elta Sig if you get the chance." Hugh envied Parker the
really beautiful fraternity life he was leading. "Why in God's name," he
demanded of himself regularly, "didn't I have sense enough to take
Graham's advice?"

When spring came, the two boys took long walks into the country, both of
them loving the new beauty of the spring and happy in perfect
companionship. Hugh missed Carl badly, and he wanted to ask Parker to
room with him the remainder of the term. He felt, however, that the
fraternity would object, and he wanted no further trouble with Nu Delta.
As a matter of fact, the fraternity would have said nothing, but Hugh
had become hypersensitive and expected his "brothers" to find fault
with his every move. He had no intention of deserting Parker, but he
could not help feeling that rooming with him would be a gratuitous
insult to the fraternity.

Parker--every one called him Norry--was a slender, delicate lad with
dreamy gray eyes and silky brown hair that, unless he brushed it back
severely, fell in soft curls on his extraordinarily white forehead.
Except for a slightly aquiline nose and a firm jaw, he was almost
effeminate in appearance, his mouth was so sensitive, his hands so white
and slender, his manner so gentle. He had a slow, winning smile, a
quiet, low voice. He was a dreamer and a mystic, a youth who could see
fairies dancing in the shadows; and he told Hugh what he saw.

"I see things," he said to Hugh one moonlight night as they strolled
through the woods; "I see things, lovely little creatures flitting
around among the trees: I mean I see them when I'm alone. I like to lie
on my back in the meadows and look at the clouds and imagine myself
sitting on a big fellow and sailing and sailing away to heaven. It's
wonderful. I feel that way when I play my fiddle." He played the violin
beautifully and had promptly been made soloist for the Musical Clubs.
"I--I can't explain. Sometimes when I finish playing, I find my eyes
full of tears. I feel as if I had been to some wonderful place, and I
don't want to come back."

"I guess I'm not like other fellows. I cry over poetry, not because it
makes me sad. It's not that. It's just so beautiful. Why, when I first
read Shelley's 'Cloud' I was almost sick I was so happy. I could hardly
stand it. And when I hear beautiful music I cry, too. Why, when I listen
to Kreisler, I sometimes want to beg him to stop; it hurts and makes me
so happy that--that I just can't stand