terest no one; it is better that I remain among the 'missing
men.'"

Huntington sensed at once what lay behind his classmate's response. "No
college graduate can afford to do that," he expostulated. "Whether one
wishes it so or not, he has accepted a heritage which carries with it
responsibilities, and these force him to his capacity for the honor of
his Class and of his Alma Mater."

Mrs. Thatcher was following the conversation not only with interest, but
with a certain degree of anxiety.

"Mr. Huntington is right, Philip," she added; "you know that he is
right."

Hamlen moved uneasily in his chair. "It is curious how much more
interested our classmates become in us after we separate than while we
are together in college," he said significantly.

"Why is it curious?" Huntington persisted. "Why is it not the natural
sequence of events?"

"You could not understand." Hamlen spoke with rising emotion. "You had
everything in college; I had nothing. You remember my name only because
you've seen it listed amongst the 'missing men'; but I knew you the
moment I saw you. Back there you were Monty Huntington, manager of the
crew, member of all the exclusive societies, in everything, a part of
everything. Your classmates courted your acquaintance, and the four
years at Cambridge meant something to you. To me they meant nothing
except what I learned in the class-rooms. You as an alumnus owe all that
you say to the Class and to the Alma Mater, for both gave you much; I
owe them nothing, for they gave me nothing."

"My dear fellow!" Huntington expostulated hastily, "forgive me for
touching on so tender a subject; yet I am glad I did, for it is only
fair that you let me set you right. The college world is a small one,
and its citizens are young, untried boys. They are sometimes selfish and
cruel and unreasonable without meaning it, while they are enjoying what
is to most of them their first freedom, and they are trying to conduct
themselves like full-grown men. There are heartburns which at the time
seem tragedies. Then the undeveloped citizens of this little world, the
biggest of them, pass out into the great world, for which the college
life is only a training-school, and become infinitesimal parts of it.
There the ratio becomes readjusted. What seemed essentials--like the
clubs, for instance, or athletics--become non-essentials as the men look
back upon them; become simply pleasant memories of delightful
companionship. The