ing.

During Dr. Fenneben's absence, Professor Burgess was acting-dean. For a
man who, two years before, had never heard of a Jayhawker, who hoped
the barren prairies would furnish seclusion for profound research in his
library, and whose interest in the student body lay in its material to
furnish "types," Dean Burgess, on the outside, certainly measured
up well toward the stature of the real Dean--broad-minded, beloved
"Funnybone."

And as Vincent Burgess grew in breadth of view and human interest, his
popularity increased and his opportunities multiplied. Sunrise forgot
that it had ever regarded him as a walking Greek textbook in paper
binding. Next to Dr. Lloyd Fenneben, his place at Sunrise would be the
hardest to fill now; and withal, sometime in the near future, there was
waiting for him the prettiest girl that ever climbed the steps from the
lower campus to the Sunrise door. Burgess had never dreamed that life in
Kansas could be so full of pleasure for him.

And all the while, on the inside, another Burgess was growing up who
quarreled daily with this happy outer Burgess. This inner man it was who
held the secret of Bond Saxon's awful crime; the man who knew the life
story of the would-be assassin of Lloyd Fenneben, and who knew the
tragedy that had turned a fair-faced girl to a gray-haired woman, yet
young in years. He knew the tragedy, but the woman herself he had never
seen, save in the darkness and rain of that awful night when she had
held Lloyd Fenneben's head above the fast rising waters of the Walnut.
He had never even heard her voice, for he had sustained the limp body of
Dr. Fenneben while Saxon helped the woman from the river and as far
as to her own gate. But these were secret things outside of his own
conscience. Inside of his conscience the real battle was fought and won,
and lost, only to be won and lost over and over. So long as Elinor
Wream was away, he could stay execution on himself. The same train that
brought her home to Lagonda Ledge, brought a letter to Professor Vincent
Burgess, A.B. The letter heading bore as many of Dr. Joshua Wream's
titles as space would permit, but the cramped, old-fashioned handwriting
belonged to a man of more than fourscore years, and it was signed just
"J. R."

Burgess read this letter many times that night after he returned from
dinner at the Fenneben home. And sometimes his fists were clinched and
sometimes his blue eyes were full of tears. Then he remembere