is letters and papers. Up at the great pillared house they
lingered long over the Princeton letter,--the Judge and his frail wife,
his sister and growing daughters. "It'll make a man of him," said the
Judge, "college is the place." And then he asked the shy little
waitress, "Well, Jennie, how's your John?" and added reflectively, "Too
bad, too bad your mother sent him off--it will spoil him." And the
waitress wondered.

Thus in the far-away Southern village the world lay waiting, half
consciously, the coming of two young men, and dreamed in an
inarticulate way of new things that would be done and new thoughts that
all would think. And yet it was singular that few thought of two
Johns,--for the black folk thought of one John, and he was black; and
the white folk thought of another John, and he was white. And neither
world thought the other world's thought, save with a vague unrest.

Up in Johnstown, at the Institute, we were long puzzled at the case of
John Jones. For a long time the clay seemed unfit for any sort of
moulding. He was loud and boisterous, always laughing and singing, and
never able to work consecutively at anything. He did not know how to
study; he had no idea of thoroughness; and with his tardiness,
carelessness, and appalling good-humor, we were sore perplexed. One
night we sat in faculty-meeting, worried and serious; for Jones was in
trouble again. This last escapade was too much, and so we solemnly
voted "that Jones, on account of repeated disorder and inattention to
work, be suspended for the rest of the term."

It seemed to us that the first time life ever struck Jones as a really
serious thing was when the Dean told him he must leave school. He
stared at the gray-haired man blankly, with great eyes. "Why,--why,"
he faltered, "but--I haven't graduated!" Then the Dean slowly and
clearly explained, reminding him of the tardiness and the carelessness,
of the poor lessons and neglected work, of the noise and disorder,
until the fellow hung his head in confusion. Then he said quickly,
"But you won't tell mammy and sister,--you won't write mammy, now will
you? For if you won't I'll go out into the city and work, and come
back next term and show you something." So the Dean promised
faithfully, and John shouldered his little trunk, giving neither word
nor look to the giggling boys, and walked down Carlisle Street to the
great city, with sober eyes and a set and serious face.

Perhaps we