ver Twist, to look hungrily on.

The story which trickles through the book starts out bravely enough. Of
this much, at least, I can be moderately sure. For a short time it looks
as though something might come of it; but nothing really does. It is all
so terribly obvious. There are no obstacles such as one finds in real
fiction; there is no love spasm in Chapter XXV. There is no Chapter XXV
at all! And so it must be perfectly clear that those who insist upon
having their love spasms will be bored to death by _Tutors' Lane_ and
should on no account be allowed to look at it. There is love, of course,
in an academic community; one frequently sees evidences of it; but it is
love under control, properly subordinated to the all important business
of uniting youth and learning--and to snatching time for an occasional
rejuvenating flutter in the sacred fount itself.

So the syllabus is little more than a nervous shake of the hand and a
timid statement of a few negative "points"--a disheartening, if not
positively dangerous, affair. That there are lurking beauties, however,
peeping shyly out like johnny-jump-ups and wild raspberry blossoms,
there appears to be some evidence on the jacket. Meanwhile, the course
is open, the bell is ringing to class, and the instructor, turning over
the text to Chapter I, is prepared to meet whatever scholars God, in his
greater wisdom, has been pleased to set before him.

I

Tom Reynolds, Instructor in English in Woodbridge College, walked along
Tutors' Lane in the gathering dusk of a March afternoon. Persons whose
knowledge of collegiate dons is limited to the poverty-stricken,
butterfly-chasing genus created by humorous scenario writers would be
surprised to learn that our hero--for such he is to be--was young, sound
of wind and limb, and at the present moment comfortably clothed in a
coon-skin coat. The latter touch might be accounted for by such persons
on the basis of an eccentric city cousin generously disposed to casting
off his garments when only half worn, but the other two points must
convince them of the faithlessness of the whole account, and their
acquaintance with the young man will accordingly end with the first
paragraph.

Woodbridge College, as a matter of fact, has never been without a few
young men of this type in its Faculty. Situated in southern New England,
it has roots which extend well back into the Eighteenth Century, and its
traditions, keeping pace with its