wn from a horse, not
knowing yet whether or not he was hurt. He had the plainsman's sense of
humor, and he laughed at himself. "No matter which way I turn, I'm
generally up against it," he said, and he could hear his words whispered
up among the leaves of the tree. The earth seemed to throb beneath him.
The heat made the whole world pant. He dozed, and dreamed that he saw
violets rained from a purple cloud.

CHAPTER VII.

THE PROFESSOR.

Milford was aroused from his dozing by some one walking up and down the
veranda. "Don't let me disturb you," a cheery voice cried out, when he
got up. "I dropped over to pay you a visit, and finding you asleep,
thought I would wait till you reached the end of your nap. And I am
sorry if I have disturbed you." He held out his hand as Milford came
within reach, and in the heartiest manner said that his name was
Professor Dolihide. "I suppose you heard that I moved into your
neighborhood. Yes, sir, I have lived near you some ten days or more--a
longtime to live anywhere during these grinding times, sir."

Milford had heard that Professor Dolihide had moved into an old house
that had long stood deserted. He shook hands on suspicion, and then, on
better acquaintance, he brought out two chairs, planted the Professor in
one, sat down himself, and said he hoped that his visitor found the new
home pleasant. The Professor closed his eyes till he looked through
narrow cracks. "Well, as to that, I must say that I never expect to find
another pleasant home. It is one's occupation abroad that makes the home
pleasant, and when one has been compelled against his liking to change
his trade, the home suffers. But I must explain," he said, opening his
eyes and rubbing his hands together. "For years, I held the chair of
English literature in a Kansas college. My salary was small, but I was
happy, and my family had an exalted respect for me, as a learned man.
But now I keep books at a planing-mill up here at Lake Villa, and am
entitled to no respect whatever, not because I am not respectable, but
for the reason that I have failed."

He came as a fresh breeze, and Milford enjoyed him. He possessed a sort
of comical dignity. His eyes were lamp-dimmed. His beard was thin and
red.

"Failed," he repeated, "not on the account of incompetence, mind you,
but traceable, I may say, to a changed condition of the times. I had
been led to believe that my work was giving entire satisfaction. My
scope was