet, under the heaped-up honors of a brilliant career, smiling and steady under that delirious music of his own name rising, winged with men’s hearts, to the skies.  Then the band was playing again and they were marching off down the street together, this wonderful class that knew how to turn earth into heaven for a fellow who hadn’t done much of a stunt anyhow, this grand, glorious, big-hearted lot of chaps who would have done much more in his place, every soul of them—­so