this which lay about him. And yet
it was this to which he must come back--this was his world--this at
least was the world in which his mother had made her own battle--had won
for a time, and now had lost.

After midnight, when the assembly was dismissed, Spring Valley felt it
had done its duty--it had come out to see Miss Julia's library. Everyone
who passed Miss Julia, as she stood near the door, flushed and pleased,
congratulated her on the progress she had made, on the neatness of her
desks and shelves. Some said a word about the great work she was doing.
Others shook hands with the elevated elbow, smiled sweetly, and
repeated, parrot-like, "So glad!" and "Thanks so much!" In any case,
little by little the room was cleared. There remained only the
unspeakable desolation of any room lately occupied by a crowd--the
litter of paper and odds and ends, the dulled lights, the heavy and
oppressive air.

In her place, back of the dividing line which fenced off the socially
elect, stood Aurora Lane, pale, weary, and yet composed, her hands
folded low before her. She looked straight ahead, nor asked any of these
people passing out for that recognition which she knew they would not
give her. Don himself, speaking now and then to the kindly old man who
retained his place at their side, found himself now and again in spite
of himself wondering that of all these who passed, and of these many who
turned and gazed their way, none ventured a greeting. His own face grew
hard. All life to him had been a sweet, happy, sunny thing till now. He
never had known any contest but that of sport, and there, even in
defeat, he had met sportsmanship. He had not learned that in human life
as we live it, honor and fair play and generosity and justice are things
not in any great demand, nor sportsmanship in any general practice.

"Come, we must go," said Aurora at length.

They were the last to leave the room, although they might have been the
first. In a brief lesson Don Lane's mother had taught him much.

CHAPTER VII

AT MIDNIGHT

Miss Julia, late mistress of ceremonies, passed here and there, turning
out the lights. The bonnets and blouses all had departed, the coughs and
shufflings had subsided. She might give way now to the weariness, the
reaction, attendant upon long hours of eager enterprise.

Strange, she did not look about to find her friend, Aurora Lane, did not
even hasten to take the hand of Don Lane before he had left t