I knew something had gone wrong.

"Hello," I said. "Where have you been?"

"Over to Aunt Sallie's," he said.

His long, linen duster was sagging at the sides, and peering down at his
pockets I perceived a couple of quarts of lovely Siberian crab-apples.
"Where did you get all that fruit?" I demanded.

"At home."

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Take it back again."

"What do you mean by such a performance?"

With the swift flush and silent laugh which always marked his
confessions of weakness, or failure, he replied, "I went over to see
Nettie. I intended to give her these apples," he indicated the fruit by
a touch on each pocket, "but when I got there I found old Bill Watson,
dressed to kill and large as life, sitting in the parlor. I was so
afraid of his finding out what I had in my pockets that I didn't go in.
I came away leaving him in possession."

Of course I laughed--but there was an element of pathos in it after all.
Poor Burt! He always failed to get his share of the good things in this
world.

* * * * *

We continued to board ourselves,--now here, now there, and always to the
effect of being starved out by Friday night, but we kept well and active
even on doughnuts and pie, and were grateful of any camping place in
town.

Once Burton left a soup-bone to simmer on the stove while we went away
to morning recitations, and when we reached home, smoke was leaking from
every keyhole. The room was solid with the remains of our bone. It took
six months to get the horrid smell of charred beef out of our wardrobe.
The girls all sniffed and wondered as we came near.

On Fridays we went home and during the winter months very generally
attended the Lyceum which met in the Burr Oak school-house. We often
debated, and on one occasion I attained to the honor of being called
upon to preside over the session. Another memorable evening is that in
which I read with what seemed to me distinguished success Joaquin
Miller's magnificent new poem, _Kit Carson's Ride_ and in the splendid
roar and trample of its lines discovered a new and powerful American
poet. His spirit appealed to me. He was at once American and western. I
read every line of his verse which the newspapers or magazines brought
to me, and was profoundly influenced by its epic quality.

And so, term by term, in growing joy and strength, in expanding
knowledge of life, we hurried toward the end of our four years' c