sunset filled the
room.

It seemed to Roger that the fight was as difficult now as it had been
years before, when he had struck his mother's soothing hand from his
shoulder and later had kissed that same hand and had wept his heart out
with his cheek upon it. In the brief moment as he stood with clenched
fists and bowed head, waiting for the red mist to give way to his normal
vision it seemed as if all his life passed in review before him tinged
with the hot glare of his mental and spiritual tempests. Then, as many,
many times before, he seemed to feel the gentle hand, that he had
struck, laid softly on his forehead. He heaved a great sigh and looked
up.

"The class is dismissed," he said. "Hallock, hold a snowball to your
chin as you go home."

When the class had left the room, Roger washed his face at the sink in
the corner, wiping his hands on a towel that was gray with age. Then, he
dropped the towel and stood leaning against the table, head bowed, arms
folded.

The gloaming increased. A cheerful whistle sounded in the hall and
Ernest came in.

"Well, old top? Ready to go home?"

"Ern, do you know a girl named Anderson?"

"Yes, very pretty. Engaged to young Hallock, they say. What about her?
Don't tell me you've begun to be interested again in petticoats."

"I had the deuce of a row with Hallock, just now," said Roger.

"Change your clothes as you tell me about it," suggested Ernest. "It's
late."

Roger obediently started for the closet, talking from the door as he
dressed. Ernest lighted his pipe and listened thoughtfully under the
electric light he had turned on. He was a shorter man than Roger and
stockily built. He was still very fair, with soft yellow hair already
receding from a broad forehead. His eyes were beautiful, a deep violet,
soft dreaming eyes that men as well as women trusted instinctively.

"I'm sure you've seen Miss Anderson," he said when Roger had finished.
"She's a funny foolish little thing. Just the kind to attract an
unsocialized grind like Hallock. I guess there was a good deal of a row
in Rosenthal's class this morning. One of the seniors told me. Rosenthal
said to Miss Anderson--say, Rog, you're not listening."

Roger picked up his hat. "I don't care what Rosenthal said. He always
was a boor. The point with me is that I've lost my temper in the
classroom for the last time. Come on, Ern."

They were crossing the snowy campus before Ernest spoke. Then he laid
his hand on hi