ll hope for the Indian Summer that makes the Kansas Novembers
glorious.

Dennie Saxon was the only girl of the party who was not affected by the
storm at the Kickapoo Corral. Professor Burgess, who narrowly escaped
pneumonia himself, and who disliked irregular class attendance, took
comfort in the sight of Dennie. She was so fresh-checked and wholesome,
and she went about her work promptly, forgetful of storm and rain and
muddy ways.

"You seem immune from sickness, Miss Dennie," Burgess said one day as
she was putting the library in order.

Under her little blue dusting cap, the sunny ripples of her hair framed
a face glowing with health. She smiled up at him comfortably--a smile
that played about the edges of his consciousness all that day.

"I've never been sick," she said. "It 's a good thing, too, for our
house is a regular hospital this week. Little Bug Buler is the worst
of all. He took cold on the night of the storm. That's why Victor
Burleigh's out of school so much. He won't leave Bug."

Vincent Burgess despised the name of Burleigh now. While Vic's safe
escort of Elinor Wream had increased his popularity with the students,
Burgess honestly believed that old Bond Saxon's drunken speech hinted at
some disgrace the big freshman would not long be able to conceal, and he
resented the high place given to such a low grade of character. To a man
like himself it was galling to look upon such a fellow as a rival. So,
he tightened the rules and exacted the last mental farthing of Vic in
the classroom. And Vic, easily understanding all this, because he was
frankly and foolishly in love with the same girl whom Vincent Burgess
seemed to claim, contrived in a thousand ways to make life a burden
to the Harvard man. Of course, Burgess showed no mercy toward Vic for
absence from the classroom while he was caring for little Bug, and the
black marks multiplied against him.

Elinor Wream had been ill after the night of the storm. Vic had not
seen her since the hour when he left her at Lloyd Fenneben's door. He
knew he was a fool to think of her at all. He knew she must sometime be
won by Burgess, and that she was born to gentle culture which his hard
life had never known. Besides, he was poor. Not a pauper, but poor,
and luxuries belonged naturally to a girl like Elinor. The storm of the
holiday was a balmy zephyr compared to the storm that raged every day
in him. For with all the hopelessness of things, he was in love.
Po