ege, the little stone
structure that was to be dignified a month later by a new title,
Washburn College, in honor of its great benefactor, Ichabod Washburn.

"Why did the powers put the State Capitol and the College so far from
town, I wonder," I said as we loitered about the walls of the former.

"For the same reason that the shortsighted colonists of the Revolution
put Washington away off up the Potomac, west of the thirteen States,"
my father answered. "We can't picture a city here now, but it will be
built in your day if not in mine."

And then we walked on until before us stood that graceful little locust
tree, the landmark of the prairie. Its leaves were falling in golden
showers now, save as here and there a more protected branch still held
its summer green foliage.

"What a beautiful, sturdy little pioneer!" my father exclaimed. "It has
earned a first settler's right to the soil. I hope it will be given the
chance to live, the chance most of the settlers have had to fight for,
as it has had to stand up against the winds and hold its own against the
drouth. Any enterprising city official who would some day cut it down
should be dealt with by the State."

We sat down by the tree and talked of many things, but my father
carefully avoided the mention of Marjie's name. When he gave the little
girl the letter that had fallen from her cloak pocket he read her story
in her face, but he had no right or inclination to read it aloud to me.
I tried by all adroit means to lead him to tell me of the Whatelys. It
was all to no purpose. On any other topic I would have quitted the game,
but--oh, well, I was just the same foolish-hearted boy that put the pink
blossoms on a little girl's brown curls and kissed her out in the purple
shadows of the West Draw one April evening long ago. And now I was about
to begin a dangerous campaign where the hazard of war meant a nameless
grave for a hundred, where it brought after years of peace and honor to
one. I must hear something of Marjie. The love-light in her brown eyes
as she gave me one affectionate glance when I presented her to Rachel
Melrose in my father's office--that pledge of her heart, I pictured over
and over in my memory.

"Father, Tillhurst says he has heard that Amos Judson and Marjie are
engaged. Are they?" I put the question squarely. My father was stripping
the gold leaves one by one off a locust spray.

"Yes, I have heard it, too," he replied, and to save my life